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?”
