And now that we’re back in our hotel room, looking out over the vineyard, I keep thinking about how I let things between us go so awry. How could I go through my daily life not paying attention to her, not listening, not focusing? I can’t believe I took this woman for granted, and now that she’s slowly slipping from my grasp, I’m attempting anything and everything to keep her from leaving me.

“I’m thinking about what a great time I had with you here,” she answers as I slowly move the strap of her dress off her shoulder.

She tilts her head to the side, giving me a better angle at her neck, so I take advantage of it and pepper kisses along her skin.

“How I don’t want it to end,” she adds.

I want to tell her it doesn’t have to.

That we can stay here as long as she wants, that we can continue this back at our house.

That I will do just about anything to prolong this feeling of being able to hold her in my arms.

I slip the strap off her shoulder as I move my other hand past the open back of her dress, under the fabric to the front, where I grip her breast and play with her hard nipple.

“I love this, Ryot,” she says, and I notice that she said this, not you. And that hope that was blooming takes a hit. Is this a farewell for her? Is she treating this night as one glorified send-off?

I’m not sure my heart could handle it. Actually, I know it couldn’t.

I turn her around and press her against the balcony wall as I lift her chin so her lips are inches away. “I love you,” I say to her, my voice sounding strangled, shredded from the emotional turmoil we’ve been through. Her hand clasps mine as I repeat, “I love you so fucking much, Myla. And I know you don’t want to talk about this right now, but I need you to know how much—”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Myla stiffens, and she glances over my shoulder.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Nichole’s ringtone.” She pushes past me and goes into the room as she fixes the strap of her dress. I follow closely. She locates her phone and answers, her voice in a panic. “Nichole? Everything okay?”

I walk up to her, close enough to hear both sides of the conversation.

“Myla, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” Myla asks, her body starting to shake.

“I wasn’t telling you the truth.”

“What do you mean?” Myla asks.

“I’m sick,” she says softly. “The cancer is back, and I didn’t want to tell you until you worked out things in your head, but I just passed out in my house, knocked my head on the counter, and now I’m in the emergency room, and I had no one else to call.”

“I’m coming,” Myla says through chattering teeth. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”