My job was done.
Frank outright laughed. “Nice. All right, talk to you soon.”
“Yup!”
I hung up and turned slowly toward Amelia. “No Ryans.”
“Or what?” she squeaked.
“Well, you only heard half that conversation.” I grinned. “Use your imagination, small one.”
“Mom.” She clenched her teeth.
“Sorry.” Bronte grinned. “Looks like Not-Your-Dad has put down his foot, and who am I to tell him to pick it up? I mean, he’s not wrong.” She winked at me. “No Ryans.”
I held up my fist.
Bronte bumped it.
I made an exploding motion with mine, earning an eye roll and “You’re so lame” from Amelia, but I noticed, as I pulled back into traffic, she was smiling down at her phone.
See? She didn’t need any fucking Ryans.
She just needed us. Her mom…
And Not-Your-Dad, aka me.
Mission accomplished.
I smiled the entire way to the hospital, but the mood didn’t last long as we pulled into the parking lot.
The SUV was completely silent as if we weren’t sure if we’d be smiling or planning more treatments when we came back outside.
“Ready?” Bronte exhaled like she’d been holding her breath and shared a petrified glance with me before checking back on Amelia.
Amelia nodded once and then clenched her cell in her right hand, so tight her fingers went white. “No, but let’s go anyway.”
“You know,” I interrupted and showed her my phone. “We have about ten minutes, and that’s just enough time for a lame, boring Not-Your-Dad ‘when I was your age’ pep talk.”
Amelia pressed her lips tighter and rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure nobody has time for that—”
“You see,” I cleared my throat, ready for the encouraging lie. “…back when I was the quarterback at my old high school, living my best life, dating all the hot cheerleaders, and you know, all around peaking and under the impression that I’d always be surrounded by beautiful women instead of working three jobs and paying a mortgage, I too had a big day.”
“Let me guess…” Amelia grinned. “Big game?”
“State championship,” I lied. “Naturally, I threw the winning touchdown with a broken arm and black eye.”
“Naturally.” Amelia grinned. “I mean, how else do you gain small-town glory?”
“Or get the key to the city,” I added. “The point is that moment would have never happened had I stayed in the car. No matter what you face, whether it’s a big or small, staying in one place never changes the outcome.”
Bronte smiled. “How uncharacteristically wise of someone who peaked at eighteen.”
“Right?” I agreed. “All that matters, Amelia, is that you have a mom who loves you, a brother who would murder for you — who, by the way, hates Ryan too—” I’d fill him in later. “— a kick-ass older sister, and really good friends. So right now may be a shit time—”
“Not-My-Dad said, ‘shit,’ Mom!”
“I’ll forgive it.” She winked.
“Consider a dollar added to Trevor’s family swear jar.” God knew he could probably buy a new Bentley at this point with all the dollars I’d had to donate when I stayed there briefly.
Damn those Legos!
“As I was saying, it may be a shit time, but you’ve got love, and if you have love, you’re the richest person in the world.”
Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. “Is this the part where you give me an awkward side hug, tell me not to do drugs, and try to explain sex?”
I made a face. “Amateur. Not-Your-Dad penciled that in right after dinner!”
“I look forward to this talk the way I do root canals.” Amelia laughed. Her words said one thing; her body language said thank you.
“All right.” Bronte grabbed her purse. “Let’s go in.”
We all piled out of the car and started walking toward the stark tan brick building. I reached for Bronte’s hand and squeezed it, only to feel someone else reaching for mine on the other side.
Amelia held my hand tight and whispered under her breath as we walked. “Best Not-My-Dad pep talk in the world.”
“More where that came from.” I winked down at her and didn’t miss the wistful look she gave me, or the way it made my heart squeeze in my chest as I wondered what it would be like if I took off the “Not.”
And the “My.”
And just kept the “Dad.”
CHAPTER 12
Bronte
I couldn’t believe that Amelia had grabbed his hand.
Even crazier? I liked it.
I liked that we were walking into that hospital like a team, and in the same breath, the same sentence, I nearly passed out when his presence alone had people holding up their phones like they couldn’t believe Drew Amhurst would grace our shitty hospital with his presence.
Immediately, he dropped both of our hands and put protective arms around our shoulders as if to shield us.
But the problem with his shield?
It didn’t work. He could only shield her or me; he couldn’t protect both of us from the questions, the pictures, and I immediately wanted to be angry that something so private would be made public just because he was talented, rich, and famous.
I understood it, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
For us.
Or for him.
What sort of fresh hell was that? To constantly walk around and know you were simultaneously getting posted about, tweeted about.
We made it into the elevator in silence.
And as it went up to the children’s cancer wing, the music — his music, because of course, it was an instrumental version of Adrenaline — filled the small space.
“Is that ever weird?” Amelia asked.
Drew scowled. “You have no idea.”
“You’re cringing,” she pointed out.
“Yes.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets. “And dying a little bit on the inside since they added violins and took out the electric guitar.”
Amelia snorted. “I think it’s fancy.”
He shot her a glare. “It’s dinner music.”
“Would you like some tea?” she said in a fake British accent, earning a groan from both of us as the elevator doors opened.
She didn’t move.
I reached for her hand and saw Drew wink over her head at me as he pointed down the hall and whispered, “One step at a time. The only thing that
