Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
June
Immunotherapy.
Targeted therapy.
Surgery.
Radiation.
Chemotherapy.
Grandma Juni rolls her eyes at the oncologist while my parents and I sit with her in the conference room with a team of doctors.
“It’s a mole,” she says about her stage-four melanoma, which has spread to distant lymph nodes.
“Mom …” my mom says, and she has never called Grandma Juni “Mom.” It’s always been “Juni” because they’ve been best friends more than mother and daughter.
“I’ll start wearing a hat and more sunscreen,” Grandma says, fiddling with the gold rings on her long fingers, including the eight-carat canary diamond she’s never taken off her left ring finger since Grandpa Zach died five years ago from a heart attack.
“Juniper, that’s a great idea,” the oncologist says. “But that’s not going to help the damage that’s already been done. We need to be aggressive with treatment because you have an aggressive form of melanoma.”
Grandma straightens her back, just as confident and beautiful as ever. “Did you know my granddaughter is a famous cellist? And she’s going back on tour.”
“Juni,” Mom says.
I bow my head. Grandma is simultaneously sure she’s dying and also in denial. And her “dying wish” is for me to push past my fears and “get back on the horse.” A term she used to get my dad on her side. He likes me either on a horse or with a cello between my legs.
My phone vibrates, and I carefully unzip the bag on my lap beneath the table, sliding it open just enough to see the screen.
Flynn: Hi
I slip the phone back into my bag and clear my throat. “I’ll play.”
My parents eye me with uncertainty while Grandma pulls me in for a hug.
“Just once,” I say. “Something with the LA Philharmonic. Just me. Not the band. But you agree to treatment.”
Her smile fades. “I’ll do a month’s worth of treatment for one show.”
“Jesus …” My mom rubs her temples.
Grandma looks at my dad. “Are you really going to let your wife guilt me after everything that happened with your father?”
Grandpa Malone died of cancer. I don’t know what she’s referring to as “everything,” but I know he suffered. Is she afraid of suffering too?
“Dr. Hayslip,” Mom says, pushing back in her chair. “Thank you for arranging this meeting. We appreciate everyone’s time. But I think our family has a lot to discuss before moving forward.”
Grandma is halfway to the door with her designer handbag over one shoulder, blond and silver hair over her other, before Dr. Hayslip nods, offering us a sad smile.
I chase her down the hallway. “Grandma!”
She stops, back to me. Then her shoulders curl inward, body shaking. “I’m d-dying, Z-zoya.”
I hug her as tears burn my eyes. This is different. It’s the first time she’s cried in front of me.
“But y-you’re not. So don’t run f-from your destiny.” She sniffles, releasing me to wipe her eyes.
My parents stop a few feet behind her, arms around each other, giving me this moment with her.
I swipe my fingers beneath my eyes and slowly nod. “One concert for every month of treatment.”
After Grandpa Zach died, my parents moved in with Grandma Juni.
Her twenty-five-million-dollar estate in Beverly Hills sits on two acres, a timeless design with a half-moon drive, manicured gardens, a dual staircase in the entry with a grand crystal chandelier, coffered ceilings, seven bedrooms, a pool, tennis courts, and a recording studio.
Flynn would hate it.
My bedroom has a private balcony overlooking the pool.
When I collapse onto the king bed with white cotton linens and puffy pillows in every shade of pink, Grandma’s favorite color, I stare at the text from Flynn.
Hi.
That’s it.
“Knock. Knock,” Mom says, poking her head into the room.
“Come in.”
“Whatcha doing?” she asks, plopping down beside me.
I don’t hide the text from Flynn. She knows he broke my heart. But unlike her and Dad, I don’t think Flynn will be able to put it back together because I’ll always be Zoya Malone, only granddaughter of Juniper Carlisle and Zachary Isaac Phillips, fashion and music royalty.
“You know,” Mom says, resting her head against mine, “after I fell for your dad in Coachella, he never thought he’d see me again, but we texted all summer. And I knew our time wasn’t over. Our story had only just begun.”
I smile. “I know. I love yours and dad’s story.”
She hums. “That’s what I always said to my mom about her love story with my dad. And do you know what she said?”
I laugh. “Yeah, you’ve told me a million times.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you a million more times. She said some loves are temporary, and some are forever. It’s all about timing. Timing guides our lives more than love. Love is just an emotion—timing is our destiny. Missed opportunities. Serendipity. Fate … it’s all about timing, not love.”
