2. Brooke

TWO

brOOKE

H aving the guests bring presents unwrapped was really the way to go. Not only did it cut down on the partygoers being bored to tears, but it actually gave everyone a chance to see all the presents. Besides, there were better things to do than watch the bride-to-be unwrap each one. Like playing games and drinking the fancy cocktail I'd put together.

"This is the best shower!" Sabrina threw her arms around me, half drunk. So, okay, maybe the punch was a little strong. "You're the best sister."

I rubbed her back. "No, you're the best."

Kim butted in, wrapping her arms around both of us. "No, I'm the best."

I laughed, squeezing each of my sisters in turn. I was the oldest at thirty-five and had dutifully and joyfully planned showers for both of them. We had an even four years between each of us, so at thirty-one, Kimmy had already had a bridal and a baby shower. Sabrina was the baby at twenty-seven, engaged to the guy she met on Tinder.

A fairy tale that started with a one-night stand who never left .

My fairy tale had never materialized. And it was fine.

I was fine.

Truly.

And I wasn't jealous at all.

Not really.

Only, like, the tiniest bit.

Barely noticeable.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and plastered a smile on my face as I released my sisters. This was Sabrina's day, and I wanted it to be perfect for her. She and Everett were happy, and she worked so hard. She deserved this.

If sometimes I imagined myself married with a houseful of kids instead of going home to my little condo and Dorothy, well, I kept that to myself. Because I was happy.

I had great friends. I had a great life, and that was all I could ask for. Life .

After letting go of my sisters, I snagged a cup of punch then took a seat at an empty table. No matter how much I enjoyed planning these parties, the extroverting was sometimes a bit hard, and I could feel my adrenaline crashing. Sipping my drink, I thought ahead to the bath bomb and new romance book I'd bought. Nothing like some good self-care to settle down.

I'd learned that lesson the hard way through my endometrial cancer treatment. What self-care really meant.

I could only pretend I was fine for so long. Now, I was better at drawing my boundaries and asking for what I needed. But I had to get through the next hour before I could go home and relax.

Slipping off my heels under the table, I settled my feet on another chair and released a sigh that was part foot pain, part memory pain.

By this point, I assumed I'd have all this—marriage and babies—too, but life had thrown me a few curve balls. First with the diagnosis and the grueling treatment that not only stole my fertility but also my fiancé. He couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle the loss of his chance at biological children or the care that I had required. I still hadn't fully recovered from the heartbreak.

Over any of it.

No matter how often my family told me I was better off without him, it was difficult to get it into my head. Because he'd made me feel like I had nothing to offer anyone anymore, and if he didn't want me, who would?

I watched Kim take baby Hayes from our mother and cuddle him to her chest as she bounced him. Hayes was the first grandchild for my parents, a perfect little gift for all of us to spoil rotten. At six months old, he owned more clothes than I think my sisters and I possessed combined. He had more toys than he could play with, let alone even understand. The other day, my dad had bought him a remote-control car, saying he needed to learn how to drive at some point.

Laughing into my drink at the memory, I kept my gaze on Kim as she walked Hayes over to the corner, lowering an inconspicuous flap on her dress to feed him. I absently dragged my hands over my chest and the sides of my breasts. Those, technically, were still functioning, though I'd never have the chance to use them like my sister. I was in menopause induced by my hysterectomy and managed by an inventory of so much medication that I owned one of those plastic S-M-T-W-T-F-S containers like an eighty-year-old grandma.

Sometimes that was what I felt like.

Shifting my attention from Kim to Sabrina, I smiled as she performed a little butt wiggle of excitement. Though she was the youngest and most excitable, she was the smartest out of the three of us. A future doctor—more specifically, an oncologist treating gynecologic cancers—inspired, she said, by me and my journey. So, if there was a bright side to come out of my medical history, it would be that a few years from now, women would have an amazing doctor treating them.

In a few weeks, she'd get married, enjoy a quick honeymoon, and then start her residency in Philadelphia. I was so incredibly proud of her.

"Whatcha staring at?"

Startled, I blinked over to my mom, wiping at where I'd spilled the punch down my chin. She bit back a smile and handed me a napkin. "Sorry, sweetie."

