Shrugging, my answer is nonchalant. “Oh, you know, like the queen of the world. Top of my game. Unstoppable.”
I let the words pass as a joke, but there’s a truth there. I gave him the reigns tonight, but he made sure I always had control. I didn’t ask him to do it, he just did it. And he took pleasure in it.
It’s not pride I feel. It’s empowerment.
“You’re extra sparkly today,”Kristen says, strawberry Dum-Dum popping off her lips.
I stop outside the coffee shop and glance down at my gray cigarette pants, white cap-sleeve blouse, and black open-toed Louboutins. “Literally not a single sparkle on me.”
“I was talking about your face.”
Inside we place our orders and my friend grills me for details while we wait at the pick up counter. I give up next to nothing other than the promise that I’m happy and sleeping well. Five days from now I can almost guarantee I’ll be neither happy nor sleeping, but I leave that part out.
Those are Saturday Hannah problems. Monday Hannah is thriving.
As we collect our drinks, I shift the conversation to safer territory. Work. Gala. Mom’s “friend.”
“You mean boyfriend,” Kristen says. Not a question. Cold hard facts.
“Honestly, if I never hear that term again in relation to my dying mother, it’ll be too soon.”
I move for the exit, checking for any unsuspecting pedestrians before pushing out onto the sidewalk. Shockingly, I leave nobody concussed in my exit—Rowan should learn this skill. The thought makes me chuckle. Kristen snickers beside me, oblivious to the fact we’re laughing for two different reasons.
The iced coffee travels down my throat, cooling the humor as I think back to my brunch with Mom.
“I think she’s sick,” I admit.
“Obviously,” Kris retorts, fighting a grin. I flash her a Timberlake stare. “Oh come on, that one was funny.”
Sighing, I reply, “She really is rubbing off on all of us, isn’t she?”
We enter the office lobby and I try to swap the memory of that nasty chest cough for something more pleasant, but it doesn’t work. All I can think about is the fact that Mom’s immune system is shot, she’s obviously sick, and there’s not a damn thing she’ll let me do about it.
“You’re worried,” Kristen says, reading my expression.
“Yeah.” We come to a stop outside my office, the sound of clacking keyboards a steady din around us.
“We’re all worried, Han. You’re not alone in this.” She steps closer, lowers her voice. “You’re not alone in any of it.”
Her gaze finds mine for several beats, a promise leashed between them. My best friend doesn’t say anything else. Just a gentle squeeze of my arm and a demand for another block walk tomorrow before she heads to her office.
A few hours later, I’m deep into the second draft of my speech as the memories of those final days with Maddy play out like a movie in my mind. The emergency room. Two good days, followed by the worst one of all. The waiting room.
I went out to the dock last night to settle my mind. The possibilities and improbabilities were whirling, and I couldn’t make sense of it. But there, under the cloudy sky where Rowan had first told me about that hope, I thought I might find clarity, a sign there was something bigger at work here.
He said meeting me felt like fate and, if I’m honest with myself, I think I felt it then too. That tug, that…thing that would always be there no matter the distance or whether or not fate ever brought us together again. But now I wonder if that thread goes back further than either of us realize.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shoot an email to Mr. Whitley under the guise of collecting information for my speech. It’s a half-truth at best, but it’s not a whole lie so that’s something. His reply comes a few minutes later with the promise he’ll look into my request and get back to me.
My phone lights up with a notification.
Rowan
Date night?
Me
I’mlistening.