by Beck, Jamie
She snickered. “Overachiever.”
“Shh. I’m tired.” He tapped her butt. “Let’s get some sleep.”
“Okay.” She moved to pull away, but he locked his arms around her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To get my nightgown.”
He shook his head. “I’ll keep you warm. Come on.”
She glanced toward the spot where he’d thrown the flimsy thing, then nestled back into the crook of his arm. “You win.”
After another minute of listening to her breathe, he said, “Thank you for inviting me here, Peyton. I’ve loved every minute of it.”
She propped her chin on her fist, which she’d formed on his chest. “Thanks for not running away after meeting my parents.”
A joke, her go-to deflection whenever he probed too close to an open sore. “You’re not much like them . . . except that you can be hard to read sometimes, like your dad.”
“Normally, what you see is what you get with me. When I feel like myself again, I won’t be so hard to understand.”
He kissed her again because those lips still looked kiss-swollen and sweet. “Let’s stay locked in this room for a week. Pretend the world doesn’t exist. Can we snap our fingers and have food appear when we get hungry?”
Her smile split her face. “I thought you didn’t do make-believe?”
“Seems I’m making all kinds of exceptions where you’re concerned.” He reached up and brushed her hair away from her eyes. “I’ll be glad when this launch isn’t hanging over our heads.”
“Me too, and not only because of this.” She gestured between them.
“Soon.” And with luck her book would be a success he could leverage to secure a pipeline of work from Savant.
She laid her head back down and tickled his chest. “No matter what happens with the book, one excellent thing came out of this whole author experience.”
He smiled and rolled her onto her back, stealing another delicious kiss. “Best author experience I’ve ever had.”
“Not a high bar when I’m the only one you broke your rules for.” She stroked his jaw with one finger. “But I’m glad you survived my family without any bruises. Will I be as lucky?”
“Of course.” His mom might not be any more welcoming than Darla, but Peyton had survived so much worse, so how bad could it be?
Chapter Seventeen
“What time are we meeting Logan at Ribalta?” Mitch called from his bathroom after brushing his teeth. For weeks they’d anticipated tonight’s big event. He was counting on Peyton and Logan hitting it out of the park.
Peyton called back from his small living room, where he assumed she was still looking at pictures. “Five thirty.”
Her calm voice proved how far she’d come since that first reading in Barcelona. He turned off the light and joined her, checking his watch. “We should get going soon.”
She crossed to him, tugged at his collar, and then snuggled against his chest. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for my book and, more importantly, for me. I’ve felt hopeful since Saturday, like I can breathe again.”
“Me too—like I have new life.” He kissed her, lacking the more eloquent words that would impress a writer. The fact that food tasted better and colors were brighter would be much too clichéd, despite being true. Plus he’d promised to take things slow, so he simply held her tight with his eyes closed, something he could’ve done forever if his iPad hadn’t started ringing.
“Your mom again, no doubt.” Peyton eased away, wearing a playful smirk. “You should answer it this time.”
He checked his watch again, then set the iPad in its stand on the coffee table and hit “Accept.” “Hey, Mom.”
When his mom’s face appeared, her dimpled chin and neck consumed half the screen because she always held her phone at her chest instead of setting it in front of her. “I know you’re busy. I only called to wish you luck tonight. I know this book is very important for your company.”
“Thank you.” He glanced up at Peyton, who was standing in front of him, looking very sweet in a black summer jumpsuit with white polka dots. “Peyton doesn’t need luck, though. She’s terrific with the crowd.”
“So you’ve said—”
“She’s standing here,” he interrupted before his mother said something embarrassing, then gestured for Peyton to come say hello. As Peyton came to stand beside him, he sent a silent prayer that the virtual introduction wouldn’t go sideways. “We’re heading out to grab a quick bite before the event, but this is Peyton. Peyton, this is my mother, Jane.”
