I knew my best friend better than anyone in this world. If I told her who was calling, I knew what would happen, and that wasn’t something I wanted for today.

But I also knew what would happen if I sent the call to voice mail, and it would be hours before she heard the message.

It all came down to choices.

And none of them were going to be simple.

Oh, my Whitney, you never make things easy, do you?

Part One

They say every tragedy is met with pain.

But once you survive, why does it still hurt?

One

Caleb

April 15, 2013

Boston was lit in color. Balloons were floating high in the air, T-shirts imprinted with pictures of the runners, posters held by shouting spectators. And as I walked down the sidewalk with my best friend, Joe, his arms were spread wide, his face pointed toward the skyscrapers.

“Patriot’s Day,” he said. “My favorite holiday of the whole goddamn year, and I get to spend it with one of my best buds.”

Just as he finished speaking, someone bumped into him, accidentally spilling beer all over his shoes.

“Still feel the same way?”

“At least it wasn’t puke.”

I laughed. “That’s some positive thinking.”

Patriot’s Day wasn’t just a commemoration of the Battles of Lexington and Concord; it was when visitors from all over the world came to watch the Boston Marathon—an event I wasn’t supposed to attend this year. Instead, I should have been on the other side of the world with Smith, our other best friend, riding an ATV over the sand dunes of Dubai, like the photograph he’d sent yesterday. A trip I’d had to cancel when one of my top clients requested a sit-down for this morning, which they ended up postponing at the last minute.

When I’d called Joe to tell him, he’d convinced me to get drinks. I would have preferred meeting in a much quieter part of town, but he’d wanted to be in the center of the action, watching much of the race.

“Let’s stop in there.” He pointed to a bar I hadn’t been to since college. “We’ll get a beer and then head to the finish line.”

“Wouldn’t you rather find a restaurant? I’m starving.” My stomach grumbled as we passed several. I knew the wait times would be hours long.

“After a beer, we’ll grab food, deal?”

“Deal,” I replied, and I reached for the door, holding it open for him.

He paused in the entryway. “Fuck me, this place is packed.”

“This was your idea,” I reminded him and went toward the bar, finding the end of the chaos, a line that was more than twenty deep.

“You’ve got this?” When I nodded, he added, “I’m going to look for seats.”

“Good luck with that,” I said and took out my phone.