boutiques and shops, buying some new barrettes for Bella in the shape of honeybees, and a Lego knight keychain for Nicholas to hang on his backpack.
Close to two, I walk to Java Works, where Dean is waiting for me at a table by the window. He gets to his feet as I approach, reaching out to enfold me in a warm embrace before pulling a chair out for me.
He returns to the counter to place our orders. While he’s gone, I watch the passers-by and listen to the hum of mostly college-aged conversation around me.
“So then he said…”
“Did you see last night’s episode?”
“I was, like, really?”
“He didn’t even hold the door open for me. Can you believe that?”
“She just gives us so much work. Does she think we have no other classes?”
I’m feeling so good about being part of the world that at first I don’t even notice the glances in my direction, which multiply when Dean sits back down.
I lean toward him and whisper, “We’re attracting attention.”
“As well we should,” he replies, running a hand over his shorn head. “Hot couple like us? I’m surprised we haven’t been recruited by a movie producer yet.”
I smile, enveloped in the warmth that comes from the two of us just being together. Us against the world.
While we have our coffee, I ask Dean about the progress of the World Heritage Studies department and get caught up on everything that’s going on at King’s.
It’s astonishingly beautiful sitting there with my husband, the hum of the coffeehouse rising around us, classical music filtering from hidden speakers. The mug holding my café mocha is thick and warm in my hands, the coffee hot and richly sweet. I love this moment, this time, this life.
And Dean—for the first time in a long time, he is relaxed too, his pride evident as he tells me about the different courses the World Heritage program will offer, the opportunities for students, the collaboration with other departments. Though he’s been working without fail throughout this whole ordeal, I’m grateful for the reminder that his goal of merging the King’s history department with the World Heritage Center is coming to fruition.
As I take another sip of coffee, the door opens, bringing a rush of cooler air. I look idly toward it. Two women enter Java Works, a blonde and a redhead.
My heart jumps.
Allie.
I haven’t seen her in almost four months. We’ve exchanged emails, but aside from her asking me how I’m doing and me responding that I’m getting through it okay, we limit our messages to business-related issues.
She unwinds a scarf from her neck, still talking to her friend, whom I don’t recognize.
Dean follows my gaze to the two women. I sit uncertainly, not sure what to do. I have a rush of longing for the Wonderland Café. I miss everything about it—serving customers, working with the staff, decorating cakes, planning birthday parties. Allie.
They start to approach the counter when she glances in our direction, as if she senses my gaze. I tighten my fingers on my cup, painfully aware of how I look—thinner, a scarf wrapped around my bald head, obviously sick. I feel Dean tense, his protective instincts sharpening.
Allie pales at the sight of us. She says something to her friend, who nods.
Then Allie is coming toward me, and my heart beats faster with anxiety and the desperate wish that cancer won’t destroy our friendship more than it already has.
She stops beside our table and gives us a strained smile. “Hi.”
“Hi, Allie.”
Dean nods a greeting. “Allie.”
“You look good, Liv,” she says, her gaze sweeping over me and lingering on my scarf. “Glad you’re out and about.”
“I’m still part of the world,” I reply. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine. Just thought I’d say hi.” She glances over her shoulder at her friend. “I should get back to Emily. I haven’t seen her in a while, and she’s on her lunch break, so we’re…um, we’re going to catch up.”
“Okay. Well, it was good seeing you.”
“You too. Take care.” She waves at Dean, gives my shoulder an awkward pat, then returns to Emily.
They hover in conversation for a second before turning and leaving Java Works. I watch through the window as they cross the street toward another coffeehouse. All my pleasure in sitting there with Dean and my café mocha evaporates in a rush of cold.
I turn away from the window, catching his gaze on me, his expression set with irritation and a resurgence of anger.
My heart sinks. I reach across the