“Be gentle, Ava,” she’d said. “They don’t know what to say.”

And I’d looked at her, anguished, and said, “Can’t they just say hello?”

Chapter Fourteen

What do you mean viral? Like herpes?”

Amanda snorts.

“Jesus, Mum,” I sigh. “No, not herpes.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good, then. I was worried for a minute.”

“It’s a social media thing, Mrs. G.,” Kate explains. “Sometimes, for whatever reason, certain photos or stories appeal more than others. Then they get shared over and over until they’re, like, all over the world and thousands of people are reading.”

My mother frowns as she tries to understand. “So when you say Ava has gone viral, you mean…?”

“People everywhere are following her story. And I mean everywhere. The magazine article got shared over two hundred thousand times alone.”

“Two hundred thou—? Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Mum flinches and looks at me.

“Sorry, Ava,” Kate says. “Poor word choice.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Here, look.” Kate hands Mum her tablet and shows her where to read the comments underneath the online article. Mum fishes in her purse for the glasses she refuses to use in public, and starts reading.

It is two weeks since the magazine published the article. Since it came out, the Facebook page Amanda set up has been inundated with offers. Everything from dresses to flowers to venues to money. A limousine company even offered to drive me to wherever I chose to have my “ceremony,” as long as I let them use my face on their advertising brochures afterward. I politely declined.

And now, to top it all off, Kate has just fielded a call on my phone from Marilyn Southgate, the magazine editor. The readers love me, apparently. The plucky young cancer patient whose only dream is to have a big wedding party before she off and snuffs it.

Not her exact words, obviously. But that’s the gist of it.

“No,” I say preemptively.

“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say yet,” Kate points out.

“I don’t need to. I know where this is going. I have a sixth sense for some things.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“OK, what did Marilyn want, then?”

“She wants to do another story. An exclusive of the wedding.”

“Kind of,” Kate concedes.

“Ha. Told you.”

“But that’s not all she wants.”

“I don’t care what she wants, the answer is no.”

Mum sits down on the bed, narrowly missing my knee. Everything aches today, but I don’t tell her that. She doesn’t need to know.

“Sweetheart,” she says. “Have you read any of these comments?”

“No.”

“You should. They’re very lovely.”

I’m feeling sulky and sorry for myself, so I don’t answer.

“Marilyn wants to do a serial article,” Kate says cautiously. “Yes, she wants to cover your big day, but also the lead-up and the organization for it. An article a week, with photographs. They don’t want just to leave people hanging.”

What people?

“No.”

“That’s not all.” She takes a deep breath. “They wondered if you might be interested in doing a weekly little column, an advice kind of thing.”