The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(13)
“Of course.” Things might be strained because of all the romance drama, but she’d never turn her back on a lifelong friend in crisis. “Why are you staying with your brother? Where’s Todd?”
Not that Steffi cared about Todd or wanted to see him. In her opinion, he belonged in a special circle of hell. As her thoughts looped, she realized Peyton hadn’t answered her question. Silence stretched between them while warm summer breezes plagued Steffi with the false promise of a pleasant evening.
“Gone.” Peyton’s deadened tone suggested she was still in shock. “He started distancing himself when they found the lump a month ago. Told me he couldn’t handle this—I think he actually used words like ‘didn’t sign up for this.’” Peyton sniffled, but Steffi couldn’t pretend to be surprised. “He’s not who I thought he was, and right now I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m sorry, Peyton.” Todd had now devastated two of Steffi’s friends, which made him the biggest ass-wipe she knew. Her mom’s deathbed advice drifted back and caused her to frown, because it didn’t apply to Peyton. Peyton did—and should—regret a decision that had, for a while, made her happy. “Can I come visit this Sunday?”
“I’d love that.”
“Perfect.” She held her breath for a second, then tiptoed onto a minefield. “So, is this news something I should share with Claire?”
“Why bother? She hates me.” Peyton’s quiet words landed like deadweights filled with misery.
“She’s hurt and angry, but hate? I don’t believe it. I can’t.” A memory of the three of them huddled in a tent while camping out on the Prescott lawn resurfaced. Flashlights, caramel-coated popcorn, gossip, and Teen magazine. If only a night of innocent giggling beneath the stars would cure what ailed them all now. “But I don’t want to overstep. If you’d rather no one else know for a while, I won’t say a word.”
Another long pause preceded Peyton’s response. “It’s not a secret. There’ll be no hiding my bald head and double mastectomy.”
Steffi held her tongue. Now wasn’t the time for lectures or pep talks. And like the rest of the Prescotts, Peyton had always taken pride in her Pantene model–worthy hair and enviable figure. Losing them would be a blow, but even that couldn’t compare with confronting her own mortality. “I wish I were with you now. I’ll check in tomorrow, but plan on seeing me Sunday.”
“Thanks, Steffi. Love you.”
“You too.” Steffi hung up and shoved the phone in her pocket. She set one hand on the side of the house while her body begged to crumple to the ground from the weight of the news.
Cancer? They were too young to be dealt those cards. A scream locked and loaded in her throat, but she clamped her mouth shut. Steffi picked up her mallet and swung, hitting the frame too hard. She couldn’t be careful now. She had to beat on something.
If Peyton survived, her life would never be the same. Everything would be seen as “before” and “after” the diagnosis. If she were lucky, it’d take years before she’d stop wondering if new mutinous cells were growing. Before she’d stop waiting for that other shoe to drop . . .
Why did bad things have to happen? Out of nowhere, you lose control of your life. You’re caught by surprise, hit—
Steffi’s ears rang and her vision dimmed as if the sun had ducked behind a cloud despite a clear blue sky.
Gun!
Can’t fight.
My hands, my hands. No!
Cold metal. Breathe.
Sweat, pulling. Fingers gripped too tight. Stop!
The mallet landed on Steffi’s foot, snapping her back from wherever she’d gone. A ghostly shiver—the hair-raising kind that takes hold when you suspect someone is spying on you—rippled through her body. Her head throbbed. She could cry from frustration—over Peyton. Over her memory problems. Over how complicated life had become.
She gave in to it all and sank to the grass, knees pulled to her chest, her chin tucked, redirecting her thoughts. Peyton had asked for prayers. Maybe God would listen to Steffi’s this time.
The sound of another car rolling along the gravel driveway caused her to stand and brush away the grass and dirt. Ryan was home, but he must’ve gone in through the front door to avoid seeing her.
Steffi roused herself so she could pound out the last panel and get out of Dodge. She picked the mallet off the ground and began to bang the lower corner, when Ryan stormed out to the patio, tie loosened, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, eyes blazing.
He planted his hands on his hips. “Did you yell at Emmy?”
“No.” Steffi stopped to twist her neck twice before she nudged the first corner loose. “She interrupted my call. I motioned for her to be quiet. When she didn’t listen, I was firm.”
While she’d been talking, his rigid spine softened. He narrowed his gaze and studied her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, covering, tapping on the final corner of the frame.
“Your eyes are red.” He waved two fingers up and down between his brows. “You’re doing that scrunchy thing you do when you’re upset.”
She supposed they’d always know these little details about each other. Old habits, tics, and preferences—like the mint chocolate chip ice cream he’d probably ordered the other night. She’d never been able to hide much from Ryan, and maybe telling him would be good practice for telling Claire.