“That’s why Grandma always talks about destiny.”
“Yep.” She steals my phone. “So explore this. See if it’s your destiny.” She types “hi” back to Flynn and presses send.
“Mom!” I grab the phone back. “I’m not ready.”
She rolls to her side, pressing her hand to one cheek while kissing my other cheek. “My mom was my best friend, my world in many ways … until we adopted you. I love her, but I love you more. So don’t do anything that doesn’t speak to your soul.” She sits up and pads her bare feet to the door.
“Responding to Flynn doesn’t speak to my soul.”
She chuckles. “Yes, it does.”
I stare at my phone and the three bubbles of his impending reply. The summer after my parents met, my mom used to text my dad:
Hi. Remember me?
And he texted back:
Hi. I’m pretty sure you’re still my greatest memory.
And they’d end each conversation with a song title, something that made them think about the other one.
My parents had a million obstacles that threatened their happiness, but they never gave up, and the other’s net worth never factored into their love.
That’s why my gut tells me Flynn can’t love me that way.
And I don’t blame him. His past is beyond anything I can imagine, and I know there’s probably so much more I don’t know.
Flynn: I hope everything is ok with your family
June: It’s not
Flynn: Sorry
June: Thx
Flynn: Want to talk about it?
I stare at his text for a few seconds.
June: No
Flynn: I’m sorry
June: U said that
Flynn: I’m sorry about the way things ended
Flynn: I’m an asshole
June: I know
The screen flashes three bubbles, then it stops. Three bubbles again. Then nothing.
I toss my phone aside and stare at the ceiling. How did life get so messed up?
Before dinner, I swim laps in the pool and shower. With wet hair, shorts and a tee, I join my family for dinner. It’s always a five to seven-course meal. Grandma has had a private chef for as long as I can remember. An entire staff to take care of the house and everyone in it.
“You play Saturday night,” Grandma says with a proud smile while resting her cloth napkin on her lap. “I already called and arranged everything. They’re excited and honored to have you as a special guest.”
I squint, shaking my head. “I’m not ready. I need to practice.”
“Well, darling, we don’t have a lot of time,” she says.
Mom flinches. It’s a gut punch.
“We’ll practice after dinner,” Dad says with a reassuring nod. Always my biggest fan and most supportive cheerleader.
It’s not that my mom isn’t too, but she knows what it’s like to feel the weight of the world bearing down on you.
My phone vibrates on the table beside my plate.
“No phones at the table,” Grandma says.
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose, removing the phone from the table, but not without taking a quick peek at the screen.
It’s another text from Flynn. It shouldn’t make my heart skip a beat, but it does even though I don’t know what it says because everyone is staring at me, so I set it face down on the chair beside me.
“Did you quit your job?” Mom asks. She has a pained expression because she knows I loved living in Minneapolis, and I loved my job.
“Everything is temporary,” Dad says, staring at my mom. “That was your motto when we met.”
She returns a sad smile and a nod. “Yeah.”
“This is temporary,” Grandma says.
We look at her while she chews slowly, blotting her mouth as she swallows.
“I won’t live forever. With or without cancer.
” She reaches for her water glass. “Promise me you’ll live here even when I’m gone and eat dinner at this table.
And every night you’ll toast those who have moved on, say grace even if you don’t worship God.
Laugh at the sheer silliness of life. Celebrate the journey because every single second of it is, in fact, temporary. ” She raises her glass.
Mom blinks back her tears but lifts her glass. Dad follows suit and so do I.
“To this most spectacular temporary moment,” Grandma says.
We clink glasses, finish eating, and I quickly excuse myself.
“Are you going to practice?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, but I’m going to dry my hair and pull it back first.”
“Okay. Let me know when you’re ready.”
“K.” I snatch my phone and run upstairs to my bedroom.
Flynn: It was a kazoo. I just thought of the word. I played a kazoo
I cover my mouth and snort.
June: I was so close to choosing the kazoo but the cello called to me just a little more
Those three dots feel like the line going up and down on an EKG monitor; their existence feels like life right now.
Flynn: I could play row row row your boat
I giggle.
June: My first piano song was hot cross buns. We could have done a mash-up of the two
He sends a laughing emoji.
June: I have to go
Flynn: I have to stay
Is he being funny or heartbreaking?