"It's okay." I cleaned myself off and removed my feet from the chair so my mother could sit. She shifted it closer to my own chair and leaned her head on her hand, her elbow on the table, creating a little bubble for only us.

"I wanted to come over and check on you."

"I'm fine."

She smiled tenderly. "I know you are. But how are you really?"

There was no use lying, so I merely lifted a shoulder.

She sat up, taking my hand in hers. "I know I told you before, but you've done a beautiful job with this shower."

"Thank you."

"You're so creative and…" Her trembling lips gave way to a laugh she tried to hide. "Type A."

My mother and Sabrina were a lot alike, easily amused. Kimberly and our father were similar, both of them easygoing. Me? I was the stereotypical first-born daughter, and I got shit done . I liked being in control and feeling a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. Which was why the last few years had been a big learning curve, a retooling of how I wanted to live my life and still be in control without spiraling out about things I had absolutely no control over.

"So, you wanna talk about it?" my mother asked, always so in touch with her feelings.

"There's nothing to talk about." I offered her a close-lipped smile .

My mother sent me a flat look.

My next smile was all teeth, and she laughed. "Try again."

I added jazz hands.

She clapped. "Perfection. Exactly the energy you're giving off right now."

"I don't know, Mom," I said, giving in. "I'm daydreaming, I guess."

She spun in her chair, assessing the party for a few moments before facing me again. "It's been a while… You thinking about dating again?"

"Possibly."

"It's possibly scary," she guessed, and I nodded.

There had been a time in my life when I'd thought I needed to hit every milestone in my career to be happy. If I attained the next raise or promotion or job, I'd be satisfied, but I hadn't been. It took a life-altering diagnosis to finally push me to leave the nine-to-five corporate marketing world and jump into what I'd always been interested in, working for myself as a farm co-op owner. The fear of failing was real, and it had taken a long time for me to believe in myself and know that I could succeed. That was what held me back now.

The fear of putting myself out there again and failing, of having my heart broken. Again .

I truly didn't know if my heart or body could withstand it.

"But maybe you could find something even better than what you've imagined," Mom said, drawing my attention back to her. "Maybe there's someone out there who's been waiting for you to finally take the leap past maybe and say yes."

I gave in to a real smile. "You missed your calling as a motivational speaker."

"One of these days, I'll write everything down for my memoir." She slung her arm around me, hugging me to her, and I inhaled her familiar scent, finding comfort and love and strength .

"Thanks, Mom."

She kissed my cheek, leaning away enough to smile at me, her hands on either side of my head. "You've always been my favorite. You know that?"

I rolled my eyes at her common refrain. Each of us girls was her favorite, depending on the day or even the hour. "You're such a liar."

She grinned. "That's gonna be the title of my memoir."

"Do I get a commission?"

"Of course." She pulled me up with her when she stood. "Now, come on. Let's go play a game." I stepped into my heels and slipped my arm around my mother's waist as she whispered, "How much alcohol's in the punch? Because your sister looks like she might pass out in a few minutes."

"Eh?" I waved my hand. "She'll be fine."

My mother laughed and towed me to the wall where I'd set up a few games, including the very popular Pin the Bow Tie on the Groom with Everett's face on a poster of a groom in a tux sans bow tie. I'd included a few actual ties to wrap around players' eyes as they took their turns, but with the side effects of the punch, the guests didn't really even need to be blindfolded.

My mother had the same thought. "We should rework the rules. Take a shot of the punch, spin around ten times, and then try to do it."

My cousin volunteered to be the first to adopt the new rules, and my mother happily offered to help. She handed her a cup with a bit of the punch and then counted as she spun Nina around and around. Snort-laughing, Nina stumbled toward Everett, pinning the bow tie outside of his head.

We all giggled delightedly, and, really, I didn't need anything else in my life.

I was happy.

Sincerely.

So much so that I wasn't even going to answer when my cell phone buzzed in the pocket of my sundress. But since it wasn't my turn yet, I pulled it out, genuinely smiling at the text message.

Jude

We're still on for tonight, right?

I texted him back immediately.

Of course!

Meet you at 7 at your place?

Jude

See you then.