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Fuck. The clubs. I forgot I’d need clubs. I pivot. “Uh, I’ll just rent a set. We’re already on the road.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“I love you.”

There’s a pause, and I fear for a moment that she heard the crack in my confession. The emotion I tried not to let slip through. The fear in my desperation to bargain for more time to love her. To love them.

“Sorry,” she says. “Mabel’s yelling at me from upstairs about something.”

“It’s all good.”

She yells, “Yes, Mabel, I’m coming.” She’s back on the line when she tells me, “Tate, I’ve gotta let you go, but I’ll see you later tonight. I love you.”

“I love you,” I say again, and the line dies.

Disappointment threads the fear around Tanner’s eyes. Tension spills from him when he tells me quietly, “You’re going to have to tell her.”

“Not yet.”

Tanner tenses as the doc enters the room. Something inside my soul—the thread that clung to foolish hope—lets go.

“It’s not good news,” I say before he can speak.

His chest expands with a breath. “It’s not good news.”

Tanner’s breath catches, but I don’t look at him. My eyes stay fixed on the doctor’s. “Hit me with it.”

“The MRI shows what we call a Grade Four malignant diffuse astrocytic glioblastoma.”

I whistle. “That’s a lot of big words, doc.” I hold his eyes. “Is it cancer? Malignant means cancer, right?”

He dips his chin in a single nod. “It’s a highly aggressive brain tumor, originating in a very delicate, very sensitive area of the brain. The center, in fact. Glioblastoma’s are a difficult tumor. The best way I can explain it is they have tentacle-like off-shoots that can invade healthy areas of the brain, making operation incredibly difficult, incredibly risky, and in some cases impossible.”

I force a smile, but it shakes. “Am I an impossible case, Doctor?”

Another chin dip. “Your tumor is what we call a butterfly glioblastoma. This means your tumor crosses the midline of the brain, invading both hemispheres. It’s grade four because the cancer cells have significantly spread throughout the healthy tissue of your brain.” His eyes hold mine with deep sympathy—and my soul weeps. “This is a very aggressive and often fast-growing cancer. I’m so sorry, Tatum.”

“Well, fuck, what do we do?” Tanner stands for the first time. “You can’t operate, but it’s cancer. There’s chemo—radiation—right?”

Another slow nod. “There is, and we can offer it⁠—”

I cut him off. “How long?”

“We don’t like to give⁠—”

Louder, I demand, “How long?”

“Around sixteen months.”

“Jesus Christ.” Tanner shakes his head, but there are tears streaking his face that haven’t yet made it to mine. “But we can do something? He can fight this? He’s got a wife and kids.”

The doc’s eyes drop to his hands, locking on the fading heart tattoo.

Yeah, he’s got a little girl, too.

He lifts his eyes back to me. He swallows again. “That’s sixteen months with treatment.”

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