Blake never told me what they’d spoken about.

   Harry, the only one old enough to understand, announced that he was a man and he wouldn’t cry about it, but when I went to his room to talk to him, I heard him sobbing. I left him alone so he could get it out. Maybe it was important to him to keep up that front, but it pained me to know how much he was hurting because of me.

   We told them we’d be back the next day, hopefully after we knew what the next step would be. For the time being, we had no idea what the lump was. And it was important to us that we all remained positive.

   Blake’s mom gushed when she saw the ring on my finger, but when she saw Blake’s face, hers fell instantly.

   “We need your help,” he croaked.

   She sat on the couch opposite us while we told her everything. His hand held mine the entire time, gently squeezing when he knew I needed the encouragement to keep going. She sat frozen, crying silently and listening to everything we had to say. When she knew we were done, she smacked her hands on her knees and stood.

   “Well, then,” she said, quickly wiping the tears from her face, “looks like we have some stuff to organize.”

   Blake nudged me with his elbow, a hint of a smile on his face. He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward his mom. A kind of “I told you so.”

   Before I finished making us all coffee, she was on her laptop, on her phone, taking names and numbers. She was in full control. Something we both admitted to needing.

   She made an appointment for a mammogram the next day with Dr. Ramirez, and told us we could stay in the main house until things were sorted out; it had been empty since his dad had left.

   She worked fast, almost too fast, but it was for the best. The earlier we knew, the sooner I would be able to get treatment if I needed it.

   I asked Blake to get our bags and meet me up in his room. Once he had left, I turned to Mrs. Hunter. “Thank you.”

   She smiled sadly, took a seat next to me, and held my hand.

   “Go on,” she said. “I know there’s more.”

   “Blake told me that you helped him with the ring when you came to see us. But it was before either of you knew about . . . you know . . .” Even though I’d had my entire life to deal with and understand cancer, I had a hard time actually saying the word.

   “What are you saying, sweetheart?”

   I wiped the wetness off my cheeks. “I’m saying that if you don’t want us to go ahead with this . . . if you don’t want Blake to marry me, or even be with me, I understand.” I looked down at her hands, covering mine. “I’m sure it’s hard as a mother, to know that your only son is in love with a girl that could be dying. I’m sure that it’s not the type of life you wanted for him—to be with someone like me—to have to deal with so much, so young. And as much as I love him, I’ll walk away. I’ll tell him that it was my choice; he’ll never have to know this conversation existed. You just say the word.”

   “Oh, Chloe,” she sighed. “You couldn’t be more wrong. Blake told me about your chances . . . that it might happen. But he doesn’t care, and neither do I. I’m not going to lie; it scares me that he has to deal with all of this, especially so young. But you know what’s also great?”

   I shook my head.

   “It’s great that you’ve found a love so deep while you’re both so young. It means that you can deal with this together, and the love that you have—it’ll help you through it all. So when you do beat this—you’ll have the rest of your lives to keep on living.” She squeezed my hands as her eyes held mine. “When Blake asked me to help him with that ring, I didn’t even think twice, Chloe. Blake—he’s always been smarter than he gives himself credit for. If you think for a second that him asking you to marry him was a split-second decision, you’re wrong. He contemplated it for weeks, not just the days leading up to it. He would’ve thought about the cancer, he would’ve thought about you, and he even would’ve thought about me. I want what’s best for him, and the best for him is you, Chloe, however healthy you are.” She smiled before adding, “Regardless of all the black-letter days you might have to endure, there’s always a red one waiting for you.”

   I cried. Harder than I’d ever cried before.

   We hugged each other good night at her door. “Keep your head up, Chloe. You never know. It might not be cancer at all. It might be benign.”

   It wasn’t benign; it was cancer, just like we’d all expected.

   Blake wasn’t joking when he’d said that his mom would take charge. Within two weeks, she’d purchased a block of townhouses in Durham, a block away from Duke. One for us, one for her, and one for Dean and Mary, for when they visited. She’d called the Duke Athletic Department and committed Blake to playing and attending there. He’d wanted to defer, but we’d both pushed him to start that coming fall. Nothing should have to change, and his mom had guaranteed that she would be with me when he couldn’t. He’d made a joke about starting up a two-player team and calling it Team Uncoordinated Losers, but he’d been smiling as he’d said it. And that smile had been enough to let me know that things would be okay.

   For a while.

   His mom had made all the appointments for us. Blake had said that she actually looked as though she was enjoying herself, not because I was sick, but because she felt as if she had a reason to be a mom again.

   Then one night, I told him that she’d make a great grandmother. We spent the rest of the evening naming our future kids.

   I said Clayton.

   He said Jordan, LeBron, Kobe, Shaquille, Barkley, and about ten other names.

   I laughed and asked him if he planned on making enough babies to create his own basketball team.

   His eyes lit up. “Can we do that? Oh man, that would be so good!” was his actual response.

   God, I love him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

   Six Months Later

   Blake

   I crawled into bed and under the covers. It was already warm from her body heat. She was in bed a lot lately, always tired from her treatments. Carefully, I curled my arm around her stomach. “Baby,” I whispered in her ear.

   Her cheeks rose as a smile formed. She turned in my arms, her eyes still closed. She leaned in, her mouth already puckered. I pressed my nose against her waiting lips—our standard morning ritual. And then I waited. I knew what was coming next. Her hand trailed up my arm, over my shoulder, up my neck, and into . . .

   Her eyes snapped open. “Where is your hair?”

   I shrugged.

   Tears instantly pooled in her eyes, and she pouted. “You shaved it all off?”