Mila bit her lip. “What if I’m never okay again?”
“You will be,” Remi said softly. “Maybe not all at once. But you will in time. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“Thanks, Aunt Remi.”
Remi held her until she stopped trembling.
Zoe mouthed the wordsthank you.
“I guess I should tell my mom, huh?” Mila asked softly.
“I really think you should.” Even through her anger, Remi found herself on Bianca’s side, fighting for her as a mother. “She loves you and wants so desperately to repair what’s broken between you. This would be a good start.”
Mila didn’t respond; she just dropped her head.
“Give her a chance,” Remi whispered.
Mila nodded. “Daddy’s sending for me. I’m going to New Orleans in a few days. I guess I can do it then.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Talk to your mother. Let her help you to navigate this.”
“Okay,” Mila whispered. “I love you, Aunt Remi.”
“I love you more.”
And she meant it—with everything in her.
Chapter Twenty
Bianca
The sterile smell of the treatment room was familiar. She sat in the vinyl chair, arm outstretched, skin cold beneath the alcohol swab, and waited for the nurse to hook her up to the IV. The port beneath her collarbone ached every time the needle went in, but she didn’t flinch. She had already prepared herself for the pain. A tote bag full of books rested at her feet and a Yeti filled with ginger tea sat on the table nearby.
The treatments before had stripped everything from her—her hair, her appetite, her energy, her dignity. She remembered the day she stood in front of the mirror and saw the first bald patch. She’d stared at her reflection, stunned by how hollow her eyes had become, how foreign her body looked. That night, she had shaved her head for the first time, not for control or vanity—but because she couldn’t bear to watch herself disappear piece by piece.
“Let me help,” Remi had said gently. She had taken the clippers and trimmed Bianca’s head almost bald.
They’d done it together in the quiet of Bianca’s bathroom. There were no tears, no music, just silence except for thebuzz from the clippers. When it was over, Remi had touched Bianca’s bare scalp and kissed her forehead.
“You’re still you,” Remi had whispered.
The mastectomy came after the third round of chemo, when the tumor hadn’t shrunk enough. It felt like a punishment—another part of herself gone. Her femininity, her sensuality, everything she’d held close reduced to scars and skin she didn’t recognize. And though she’d had her breast reconstructed, it was nothing like having her own.
Harry was already gone by then, but Remi was there through it all. She’d held Bianca’s hand after the surgery. She sat beside her during the nights Bianca woke up in a cold sweat, unsure if she was alive or dreaming. She answered the calls when no one else did. The times that Bianca had cried, Remi never told her to be strong. She just let her fall apart. And that—more than any chemo or other treatment—was what helped her survive.
This time would be different, though. This time she’d be alone. Remi wouldn’t be there to hold her hand, to help shave her head, to be her support, to play Prince’s “Kiss” over and over again. Now, three years after her first fight with cancer, the scars remained, but so did she. Bianca had made it through the first time, not whole—but alive. And she only hoped she’d make it through unscathed this time too.
She returned to her place on Bodega Bay, with its beauty and untamed quietness. The sun was light and warming, but the wind still carried a chill with it at night. Bianca reclined on the sofa with a woven blanket draped over her legs to shield her from the cool air. The chemo had left her drained, nauseous, fatigued, and brittle. Her skin was pale, and not even the summer sun could change that.
The television was low and unintelligible. A mug of tea sat cooling on the coffee table, half full and long forgotten. Shehad drifted off to sleep sometime around noon. Her bones ached. When she awoke the sun gave light into the room. She reached for her phone on the end table. It was five thirty.
There was one unread message:Mom, I’m flying into New Orleans tomorrow. Can you pick me up at the airport? My flight gets in at three o’clock.
And below it, ten minutes later:Never mind. I called Dad. Should’ve known you were too busy.
Bianca sat up slowly, the weight of the words heavier than the blanket on her legs. Her thumb hovered over the screen.Too busy. She stared at the phone, willing herself to call, to text, to explain. But the feeling didn’t come, only the quiet crash of the waves against the shore from the open patio door.
She leaned forward, pressing her elbows to her knees, head in her hands. Everything ached—her body, her pride, her motherhood. She contemplated informing Mila where she was, letting her know that she had not gone back to New Orleans as planned but was still in California. Bianca didn’t want anyone to know she was still close by. She blinked away the burn in her eyes, then pushed herself up. She made her way to the kitchen, poured out the cold tea, and started a fresh cup.