"The hell is a sippa?"

I sighed. "It's this rare condition-maybe three people in the whole country have it-a genetic disorder that affects her nervous system. She can't feel pain, decipher temperature, or sweat. And then there's other shit because of how it affects her mentally, emotionally."

"Is . . . forgive me for sounding dense . . . but is there a treatment?"

"It's how she's made. There's nothing anyone can do about it except tailor her life around her condition, which brings us back to why I'm barred from dating Everly."

"Her father won't let her hang out with Andrew Trovatto's son?" she baulked. "I don't think there could be a better choice if he had his pick of the litter, so to speak."

"It's not about me," I explained. "He's terrified of losing control. Of losing Everly."

"Well that's understandable."

I shook my head. "It's not because he cares about her. He's just scared shitless about the day she's no longer alive. When he has nothing left to chase and rule."

"And you want to change all of that by moving her to Georgia?" she asked. "Cal, you're gonna ruin your whole life before it even starts."

I sighed. "If only I could turn that into an amusing acronym, Tatum-Tot."

She shoved away from the table. "First? Fuck that nickname. I've hated it since second grade. Second? Excuse me for interrupting this conversation, but I have to pee so damn bad."

I checked the time on my phone, and then lied so I could leave. "I need to get back to the hospital, anyhow." I cleared our table and before we parted ways Tatum turned and told me, "Nick is coming home for Thanksgiving. I want to have a big welcome-home party, but our apartment is too damn small. Think Marta would mind if we crashed Thanksgiving at your place?"

"Consider it done."

"Callum," she stopped me again, "is she really worthy of your future . . . this girl . . . Everly? Even if her father wasn't the problem-aren't you scared of this condition she has?"

And I returned, "Are you afraid one day Nick won't make it home? No, fuck that. What if you knew one day he wouldn't come home-would you have married him? Could you stop loving him somehow?"

"Of course not."

I nodded, "Then you have your answer."

"Except I didn't watch my mom die, Cal." She touched my arm, and then hugged me. "So I don't understand why you would purposely put yourself into that scenario again."

"I didn't put myself anywhere," I snapped, but she hung on. She also, had been here before. "I went to class one day and this is what life presented. I wish I could accept it as some cruel joke, but I love her too much to play it off so juvenilely."

She held onto my hand when I stepped out of her embrace. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," I promised. "I'm not sorry at all that I love her." I took another step and planned to keep going but my mouth had other plans. "You know I'm not him. What happened to my father-that didn't happen to me-and it's not going to happen to me. Why is everyone so stuck on the ending? What about the right now? You know why angels sing Hallelujah-Hallelujah-Hallelujah? Because even they know this isn't supposed to be so damn serious all the time."

"Death is serious, Callum," she almost cried. "So is denial."

"I wasn't talking about Death. I'm talking about life. That's the damn problem. Everyone is so focused on losing some unforeseen day in the future they don't even cherish what they have right now. Well, right now, I'm in love with this girl. That's not denial, it's the absolute truth. Worry Warts are in denial believing every carefully made choice won't end badly. Guess what, Tot? We all die someday. So what if I get ten days or ten years with her? Are we all so concerned with quantity we won't even consider some of the best moments of our lives are the shortest lived? I might end up spending more time in my life reminding patients to watch their cholesterol than I ever will spend tenderly with Everly Anne . . . but does that make her the lesser? Are those moments not worth having?" I breathed, wiped the frustration from my forehead only to be reminded of the crease. "I'll tell you one thing-if all this concern stems from Julep dying-well, guess what? I've had two mothers in my life. One of them stitched herself under my skin. I can't even walk through those doors," I waved to the cafe, "without thinking of her because she had this thing with playing the radio while she baked. She wore an apron with high-heels and her hair was always this shiny black mess but she never burned anything. She had a heart like a kite. My friends thought she was the coolest person because she drove me to school in that old Chevy. You remember that, Tot?"

Tears streamed down her dark cheeks. "I loved Julep. Of course I remember her. She let me call her mom . . . she let everyone call her mom."

"How many times have you ever called Marta mom?"

She wiped her face. "Never."

"Yeah . . . well me-fuckin-either."

"I get it," she wiped my face, too. "I get it all right?"

"I get it too," I apologized, "So don't cry. I'm fine." I hugged her and we stayed like that for a moment. Until she snorted. "What?"

Tatum pulled away. "I think that guy just took a picture of us."

"What guy?"

She pointed at the cafe window. Logan sat on the other side with a shit-eating grin on his face. He mouthed, "Bust-ed." I gave him the finger and he took a picture of that as well.

"You know him?" she asked.