The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(104)

What would it be like, she wonders, to grow up living in a room like this, with a mom like Landry?

She hopes Addison knows how lucky she is. And Tucker, too—Landry’s son. She hopes they know they’re blessed with everything—the only thing—that really matters.

Not beautiful bedrooms in a lovely house in a charming southern town, but parents who are together, and love them.

Kay was hoping she’d have a chance to meet the kids, but they’re not home this weekend.

“It’s better this way,” Landry said, and Kay has to agree.

It wouldn’t be right, the kids being here. There’s too much tension in the house, and now—

A ringing phone interrupts the thought. Her cell, she realizes. It has to be Detective Burns, returning her call at last.

She checks caller ID and recognizes the 513 area code. Yes, she was right.

But of course she was. Her phone never rings. She doesn’t have a circle of friends and family, not like Meredith. Not like Landry.

There’s no one back in Indianapolis wondering how her Alabama weekend is going.

There will be no one to miss her when she’s gone for good—not there, anyway.

But these women—her online friends—will notice she’s gone. And of course, Meredith’s family will as well, when they receive their unexpected inheritance.

They’re all I have.

But all I ever wanted was a family, and now I finally have it. Someone will care that I lived. Someone will care when I die, like they cared when Meredith did. Someone will cry for me, will remember me.

She presses the Talk button, swallowing a lump in her throat.

“Hello?”

“Kay, this is Detective Burns calling from Cincinnati. I just got a message that you were trying to reach me earlier. You should have called the number I gave you. That’s my direct line. I don’t check this one very—”

“I’m sorry.” She presses a hand to her aching head. “I forgot about that. I’m traveling, and I don’t even know if I have it with me . . .”

“Where are you?”

“Alabama. At Landry Wells’s house. A bunch of us are here for the weekend. The reason I called was because I thought I spotted Jenna Coeur in the airport when I was catching my connecting flight back in Atlanta . . .”

“You thought you spotted her?”

“I was pretty sure, but now . . .”

“Kay,” Detective Burns says, “listen to me. It wasn’t her. You don’t have to worry about her. Not today, anyway.”





Six of One Is Not Always Half a Dozen of the Other

Today is September 22. The date looms large in my brain. It’s the anniversary of my preventative bilateral mastectomy.

Did I change my fate on that day?

I tried to. The decision to have the surgery was mine. The idea . . . mine. It was not the first suggestion of any surgeon, since the only evidence of cancer was small and contained. Lumpectomy was the preferred procedure.

Breast Preservation was a term I learned then and heard quite often in those early diagnosis days. As if saving breasts were the point here, the ultimate goal. As if just cutting out the cancer as carefully, neatly, and least intrusively as possible was the mission, and perhaps for some it is. I remember sitting with the first surgeon I consulted, thinking I was missing something because although saving breasts is intrinsically tied to saving a life for some, it wasn’t for me.

Even though my own grandmother had beaten the odds, I had heard plenty of horror stories about women who hadn’t. Women who were declared fine for many years, only to have the cancer come back with a vengeance. So in my mind, as I was told survival rates for those with mastectomy versus lumpectomy were basically the same, I knew I couldn’t do it. I had a husband and children who needed me.

Every person, every diagnosis of breast cancer, is unique. No two circumstances are ever the same and neither are the ways of approaching, dealing, and living with this disease. No one is right or wrong. Each moment is personal, and for me . . . I knew I couldn’t walk away after a lumpectomy and weeks of radiation feeling positive about my outcome, in spite of comparable statistics. I knew I’d question my choice everyday, worry I hadn’t done enough, harbor regret.

Ultimately, I guess it mattered more for the peace of mind it granted me, rather than better odds. I believe I had done all I could to stave off recurrence, knowing full well neither method was guaranteed, but now I wouldn’t second-guess myself, and that . . . was everything.

Did I change my fate that day? Who knows?

Do I miss my old, unaltered, presurgery physical self? Sometimes. But not the tiniest fraction as much as I’d miss seeing my kids from childhood through adulthood to parenthood, or growing old with the man I love. And in the end . . . what is more important than that?

— Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries





Chapter 16

Landry’s cell phone rings as she loads the plates into the dishwasher. Startled, she drops one. It shatters on the stone floor.

“Dammit!” She looks up at the ceiling, wondering if the others heard it and are going to come down to investigate.

Hopefully the rain and thunder masked the sound.

Pulling out her phone, she sees that the caller is Bruce and hurriedly answers it.