His mother held her phone right up to her eyes as if that would give her a better look at Peyton. Instead, it offered Peyton and him a close-up of her nostrils. His mom flashed a smile no more sincere than the one Darla Prescott had given him on Saturday. “Hello, Peyton. I’ve heard so much about you. Congratulations on the book. Mitchell gave me a copy last month.”
Mitch waited for a compliment of Peyton’s work, which never came.
“Thank you.” Peyton graciously stepped in. “I’ve heard so much about you, and Lauren as well. Perhaps when I’m finished with this tour, we can all go to dinner.”
“Perhaps.” A stilted tone iced the way his mom mimicked Peyton. The lack of enthusiasm and rolling out of the calendar to pick dates also spoke volumes to Mitch, and probably to Peyton, too. If he could make a face at his mother without Peyton seeing it, he would.
“Well”—Peyton hesitated, giving his mom one last chance to say something before she gave up and looked at Mitch—“why don’t I use the restroom while you two finish up, then we can take off?”
When Mitch nodded, she turned back to the screen. “So glad to put a face to your name, Jane. I’ll let you and Mitch work out the details of when we might meet in person.”
“I hope you don’t mind coming all the way to Hoboken.” His mother’s sweet voice belied the underlying challenge Mitch recognized in her reply.
“I don’t mind at all.” Peyton stepped offscreen, shot him a knowing smile, and retreated to the restroom.
Once he heard the door close, he speared his mother with a hard look. “I need a winter coat.”
“What are you talking about?” his mother asked. “It’s seventy-five degrees outside.”
“You were chilly, don’t you think?” He glanced over his shoulder, careful to keep his voice low. “I’ve seen you be kinder to homeless strangers.”
“Honey, don’t ask me to get invested in this already.” Her free hand flapped all over the place. “You know I worry that she doesn’t need you. If I’m wrong, then I’ll admit it, but I think you’ll be happier with a woman who can make you feel important.”
He wasn’t about to get into all the ways Peyton already made him feel important, or tell his mother how nice it was not to be needed for a change, so he shook his head and sighed.
“I’m sure she’s a fine person, but this isn’t one of my Hallmark movies where the fish out of water gets a happy ending. This is real life, and in real life, princesses don’t leave the castle. Then there’s how her health could affect you. We both know you never fully recover from that kind of loss.”
Mitch swallowed the ball of anger now lodged in his throat. Unlike that shithead Todd, Mitch was tough enough to stick with Peyton if his mom’s dire prophecy came to pass. He’d want to be there for her, too, but with Peyton mere yards away, this wasn’t the time to debate it, so he said, “She’s cancer-free.”
“She’s still got a ways to go to reach the five-year survival mark.” With a sorrowful expression, she said, “I’m very worried for you.”
There were plenty of survival stories out there. “If she gets sick again, I’ll cross that bridge then.”
Too late he noticed a shadow cross the screen. Peyton must’ve returned while the loud thoughts in his head prevented him from hearing her footsteps. How much had she overheard?
“Call me later.”
“Bye.” He hit “
End Call” and the screen went dark.
“Ready?” Peyton asked.
A quick scan of her face revealed no obvious sign of having heard his mother’s concerns, so he didn’t make apologies for the appalling remarks. It hadn’t been the auspicious introduction he would’ve preferred. Before he got them together in person, he’d need to lay some ground rules with his mother and sister.
“Yes.” He welcomed the change of subject. “Are you? You never mentioned which passage you’ve selected.”
In the past, she’d chosen entries that focused outward and involved people she’d met along the way. This week he’d approached her with the caution one would use to handle dynamite when suggesting she try something more personal with a more hometown crowd.
“You’ll have to wait and be surprised like everyone else.” She cocked a brow.
He grabbed her into a kiss. “No special privileges?”
“You get plenty of privileges, but not about this.” She smiled, but the distant look in her eyes wasn’t a happy one.
