“Yeah, well, you’re on morphine. You probably saw me fly, too.”

Kate laughed, but it soon dissolved into coughing.

Tully sat up quickly. “Are you okay?”

“Hardly.” She reached for the plastic glass on the table by her bed. Tully leaned over and guided the straw to her mouth. “I started the journal.”

“That’s great.”

“I’ll need you to help me remember,” she said, putting the glass back. “So much of my life happened with you.”

“Seems like our whole lives. God, Katie, we were such babies when we met.”

“We’re still kids,” Katie said softly.

Tully heard the sadness in her friend’s voice; it matched her own. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was how young they were. For years they’d teased each other about getting old. “How much have you written?”

“About ten pages.” When Tully fell silent, Kate frowned. “You aren’t going to demand to read it?”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t do that, Tully,” Kate said.

“Do what?”

“Treat me as if I’m dying. I need you to be . . . you. It’s the only way I remember who I am. Deal?”

“Okay,” she said quietly, promising the only thing she had to give: herself. “It’s a deal.” She had to force a smile and both of them knew it. Some lies, it was obvious, would be unavoidable in the days ahead. “You’ll need my input, of course. I was a witness to every important moment of your life. And I have a photographic memory. It’s a gift. Like my ability to apply makeup and highlight hair.”

Kate laughed. “There’s my Tully.”

Even with self-regulated pain meds, Kate found leaving the hospital a difficult endeavor. First of all, there was the crowd: her parents, her kids and husband, her aunt and uncle, her brother, and Tully. Second, there was just so much movement—out of bed, into the wheelchair, out of the wheelchair, into the car, out of the car, into Johnny’s arms.

He carried her through the comfortable, pretty island house that smelled of scented candles and last night’s dinner, just as it always had. He’d made spaghetti last night; she could tell. That meant tomorrow night it would be tacos. His two recipes. She rested her cheek against the soft wool of his sweater.

What will he cook for them when I’m gone?

The question made her draw in a sharp breath, which she forced herself to release slowly. Being home would hurt like this sometimes; so would being with her family. In a strange way, it would have been easier to spend her final days at the hospital, without all these reminders around her.

But easier wasn’t the point anymore. Time with her family was what mattered.