Chapter 1
living it up, twenties style
Hannah - now
“Cancer is not a bargaining chip, Mom.” The roll of my eyes is as defiant as my voice through the receiver of my phone.
“Hannah James, don’t roll your eyes at me.”
My neck jerks back. “What? How did you—”
“Never mind, I’m not letting you cancel your date for this. I’m a little tired, that’s it. I’ve got soup, Netflix, and cozy pajamas. I can manage them all myself. My gosh, you act like I’m dying or something.”
I drag a hand across my forehead and groan. “Mom.”
Four cancer diagnoses in eight years and she jokes about her own death as though it wouldn’t gut me.
“Sorry. I forgot you don’t like death humor. Lighten up, buttercup.”
“I can’t joke about you dying, Mom.”
Lydia James is sunshine in every space she occupies.
Everyone turns toward her warmth like they’re addicts and her orbit is their best fix.
She’s never taken life too seriously. Always finds a way to laugh in the hard times because a smile pushes the dark things back into the shadows.
I’ve tried to do the same. Except, when the only family you have gets diagnosed with cancer days after your twentieth birthday, life takes a morbid turn.
She managed to kick cancer’s ass into remission three times already, but each battle took its toll. On both of us. This time though, despite my pleas to the contrary, Mom’s decided not to fight.
“I know, sweetheart. Look.” She releases a weighty breath over the line. “I’m not asking you to marry the guy.” I snicker. “Did you hear that, Hannah? The official transcript shall read: I’m not asking you to marry this man.”
“Oh my god, shut up!” The running joke that I almost hitched my wagon to the biggest jerk on the planet because I thought her dying wish was to see me get married sounds more ridiculous every time she brings it up. But at least this is something we can laugh about.
My intentions may have been good back then, but at twenty-three, I was too young and too foolish to know better.
I’m five years older and wiser now with a career that consumes most of my time and energy outside of spending time with Mom. Exactly how I like it. Exactly how I’ve designed it.
Mom’s laughter wanes. “Maybe you could let go of some of your rules for this one.”
“The rules are there for a reason.”
“And they’re good reasons. I’m just saying it’s okay to let yourself have some fun, Haddy.” I grin at the silly nickname given to me by my childhood best friend. Grief still lingers at the edges when I remember her, but it’s not all doom and gloom anymore.
“I have fun!” I scoff. Perhaps not the level-ten fun my I’m dying tomorrow let’s make tonight count mother is known for, but I know how to have a good time.
“When, Hannah? When was the last time you had fun? Like, real fun.”
Five years ago.
Twelve hours spent with a handsome soldier with cobalt eyes and a dimple-popping smile that made me weak in the knees. A man I haven’t seen or spoken to since but whose name I’ll never forget. Rowan.
I don’t mention him, though. Instead, I pull the most pathetic answer out of my ass because it’s all I’ve got. “Hey, what about my chess dates with the guys?”
Mom howls. “The geriatrics at the VFW? Yeah, you’re really living it up in your twenties.”
“You’re just mad because you could never match me in chess,” I tease. “I finally found people who could play up to my level.”
To be fair, my VFW visits are less about the chess and more about the company. But it’s more fun to tease Mom about her subpar chess skills than to explain why I enjoy my time at the VFW so much.
“When is your next meet up with the Golden Boys?”
“Next weekend, I think. Why? You wanna come?”
She sighs, long and wistful. “It has been a while since I crashed the Depends depot.”
Now we’re both laughing. “Mom! Stop, they’re not invalids.”
“I know, I know. They’re adorable and endearing and I love them. You know that.” She pauses, catching her breath. “I still think it’s so random that you ever got connected with those guys.”
I swallow down the truth, thankful for the buzz of my desk phone intercom to interrupt the direction of this conversation.
“Ms. James?” my assistant, Olive, says over the speaker.
“Hang on, Mom.” I hug my cell to my chest. “Yes, Olive?”
“The CEO of SellTech is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
“Okay, thank you. I’ll take it.”
I lift my phone back to my ear. “Mom, I gotta go. I have a client on the line.”
“Alright, then.” I reach for the receiver of my desk phone, finger primed over the hold button flashing red. “Real quick, though, you should wear that pink floral-print dress on your date tonight. The one with the ties at the shoulders. Guys love a girl in a sundress.”
“Mmhmm, yeah, sure. Love you, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“Please don’t,” she singsongs as I hang up.
I grant myself one breath to recalibrate my thoughts and put on my Public Relations executive hat. An urgent call from a CEO only means one thing: crisis.
Stifling a groan, I crack my neck side to side as I connect the call. “Mr. Pruitt, what can I do for you?”
Pasting a smiley sticker on the face of a disaster—that’s the job.
A job that consists of crisis management, spinning narratives, and cultivating goodwill in the community.
The latter, to be honest, is the only aspect of this job I enjoy anymore.
Everything else, I find mentally draining and wholly unsatisfying.
So when a metaphorical dumpster fire wherein laid a box of even more metaphorical abandoned kittens threatens the reputation of a Fortune 500 company and one of my largest accounts, the whole office kicks into high gear.
Five hours—no lunch, not a sip of water, no bathroom breaks.
My eyes have crossed from staring at the computer screen as I try to keep up with the onslaught of emails pouring in.
I reply to one just for three more to chime in my inbox all while the phone rings incessantly.
My team and I have scrambled to draft press releases, manage media interview requests from less-than-ethical journalists seeking the hottest click-bait, and hover over my client’s social media accounts to mount a defense against the high and mighty keyboard warriors out there.
By the time I finally come up for air, my colleagues at Hawkley House have all headed home for the night.
I glance at the clock. Dammit. My best friend is never going to let me live this one down.
Me
I’m not gonna make that date tonight with David.
Wait…
Derek?
Kristen
Daniel.
If you could see the look of shock on my face right now…
Me
Har har. You saw the news out of SellTech today. You know this one’s not my fault.
Kristen
I did see it. I was at the office too, remember? I left two hours ago with the rest of the sane people.
Me
Lecture me later. Can you give me his number so I can try and reschedule?
Kristen
Hang on. I’ll have John forward it to you.
A few minutes later, a contact comes through from Kristen’s husband. I type out a quick message to Daniel explaining what happened and ask if we can reschedule to next week.
My phone whooshes as I drop it to my desk and spin in my chair. The expansive view of downtown Boulder stretching to the Flat Irons of the Rocky Mountains in the distance beyond greets me through my office window.
Snowcapped peaks and powdery ski slopes are what draws most people to Colorado.
But I prefer my mountain range views bathed in a sea of green like they are right now.
Some spend their summers running off to sandy beaches that butt up to turquoise waters, the ebbs and flows of the waves along the shore nature’s very own sound machine.
Not me. Give me the emerald sparkle of the mountains cutting in and out of the horizon, the still silence of nature except for the occasional breeze rustling through the pines.
It’s a heaven my mom and I have shared my entire life.
And this summer will be her last.
The buzz of my cell forces the barbed wire around my heart to release just enough for me to suck in a breath.
Kristen
Stop. Working.
Go home.
I roll my eyes but only because my office bestie knows me too well.
Me
I am, I swear. Leaving now.
With my client crisis settled for the time being and the office void of life outside the solo desk lamp glowing next to my monitor, I collect my purse, shut down my computer, and call it a night.
Half an hour later, takeout in hand, I knock on the bright red door of my youth, synonymous with the artistic whims of my free-spirited, fearless mother. My chest inflates heavily and I brace myself for what’s sure to appear on the other side when Mom answers.
The door swings open. Mom stands wrapped in the blanket I bought for her first round of chemo eight years ago. Something sharp squeezes in my chest again.
Mom’s expression falls flat, her mom-eyes shooting daggers at the familiar to-go bag from our favorite Chinese place in my hand. “Hannah Gwyneth James, what the hell are you doing here?”