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“Come on in,” Mrs. Taylor says, and I follow her into the kitchen, where I slide into a chair at the table.

I refuse to believe this is history repeating itself despite the very convincing thoughts in my brain telling me that’s exactly what this is.

“Why is she in Chicago?” I ask. I can’t hide the alarm in my voice.

She shrugs, and she seems wholly unconcerned—a total contrast to the waves of fear that continually ripple down my spine. “I came home to this note yesterday that she was going to visit her friend Sara in Chicago for the weekend,” she says. She slides the note over to me, and yep…that’s all it says. “Probably something to keep her mind occupied while you were out of town. She got the clearance to travel, so she decided to travel.”

“I get that, but she’s not answering her phone. I’ve tried calling and texting a hundred times,” I say. “It’s just not like her.”

“Oh, you know how girls are,” she says, brushing off my concerns. “They probably got to talking and catching up and she left her phone in her purse or something. She didn’t want to bother you for your big weekend, but I’m sure she’ll call soon.”

I wish I felt more relief than I do. I wish I could let my future mother-in-law brush away my concerns so easily.

She’s not worried, but I just can’t shake the gut feeling that something is off here.

“Do you have Sara’s number by chance?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“What about her address?” I just came from the airport there, but maybe I can turn around and go back to Chicago and find her or help her. I just want to be whatever she needs, and I feel so goddamn helpless sitting around waiting.

She shakes her head. “They lived in an apartment together, and I have that address, but Sara and her fiancé bought a house when the lease lapsed. I don’t know where.” She pauses, and then she pats my hand as she asks, “Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m going to head home. Let me know if you hear from her, okay?”

She nods. “Of course,” she says.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this is just some new territorial thing since I feel so fiercely protective of her. I head out the front door, and it’s as I’m stepping onto the front stoop from the house that something white catches my eye near the shrubs. I pick it up.

It’s just a part of a ripped sheet of paper, but I can piece together enough partial words to figure out what this is.

—rmination of Paren—

Dr. Camer—

It looks like the termination of rights my lawyer sent over to Cameron Foster. But why would it be here ? And why would it be just one part of one page like the entire document was torn into shreds right here on this very porch?

The mystery deepens, and while a sense of relief washes over me to have one answer, rage fills in the gaps.

Was he here?

Is that why she ran off to Chicago?

It still doesn’t tell me why she isn’t answering my calls, and I have more questions than answers now…but I have a clue, and that’s better than where I was a few minutes ago.

I run next door and head in through the side door of the garage. I’m two seconds from looking up this Cameron Foster asshole and delivering a message to him myself in person…but then I realize it’s Sunday. He’s not going to be at the practice where she worked. He probably won’t even be at the hospital, and I’m sure someone of his stature goes to great lengths to protect his personal information and privacy, much like myself.

That’s where our similarities end, though.

Fuck.

I could go to Chicago and try to figure something out, or I could just stay here and wait for her.

I want to fucking punch something right now—Cam’s face would be a great start—but instead I draw in a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. I repeat the drill three times as I will a sense of calm to wash over me.

It’s not effective, but it’s a start.

I head inside, where I find my parents sitting at the kitchen table. They’re not eating, and as I look over at their faces…they look like they’re in the middle of a serious conversation.

“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.

They glance at each other again, and then my dad turns toward me. He blows out a breath and clears his throat. “I found out yesterday morning that the cancer is back.”

His words plow into me like a fucking brick to my stomach.

It feels like someone’s kicking me when I’m already down.

“Fuck,” I murmur, sinking into one of the open chairs at the table. “How bad is it?”

He shrugs and averts his eyes to the table, and it’s strange seeing my father this way. He’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the courageous one…the man I’ve tried to model my own life after. But right now, he looks…scared. “It’s just another spot in a new location. It hasn’t metastasized, but they want to extract it quickly. They’ve got me on the schedule in about ten days. The doctor is talking about chemotherapy or immunotherapy after that depending on how much they get during the surgery.”

“That’s good news, then, right?” I ask. “That it’s just another spot and hasn’t spread?”

My mom nods. “That’s what I told him, too,” she says, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

“Then what’s wrong?” I look back and forth between them.

“It’s just disheartening, that’s all,” my dad says, and my heart sinks into my stomach.

He’s scared. It’s not easy for him to admit it, but he has to be.

And I am, too.

How many more times will this happen? We can hope and pray, but he just went through this three months ago, and now he has to go through it again. There’s nothing to say it won’t happen again and again, and the thought of him going under the knife every three months is terrifying.

Each time might make him a little weaker, and then what? What’ll be left of the man?

“It’s scary, Dad, but you’ve got Mom and me right here,” I say. “Chemo or immunotherapy or whatever comes next, we’ve got this. You’re a fucking fighter, and I’m not letting you quit on me.”

My mom tears up at my words, and my dad looks a little choked up, too…which makes me feel a little sting behind my eyes.

I break the silent sadness by cracking a joke. “Let’s go chop some wood or something.”

He chuckles. “Let’s do it.”

We head out to the garage, and he grabs a few projects that need sanding while I head over toward my weights.

“You and Mom should move to Vegas,” I say quietly as we’re each working on our own thing together.

“Thought about it,” he says, “but with this melanoma thing, I don’t know if the desert with all that hot sunshine is the best place for me.”

“Fair point,” I say. I once looked up how many sunny days there are in Vegas versus how many in Iowa, and there’s over a hundred more days per year of sunshine in Sin City. “You better get your ass on the plane to come watch me play, though.”

He chuckles. “You know I’ll be at every game I can possibly be at. And if I can’t be there, your mother will.”

“You’ll both be there,” I say, forcing an even tone despite the emotion clogging my throat.

They’ve never missed a home game in all my years playing football, from peewee league through today. I’m sure as hell not letting him start now.