I have to use my mom’s credit card when I get through the ticket line, because changing my ticket costs an arm and leg that I don’t have. Fortunately though, they’re able to get me on a flight that leaves in an hour and is going straight to Chicago and then a morning flight that will take me to Delaware.

People stare at me as I make my way through security, wiping tears that still fall without thought. My tears multiply when a woman brushes her hand over my arm, and I look around to realize that the people staring at me are all wearing matching faces of concern and sympathy—because even though as a species we can be heartless and have moments filled with barbaric acts, we still genuinely care for the well-being of one another, and it pains each of us when we recognize someone else experiencing despair.

When I step through the scanner, a TSA rep hands me my bin containing my shoes and other sundry items and glances at my ticket. “You’ve got a real short trip. Up to your left and only three gates on your right.”

I try to smile through the tears that make my cheeks feel dry and stretched too tight to show my appreciation even though I already know where I’m going.

I take a seat in a vacant row, yet within seconds, an older man sits beside me. Without saying anything, his hand reaches over and he places it atop of mine and slowly pats me. The small, but kind gesture only serves to make me cry even harder. We sit together like this for over an hour, until my heart finally settles down enough that my breathing starts to even out and my tears recede, falling every few minutes.

When the speakers announce boarding for my section, I turn my bleary eyes to the older man and smile to show my gratitude before I stand up and make my way into the short line, avoiding eye contact with those I can feel staring at me.

I fall asleep before the flight crew finishes with the safety instructions and miss my favorite part: the take off.

When we land in Chicago, I power on my phone to call Fitz and am greeted with six voicemails and a dozen texts. I know without looking they’re from my sisters so I ignore them. I don’t think I can take hearing how hurt they all are.

Fitz’s phone rings twice before he ignores my call and sends me to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I just landed in Chicago.” I attempt to take a deep breath, but it’s shallow as I wipe at my eyes that feel dry and scratchy with the return of more tears. “I wanted to invite you over for some pizza, so I can tell you about Ace, Max, and my parents. I wasn’t ever trying to lie to you, Fitz—I was trying to lie to myself. I’m really sorry.”

I press end and reach to place it in my pocket when it vibrates. I anxiously look to see if it’s Fitz and see that it’s a text from Kyle.

Kyle: R U ok?

Me: No, but I’m working on it. And will be.

Kyle: What happened?

Me: Reality check

Kyle: If I kill him would U come back home?

Me: Worst joke ever…

Me: It’s my fault Kyle. It’s all my fault. I just need to learn to move on. Thank you for everything. I love you too.

Kyle: It’s not all UR fault.

Me: It is. Max was a casualty—don’t be mad at him

He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if he doesn’t want to admit that I’m right, or if he’s just trying to heal another wound that I’ve inflicted upon my family.

When I turn from the luggage carousel with both of my bags in hand, arms pull me against a fluffy jacket that smells of spearmint and cologne. It’s Fitz. I release both handles of my bags and reach around him, feeling my eyes fill with new tears. He hugs me fiercely, as though he’s afraid a piece of me might drift away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

“Kendall called,” he says softly into my hair. “We talked for a really long time. She introduced me to Ace, and I introduced her to Harper.”

“I think that the two of us are going to coexist now. Or at least try.”

Fitz and I return to my apartment where we spend the day talking about things I’ve only ever shared with Kitty, and some things that I’ve barely shared with myself.

The next morning, I realize that Fitz left after I’d fallen asleep. Every trace of my wallowing day has disappeared along with him. The ice cream cartons we emptied and takeout pizza and Chinese containers are all gone, and my counters are wiped down as though it never happened, but it did, and my heart feels lighter.

Rather than going to the gym, or the small convenience stand to get my coffee and newspaper, I take Miller Avenue. I take it fifteen minutes out of my way and then turn and suffer through a main commute time until I reach the familiar brick house and put my car into park.

I ring the doorbell and wait, feeling a parade of emotions warming up in my belly. When the door opens, a tall man that is thick and has an even thicker gray mustache looks down at me in confusion. He’s wearing a pair of old stone-washed jeans and a black NY Jets sweatshirt. He’s nothing like what I expected.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for Dr. Clarke.”

“Kitty,” he calls over his shoulder.

Kitty appears beside him, her narrow frame looking thinner. I try not to question if it’s because of her illness or just the silk robe that looks a few sizes too big. She has a turquoise bandana tied around her head that I now know is bald, and her small hands are wrapped around a large cup of coffee. Her eyes grow with concern as soon as she sees me, and I know that it isn’t for her appearance—it’s for me and what this trip did.

I shake my head silently, working against the parade that’s started to play. I catch Kitty hand her husband her cup through my tear-bleary eyes and then feel her arms around me.

“I need to know what’s going to happen. I need to know what’s wrong. Maybe we can fix this. There are so many alternative treatments and new trial drugs.” My voice becomes more garbled with each word, and I have to stop for a second because my throat’s become so tight I can’t even breathe. “We can fix this.”

Kitty pulls me through the front door, and we stand just inside in a tangle of arms and tears until my breathing begins to turn normal. She pulls away from me with her cheeks as red and tear stained as I’m sure my own are and squeezes my hand in hers.

She waves me to their kitchen which is littered with dishes from their breakfast.

“I’m sorry, Kitty, I should have called. I just…”

“Harper, you don’t need to apologize. I’ve been worried about you. I’m glad that you’re here. I’m sorry for what I said—”

This time I interrupt her by shaking my head. “No. I know why you said it. I understand what you’re saying now. I have to be able to take risks and live my life because there are no guarantees. I get it now. For so long I feel like I’ve been afraid of getting old because I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m always so worried that I’m going to fail or not live up to my potential…” I look at her and my eyes well with tears again, begging her for forgiveness, “Now I’m afraid that I won’t have the chance to get old. That I won’t get enough time for failures and regrets.”

Her hand squeezes mine again, and I focus on why I came. “I need to know what’s wrong. I know that it’s none of my business and that we’re supposed to have a professional relationship, but…” My eyes travel across the rounded edge of the table beside me and then back to Kitty. “You’re a lot more than just my counselor.”

Kitty and I sit at the kitchen table and she explains her diagnosis of breast cancer with me. She skates over her treatment plan and ends with the prognosis which was dealt with grim results.