“Fine.” He squeezed her tight before grabbing his keys and heading to the subway to meet up with Logan and Claire and the others. He’d privately reached out to her parents again this week and played up the Prescott optics to persuade them to come. But optics hadn’t been his real motivation. He’d guessed, deep down, that Peyton could use her parents’ support tonight. Hopefully, they’d show.
They boarded the train in silence and found two seats. Peyton remained preoccupied. Had she overheard his mother’s dire warning? He leaned close and murmured, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” She stared at him, then let loose a big sigh. “It’ll be different tonight, sharing the stage with Logan. Better, I think, although maybe a little part of me is afraid he’ll outshine me.”
Mitch slung his arm around her, relieved not to be discussing his mother. “Not possible. I don’t care how popular he and his photography are, or how many women might swoon over him. This is your story. Yours.”
As they exited the station after the train deposited them, she admitted, “I’m also a little nervous to read in front of my friends. It’s not like in Europe, where the hectic schedule and all the strangers made me numb.”
“Haven’t your friends read the book?”
“Maybe, but standing in front of them and reading aloud is different.”
“But they’re coming to support you, not to judge you.”
“I suppose these jitters aren’t anything a little wine won’t cure.” She smiled as he opened the door to the restaurant. At a table near the window, Logan and Claire sat with Mr. and Mrs. Prescott on one side, while Steffi; her husband, Ryan; and her brother Ben were on the other.
Peyton almost tripped, mumbling, “My parents came . . .”
“Of course they did.” He kissed her temple, choosing not to share his role in their decision. Her genuine smile was reward enough. With playful sarcasm, he added, “Think I’ll join you with that wine.”
“Maybe we should split a bottle.” She giggled, the sound of which worked its way through his muscles like a good masseuse’s hands. “To be honest, I’m pleasantly surprised they made the effort.”
“I’m glad.” When they reached the table, he pulled out a chair for Peyton. His stomach growled from the aroma of pizza sauce and salty cheese.
She appeared to relax with the love of friends and family. And a bit of wine.
Tonight would be her best reading ever.
He just knew it.
Standing room only.
Peyton balled her hands into fists at her sides as they entered the cluttered Rare Book Room. Her head still hurt from trying to shove aside Jane Mathis’s concerns about her cancer returning. That hadn’t been what she’d needed to kick off her evening, and now that they’d arrived to this large crowd, performance anxiety began to rattle her, too.
Most of the patrons were milling around the makeshift buffet table overflowing with ricotta-filled squash blossoms, crab-and-avocado toasts, iced cookies, and plastic cups with prepoured white and red wine, while others began claiming seats in the many rows of metal folding chairs set up. Strands of white lights hung overhead, lending a festive atmosphere to the creaky old space.
Unlike Peyton, whose twitching made her look like she had some kind of tic, Mitch and Logan beamed. Their odd trio skirted the gathering crowd to meet up with the Strand events coordinator and Peyton’s editor Krista. After a brief introduction to the moderator, Maura, and quick hug with Krista, Peyton stepped back to let Mitch handle the particulars.
“You okay?” Logan asked while Claire and the others took the front-row seats that had been reserved for them.
“I’ll be fine once we start. It’s just weird having people I know—people we know—here.” This city had been her home base for almost a decade, after all. A few former “friends” had reached out by email when they saw posts about the event. She wouldn’t even let herself scan the crowd for fear of making eye contact with one, although none had committed to coming.
“I know this is old hat for you, but I’m excited to finally talk about this project.” Logan clapped his hands and then rubbed his palms together. “I’m proud of what we’ve created.”
“I am, too.” She touched his shoulder. “And I always give you credit for the idea.”
Mitch arrived and interrupted them. “We need you both up at the podium. It’s time to begin.”
Maura made some introductory remarks about Peyton’s and Logan’s bios, and read the starred Publishers Weekly review before turning the room over to the pair. Peyton’s skin tingled from Logan’s ramped-up energy.
