Page 48 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I exhale. “My mom always said if you must lie, add three details and a timeline.”

“Your mother was creative. I usually go with parallels to the truth in case anything sounds off. Human memories are faulty, so it tracks that details might not be perfect.”

The mention squeezes my heart—she’s been gone three Christmases now. “She would have liked you.”

Sal’s mouth curves. “I’ll take that for the compliment it is.”

Snow flurries scatter across the windshield, and for the first time in days, hope doesn’t seem like a melting snowflake.

We park at the hospital, because Sal doesn’t trust the valet with his baby. “The valet is a toddler. I doubt he can handle a stick shift.”

“He might surprise you.”

“Not with my car, he won’t.”

We wind through the halls until I see the sign for pediatric oncology. It smells like antiseptic and bubblegum. Erin’s room is a lavender cave lit by fairy string lights, and I can see her through the window in the door.

She looks so small. Smaller than last time. A knot forms in my throat, and I pause at the door. I hate this moment. Always. I can’t breathe?—

A warm weight sits on my shoulder. “Take a moment.”

I blink up at Sal. I forgot he was here when I saw her. “I’ve spent too many moments away from her.”

“You need to collect yourself or she’ll see the guilt on your face. Happy memories only for her right now, or you’ll hate yourself for not letting what could be her last moments be happy.”

His words strike at the hope in my heart. “How can you say that?”

“Experience.” He motions to guide me away from the window, and I let him. “She’s heading into major surgery soon. If you let your guilt cloud your demeanor right now and you’re not the happy, bubbly sister she depends on…” He pauses. “And the worst happens during her surgery, the guilt of that will eat at you for the rest of your life.”

I want to yell at him for making me think about this. For making me worry even more about her surgery going wrong. But I can’t. There’s a bitter wisdom to his words.

And there’s a reason for it. I can tell. “Who?”

He takes a beat and glances away. “My grandfather. Me and Nico didn’t always get along when we were kids. The day our grandfather went in for a stent, we were arguing about something, I don’t know what. He asked me to promise to look after my brothers, and I said I’d look after Dante, but Nico was on his own. Nico heard me, and we nearly came to blows right in front of the old man.” Guilt ruins his perfect posture for a flash. “He was supposed to just get a stent, an easy procedure these days. Back then, not so much. He never woke up.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So please, for your sister’s sake and yours, get your head right before you walk in there.”

I bob my head and shake it off. The grim thoughts, the guilt for not being here sooner, all of it. When I’m confident I can give her a real smile, I tell him. “Okay. Let’s go.”

It’s worth it. She squeals when I step through the door, IV line jerking as she lunges for a hug. Her knit cat-ear cap has sparkly thread woven in, and she wears an oversized T-shirt that readsSTEMinistin glitter paint—the one I gave her last year. She’s lost most of her hair, so the caps help her feel less self-conscious. A few random red curls poke out at the edges.

With any luck, she’ll have a head full of hair next year.

“Tabi, you smell like snow!” she chirps, nose wrinkling. I grin, ruffle her cap, then spin as Grandma Judy rounds the curtain, wiping her glasses with a tissue already damp.

She’s the source of our red hair, but not the curls. Hers is now littered with gray—her homemade glitter, she calls it. Trimmed into a sharp-edged bob at her chin. Erin has Grandma Judy’s eyes. I’ve always envied that since she was born. Sparkling, bright blue.

“Look at you, big shot consultant.” Grandma Judy squints at my parka, suspiciously high-end. “Nice coat.”

“Borrowed,” I fib. We hug, and her lavender scent wraps me in childhood.

“The surgery is earlier than expected, but the doctor says sooner is safer.”

I nod, throat tight. Erin’s tumor—an astrocytoma coiled around her spinal cord and nudging her brain stem—waits for no one and nothing, not even the holidays.

Grandma’s gaze flicks to the doorway as Sal follows me in, bearing a donut box and a plush snow fox we picked up along the way. She straightens, smoothing her thrift-store cardigan.I make introductions, and Sal’s Italian vowels melt Grandma’s reserve quicker than microwaved butter.

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