I laughed, but something was off. He was more irritable than usual, and it worried me. Nevertheless, I blurted out, “Your girl’s mom has cancer.”
“What the fuck?” His head shot up faster than I’d ever seen, and the way his eyes looked as if they were about to tear up sank my heart a bit.
“Now’s not the time to joke,” he warned, kicking me in the knee, but I didn’t move or flinch. Dillon knew me better than that. I’d never joke about cancer.
“It’s terminal, and she’s had it for about five months,” I explained.
He sat in shock and disbelief. “How do you know?”
“At the time, when you told me the name, I was wondering why it sounded so familiar. Then she took a call from her daughter one day, and I connected the dots. This morning she came into the hospital, and she was there sitting in the chemo roo—”
“Was she there alone?”
“Yes. She’s always at her appointments alone.”
I went on to explain everything I could about her condition without breaching any confidentiality laws. Then, we sat in silence, the weight of it all settling between us.
“I’ll take care of the bills,” he said, grabbing his checkbook. “How much?”
“I’ll have to get you an invoice, but you have time. I won’t stop her treatments, regardless of what her financial situation is.” I sighed, sipping a glass of something strong. “I’ve covered quite a lot, though.”
“How long do you think her lifespan will be?”
“Twelve months if she’s lucky, but it’s unpredictable, as you know. These things change often. She has lost no hair, only a bit of thinning,” I explained, sighing heavily.
“Don’t all patients suffer from hair loss?” he asked, confused.
“It depends on the drug. Hence why Azzaria doesn’t even realize her mom is sick.”
“Wouldn’t she look sick?”
“In some cases, but not all the time. Some days are better than others,” I clarified. “Her mother has been managing her symptoms well enough to keep them from being obvious. From what I heard, Leann’s been avoiding Azzaria entirely.”
A heavy silence settled between us, the weight of the situation pressing down. Neither of us spoke as night fell, exhaustion eventually pulling me under until I passed out on his couch.
I woke up with my heart pounding in my chest. Disoriented, I glanced around and realized I was still in Dillon’s living room.
The dream was vivid: back in the kitchen of our family home, the aroma of my mother’s pasta sauce filled the air. I saw them clearly: Lucia and Renaldo Romano, my parents, their smiles warm yet tinged with a sense of sadness I didn’t understand then.
It was our last summer together before everything changed. My mother, her energy waning but her spirit resilient, stirred the sauce with practiced grace. My father sat at the table, a gentle smile on his tired face as he recounted tales of their youth, boasting about how amazing his family was—how amazing we were. I hung onto every word, every shared laugh, unknowingly storing them for the years ahead.
In the dream, their laughter and tears blended, love masking unspoken fears. My mother’s gentle words reassured me, urging strength in their absence, while my father’s hand on my shoulder silently vowed to watch over me.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the dream slipped away, leaving me with an ache in my heart. I lay in the darkness, grasping at the fragments of that precious memory, longing to hold on to them a little longer.
I sat up, gulped the amber liquor in the glass beside me, and whispered, as if they could hear me, “I miss you both so much, but I’ll do everything to live right by you.”
Chapter Thirty
RONAN
Six Years Earlier
NEW YORK CITY/ITALY
The distance was getting to me.
Her being in Italy. Me being stuck in New York. It was frustrating as hell. And what made it worse? Sharing a space with my best friends. Normally, I didn’t mind. We had enough space to avoid each other when we wanted to, but lately, it felt small. Claustrophobic even.
