“I have to go shopping.” I grin at the woman who’s always been more of a sister to me than anything else. “Love you, kiddo.”

“I want photos, Rhys O’Shaughnessy. You’ll need my input.”

“Good point. Okay, I’ll send photos from the jewelry store.”

“Tiffany,” she insists, pointing at me. “If it doesn’t come in a blue box with a white bow, we don’t want it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh my God, you’re buying a ring!” She does a little happy dance in her chair.

“This is our secret, Mary Katherine.”

“Call me Mary Katherine again and I’ll slash your tires.”

“Promise me you won’t tell. Not even Eli.”

She sighs, blowing her lips together in a raspberry, but finally nods. “Okay, I won’t tell Eli, or anyone else. But make it quick.”

“I’ll see her on Sunday.”

I end the call and rush out of the hotel, catch a cab to Tiffany, and spend the next several hours searching for the perfect ring for my girl. I send several photos to Kate, but each time she replies with a simple no.

And I agree, none of them are right. Finally, the saleswoman, who has been exceedingly patient and kind, says, “Wait, I just saw something come in this morning that might be perfect.” She leaves for several minutes and then returns with the perfect ring.

Perfect.

“It’s vintage inspired,” the saleswoman begins. “That means it has an older feel, almost like an heirloom. As you can see, there is etched scrollwork on the sides, with diamonds, and the stone on top is a princess-cut. It’s three total karats.”

It’s so Gabby. She has such a love for tradition, for older styles. I can just see this on her hand.

“I’ll take it.”

“I didn’t even tell you how much it is,” she says with a chuckle.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s hers.”

***

It’s the second day of filming. I’ve had lunches and dinners and other meetings crammed between shooting short scenes for the commercial for the children’s hospital. And in between it all, I’ve taken time to actually sit with the kids.

They’re the best part.

And they make me miss Sam, and so damn thankful that he’s healthy and whole. Having a very sick child must be its own special kind of hell. I didn’t like it when Sam had the flu. I can’t imagine having a child with cancer.

I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, but can’t take the time to answer it as I’m once again surrounded by fans and parents of the patients, wanting to say hello and get their baseballs autographed.

When the crowd thins, a petite woman about Gabby’s age approaches me with a shy smile.

“I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Fiona. My son is a huge fan of yours, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to say hi to him?”

“Of course,” I reply with a grin. “Where is he?” I glance around, but I don’t see any little boys nearby.

“He’s in room 432. He’s not well enough to come out here.” She bites her lip, looking hopeful.

“No problem.” I catch Melanie’s attention. “I’ll be back. I have a fan to go see.”

“We’re done here,” Melanie replies with a smile. “No worries.”

I nod and follow Fiona to her son’s room. He’s lying in the bed, hooked up to IVs and other machines that I’m not smart enough to know what their function is.

He’s completely bald. No eyelashes or eyebrows. But he’s smiling widely, and his dark brown eyes, rimmed with dark circles, are overjoyed.

“You talked him into it!” he exclaims.

“I wasn’t a hard sell,” I reply and shake his hand. “I hear you’re our biggest fan.”

“I’m your biggest fan,” he says and tries to sit. “Mom, will you push me up?”

“Sure, buddy.” She pushes a button and his bed inclines. “But you know you can’t stay this way for long.”

“Just for a little while,” he says. “Are you coming back next season?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Thank God! They suck without you!”

“Andrew!” Fiona narrows her eyes on her son. “Be nice.”

“It’s okay.” I chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, kid. But I will be back in the spring.”

“Good.”

“How old are you?”

“Seven,” he replies. “I have osteosarcoma in my legs.”

Same age as Sam.

“It means I have bone cancer.”

The fact that a seven-year-old even knows the meaning of the word osteosarcoma makes me sick to my stomach. I sit with Andrew for a long time, talking about baseball and TV shows, and when his eyes are so heavy he can hardly keep them open, I say goodbye, then walk out of the room with Fiona.

“Thank you for that,” she whispers. “He’ll talk about that for the rest of his life.”

“Here’s hoping that’s a very long time.”

She nods, but looks sad when she shrugs. “They’re doing everything they can do. Now we wait and hope it works.”

“Will you keep me posted?” I ask without even thinking. “I’ll give you my email address. I’d like to know that he’s okay.”

She tilts her head to the side, and suddenly she’s in my arms, hugging me tight.

“I will gladly let you know how he’s doing.”

“Thank you.”

When I’m out of the hospital, I pull my phone out of my pocket and find that I missed a call from a Louisiana number that I don’t recognize. When I check my voice mail, I hear Charly’s voice.

“This is Charly. Call me back.”

She doesn’t sound particularly happy with me.

I sit in the rental car and dial her number.

“It’s about time.”

“It’s been a busy day. What can I do for you?”

“You can go straight to hell,” she replies, her voice full of ice. “You’re a real asshole, Rhys O’Shaughnessy.”

“Hold up.”

“No, you hold up. You left without even saying goodbye to either Gabby or Sam. That was an asshole move, Rhys. We all trusted you with them. We believed that you’d be good for them. My brothers let you live.”

“Nice of them,” I mutter, but she doesn’t even hear me; she just keeps going. She’s in ȕber protective sister mode, and she’s on a roll.

“But even more than that, Gabby trusted you. Do you know how hard it is for her to do that? Because she doesn’t do that. And she let you in. She and Sam both fell for you, and you just walked right out of their lives without even a backward glance. I sure as fuck hope you’re a better father than you are a fuck buddy, I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Wait. What?”

Better father?

“Because she doesn’t deserve what she got last time this time around.”

“Charly, stop taking.”

“Don’t you tell me to stop talking! You’re not the one who’s been consoling her since you walked out. How could you do that?”

“I didn’t leave for good! Jesus, is that what she thinks?”

“Of course that’s what she thinks! What do you mean you didn’t leave for good?”

“I had to come to Chicago for a charity thing, Charly. I forgot about it, and had to leave unexpectedly. I’m coming back down tomorrow.”

“Well, thank God. You need to work on your communication skills, Rhys.”

“So does your sister,” I reply. “And what did you mean about the father thing?”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause, full of her mumbling about being stupid, except I think she’s talking about herself this time. “Look, you need to just get back down here as soon as possible.”

“Charly—”

“Seriously. This isn’t my story to tell, Rhys. But you need to be here.”

“I have a breakfast thing tomorrow that I can’t get out of, but I’ll be on a flight right after it’s done. I’ll be there by early afternoon.”

“Good.”

“Is she okay, Charly?”

“She will be,” she replies, her voice much more calm now. “And she would be without you, too. Trust me on that. But I think she’s better with you.”

I’m so much better with her too.

***

It’s a beautiful day in Louisiana. I’ve driven this road a hundred times now, yet it feels like it’s taking me forever to get there.