The image of Neevah’s bright smile, her stuttering explanation when she gave me gingerbread cookies for Christmas, pounces my heart in my chest. She baked cookies for the whole cast and crew.
God, she’s sweet, and if anything happens to her . . .
“That’s a great idea, Livvie,” Jill adds, her eyes bright with tears and eagerness.
“She loves red velvet.” Takira, who’s been quiet the whole time, swipes at the corner of one eye. “And I think she’d really appreciate that.”
Seeing how this team has bonded around this story, and now how they’re rallying around Neevah, moves something in me. Emotion climbs up my throat, and I don’t know if it’s the cumulative effect of all Neevah is facing and the emotional roller coaster of the last few days, or what. The compassion, the concern, the love they have for her, it washes over me, and I just want to get out of here before I lose it.
The group disperses, some clustering around Evan a few feet away, probably to ask questions they didn’t want to ask me. Jill takes the spot where Evan sat beside me on stage.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
Shit. Don’t ask me that. This is one of those things where you’re fine until somebody asks how you’re doing.
My eyes burn, and I knot my hands into fists. No way I’m breaking down in front of my team. I’m their leader. They need to see confidence now.
“I’m fine,” I answer, my tone terse. I stand and take the first step away, but she grabs my wrist.
“You have people who care about you,” she says, her voice so low only I can hear. Her green eyes, swimming with tears, are locked on mine. “We’re here.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m here, okay?”
I brush a hand over my eyes, impatient with the dampness on my lashes. The people in this room always see me strong, but I can’t remember ever feeling this weak. This job, this movie—for the last two years, they’ve been everything, and now, in the matter of a few days, I can barely concentrate because I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of losing her.
“Her aunt died of this, you know?” I ask. “What if she—”
“She won’t. She’ll be okay.”
“You can’t know that. You can never know that, which is why I didn’t want this.”
“Didn’t want what?”
I look down at the floor, conscious of all the eyes and ears in the room. “To love her,” I admit softly. “To love anyone like this again, because I know how it feels when you lose it.”
“Canon, look at me,” she says. Reluctantly, I do. “You have so much to offer, and you’ve poured it into your work ever since I’ve known you, which was fine, but if there was someone you could share your life with, I hoped you’d find her because you deserve that.”
She reaches for me, hugs me, and whispers in my ear, “There’s no one better prepared to walk through this with her than you.”
She’s right. If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s how to love through hard times. I thought I had forgotten, or hoped I’d never have to again.
I pride myself on control, on restraint, but ever since Neevah sang her way into my life that first night, the guard I’ve kept over my heart, over my whole life, has been falling away in layers. I feel more. It’s almost too much. Everything is almost too much.
When Mama died, I think I retired certain parts of myself. Her extended illness and when she passed away—they battered me. Stripped me of faith and illusions and, in many ways, hope. Hope lures you from safety, makes you dream again of things you thought impossible. It coaxes you out of your fears. Forget mercury or arsenic. Hope is the most dangerous element in the world.
But that is exactly what I’ll need if I’m going to be there for Neevah. I honestly don’t know what will be left when all these protective layers fall away, but whatever is left, it’s hers.
58
Neevah
“How do I get tested?” Mama asks.
Her voice, the question, seems to come from much farther away than Clearview, North Carolina. After all these years making do without her, I need her now more than I ever have. I want one of those hugs only mothers can give that make you feel, even if only for a few moments, like everything will be okay. I’ve spent the last hour discussing lupus and the kidney transplant and the need for a donor, but what I want most right now is her.
“I’ll send you all the info.” I try to smile, hoping she’ll hear it in my voice.
“You should have told me as soon as this all happened.”
“I know. The meds they put me on actually made me feel a little better, though they warned it’s not a long-term solution. I guess I just dove right back into my routine and . . .”