Sensing that she could use another minute to collect herself, she began by introducing Logan. “Welcome and thank you all for coming. Before I read from the book, I’m going to let Logan discuss the process of this project first, since it began as his brainchild. Then I’ll read a short selection from the memoir, follow up with some of my own thoughts about how my experiences and this project have changed me, and we’ll take questions at the end.” Peyton gestured to her brother. “Take it away.”
He flashed that smile that had won him admirers around the globe and then launched into a spiel about how he’d taken his experience with documentary photography to turn her journey into a story others might use to heal. While he spoke, she stared into space, imagining herself sitting in the sand at Arcadia House, scanning the horizon, searching for calm. She’d stepped back from the podium, so she practiced ujjayi breaths to find her center.
“In the end, the fact that my original idea of an installation art project turned into a memoir worked out for the best. Peyton bravely put her heart on every page, and I couldn’t be more proud.” When Logan finished, he touched her elbow. “And now for the main event, my sister and best friend . . .”
A round of applause forced her to take the mic. She glanced at Mitch, who winked and wore that broad smile that filled her with happiness.
Nodding, she faced the crowd and opened the book to the tabbed page.
“It’s always hard to pick a single passage that represents the work, or is meaningful when taken out of context, so let me first give some background to the particular excerpt I’ve chosen tonight.
“A lot of what we read by or about cancer patients, whether in books or interviews or chat rooms, is riddled with what I call cheerleading. Being uplifting is very important, and while many of the passages in my book are about hope and small epiphanies I had along the way, I’m going the other direction tonight. I want to share the things no one likes to talk—or even think—about. The thoughts that don’t make someone heroic or a ‘good example’ for others, but are nonetheless fundamentally human and real. I believe it’s important to acknowledge painful, bitter moments as part of the process. Otherwise the sense of a ‘failure’ of optimism any patient inevitably has in those terrifying moments will only lead to more isolation, which isn’t good for anyone.
“With that in mind, here we go . . .
“I’m in the dark place now.
“Black and confining like a coffin with a peephole. As with any other peephole, the view of the outside world is somewhat distorted, but it’s the only one I can see from in here.
“It’s not the shoulder pain and stiffness, or the Frankenstein scars across my chest, or the fact that I’m still bloated enough that I doubt I’ll ever get out of drawstring pants again. It’s not that song ‘Broken’ that has triggered a full-body freeze ever since it was playing in the background when I got the original biopsy results. It’s not even having to act brave and confident so the people who love me don’t fall apart or smother me, although, dammit, that act can be exhausting. That’s almost as taxing as trying not to complain about anything because I know—as everyone keeps reminding me—I’m ‘lucky’ to be alive.
“Yes, of course, if you call what I’m doing now—how I’m feeling—living.
“But I don’t always feel lucky. Not when fear burns inside me as if my bones have turned to dry ice.
“That awful question of ‘What next?’ scares even healthy people at least once in their lives. For me, it rains down like two tons of earth being poured on my head.
“I can’t stop picturing stealthy occult cells swimming around in my tissue, looking for the ideal place to set up camp. A fold or nook or other foxhole where they can rebuild without being noticed. Logan and others encourage me to focus on the seventy-two percent five-year survival rate my doctor mentioned when I got my diagnosis. Maybe most think that sounds pretty good, but I hear a one-in-four chance of dying in the next five years.
“One-in-four chance of death.
“If anyone had those odds of winning the Mega Millions lottery, they’d start house hunting before the drawing even took place.
“And if I do survive, what does that look like?
“I’m so exhausted and achy and hormonally off-balance I can’t envision cracking a real smile again. The wear and tear of my travel days is not an option, at least not yet. This project? I’m still not convinced it should ever see the light of day, where it will be picked over by others who’ll thumb through its pages in search of optimism or insight they’re unlikely to find. Love? That’s a hole in my heart I don’t want to examine too closely, but if I couldn’t find real love when healthy, I can’t imagine finding it when I’m this sick. Maybe that’s for the best, though, because I couldn’t take another goodbye.
