The good and the bad could both be yours at a moment’s notice. Me? The thirty-two-year-old dying of cancer? I could be you. But also me? The young woman who transformed a media company for a new generation? (She said humbly.) I could be you, too. So what do you want to do? Who do you want to be? Decide now. And then go out and get it. Decide your own future before someone—or something—decides it for you.

I knew what I wanted. I wanted to propose to Amelia. Badly. It was right. We were right. And as much as the pain of losing Greer was still with me every day, I could have this love with Amelia in a new and completely different way; one didn’t have to outweigh or obscure the other. It was possible.

How I felt right now had also seemed one hundred percent impossible: I was happy. I was so damn happy. I could hear birds chirp again. The sky looked blue again. I had things to look forward to. Only, this woman who was woven into the net of my happiness had sworn, every time I brought it up, that she would never get married again. But hadn’t she broken up with Harris because he had taken marriage off the table? That had to mean something, didn’t it?

And so I realized, for the millionth time, that life and relationships are all about compromise. It had taken this moment, this feeling of desperation, of panic, of wondering if she would ever speak to me again, to realize that I wasn’t the one that had a right to be mad or worried. Amelia was. She had been completely honest with me from the beginning. I should have believed her.

I thought about that house that had nothing of me in it. Yes, Greer and I had bought it together, but it was all Greer. Every couch cushion and picture frame and tiny trinket was hers. Amelia was right; I couldn’t fully have her in my life unless I was willing to let go of the suffocating grip I had on the past—and it had on me.

When I heard a tap at the living room door, I almost jumped out of my skin. I turned and saw Mason, dressed in his old Cape Carolina High baseball uniform, cap on head, cleats on feet, glove on hand. I could feel my eyes get wide as he opened the door.

“You all right, bud?” I asked cautiously.

He was tossing the ball from his hand to his glove, his glove to his hand, like I had seen him do a million times before.

“I thought about what you said.”

Now my mind was racing. What had I said to turn my brother into the high school baseball version of Aunt Tilley?

“You’re right. I wouldn’t still be playing baseball now. So I started thinking about what I would be doing. What would I have wanted to do after a long and successful career setting records on the field?”