“It went out the other side and into my thumb,” I finish, smiling.

“I’ve never heard someone scream so loud.” He chuckles. “Jesus, you gave me a fright. I thought for sure you’d lost a body part from the amount of blood. I started planning on a new life somewhere your mother wouldn’t be able to find me.”

He reaches over to rub the long white scar gently.

“Two stitches,” he says. “And you didn’t flinch. Not once. You were so brave.”

“I had you to hold my hand.” I smile up at him.

“You always will.” His voice chokes up with emotion. He doesn’t say much about what’s happening, my dad. But you can see it in his eyes, that he’s hurting.

“You’re still so brave,” he carries on. “Ava, your mother showed me the things people have been saying after your magazine article. Very nice things. There’s a lot of people keeping you in their thoughts, you know. Maybe, if enough people do…” He trails off.

I lean back to frown at him. “Don’t tell me Mum’s got you believing in miracles too.”

“Of course not,” he says. “Although for her it’s not so much about believing as it is hoping.”

“It’s false hope. She’ll only get more hurt in the long run.”

“You can’t blame her for wanting things to be different.”

“No.” He’s right. Of course I can’t.

“Anyway, I was thinking. This wedding idea of yours. I know I thought it was a bit odd to start with. But the more I think about it the more I’ve come around to the idea. And I think you should let the magazine document the journey. It’ll be like a legacy, of sorts.”

“Yeah, I just don’t know, Dad. Won’t it be a bit morbid? All those people reading, watching, waiting for me to die?”

“I think it’s the opposite. They’ll be watching you live out your life, on your terms. Ultimately it’s your decision, of course. But people have taken a shine to you. Which is only natural, because you’re just wonderful.”

I stifle a smile. “You might be a touch biased, Dad.”

“So what if I am? Anyway, you get your looks and your zappy”—he clicks his fingers—“personality from me, although don’t tell your mother I said that. She likes to take all the credit.”

We exchange an inside smile at the joke.

“Just think about it,” he says, echoing Kate’s earlier words.

“OK.” I nod. “I’ll think about it. For you.”

“Good girl. Now come here.” He pulls me in close and kisses the top of my head, just like he did when the doctor sewed up my finger. If only this was as easy a fix.

Chapter Fifteen

All credit to Nadia, because writing is much harder than I thought. I sit down one day to write my first “advice” column, although the word makes me cringe because, really, who am I to give advice to anyone? I’m not an expert on anything, unless you consider the TV show Friends a specialist subject. I have a bit of an addiction to reruns of that particular show, and even though I’ve seen every episode at least three times, I’m still not sick of it. I could easily rattle off the story arc of every character through seasons one to ten, but, unfortunately for me, that’s not the kind of thing they’re after. I sit and stare at the laptop screen for a while, then I stare out the window instead for a change of scenery, hoping for inspiration. None comes. In the end, after I call my mother and complain that I can’t do it and they’ll just have to accept that, she advises me to write the kinds of things I’d like to have known about before I was diagnosed. Or observations of life since. What’s important to me now as opposed to then, for example. Her advice made it easier, because there was really only one, major thing that I wished I could go back and tell my pre-cancer self. And that was this: