“The tremoring.” Mama pulls her hand into a fist and squeezes her eyes closed. “It’s getting worse. Sometimes I can’t control it.”

My fingers tighten around her hand I’m holding, and a vice tightens around my heart. I don’t want to hear this. I want to run back to my room and pick up where I left off with my dance routine. I shouldn’t have come in here. I could still be in there focusing on the movements. Focusing on my body, which never lets me down. Not like Mama’s body is betraying her now.

Heel, ball, toe.

“Kai, I know we haven’t talked about this much, but you know there’s only one direction with ALS.” Her small hand cups my chin and turns it toward her face, but I look down at the carpet so I don’t have to meet the painful candor of her eyes. “And that direction is down. It only gets worse.”

Ball, change, shuffle, ball.

I just nod and pull my chin gently out of her grasp. While the dance continues in my head, I give as little of myself to this conversation as possible, seeking shelter in the mental counts and motions that distract me.

“I think about Grammy and Pops a lot lately.” A limp chuckle escapes through the tight rosebud of Mama’s mouth. “How they’re probably looking down on us. Waiting for me.”

Shuffle, ball, heel, dig.

Mama turns her head to look straight at me. She’s the most exotic thing in Glory Falls. Those dark eyes, tilting and teasing. The black hair, usually braided and kept out of the way is loosened and wild and free, hanging to her waist. The pale gold honey of her skin. I never tire of looking at Mama. She’s delicate and fierce, and just the thought of losing her pounds my heart like a sledgehammer. I squeeze her hand because she’s right here. She’s real. I can touch her. Nothing’s taking her away from me. Not today.

Mama licks her lips and closes her eyes over a few tears that slip down her face. She swipes at her cheeks, but the tears persist. She finally drops my hand and wraps her arms around herself, a desperate clutch that shuts me out. An awful sound makes it past Mama’s clenched lips. It’s wrenched from a place so deep and low she’s only hit it once before in her life. A sound I haven’t heard in years. Not since the day Daddy left.

My body sets panic free like a runner. It sprints through my blood and pounds in my head and slicks my palms. My rock is crumbling before my eyes.

“I don’t want to die.” Mama’s words are crumbling too. Fragments, pieces, and syllables are broken behind her lips. “Baby, I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not this long, slow . . . I’m so scared of the day I won’t even know you. Won’t know I’m in the world.”

Pain clogs my throat like an old sink, but I flush the useless, worthless words out.

“Mama, I’m so sorry.”

“I keep . . .” Mama presses her forehead to her knees, the dark hair hiding her shoulders and arms. “I keep asking God why. Why me? Why now? I’m not old. I’ve been faithful. I’ve been good, and I just wake up every day asking Him, why?”

“And what does He say, Mama?”

Mama lost both parents within months of each other. Daddy, the man who was her husband and her pastor, skipped town with another woman, leaving only a note behind. She picked up the debris of her life and started over. She opened the diner with Aunt Ruthie to provide for me, to keep us clothed and fed and under a roof. I’ve seen her stand like a mountain, steadfast and immoveable, through it all. But today—in this moment—her faith, her hope, her strength are a landslide. I witness it all fall down.

She lifts her head, and even though she still breathes and she’s still here, something in her eyes seems already dead. Is it her faith? No, Mama’s faith isn’t dead, but it is weak from unanswered prayers and unanswered questions.

“Mama, what does God say?” I ask again.

“He doesn’t, baby.” She shakes her head, wipes away her last tear, and pulls herself to her knees to start gathering the shattered glass. “He doesn’t say a thing.”

THE SUN IS HIGH AND BRIGHT, but today feels like the dark side of the moon. The world is upside down with the sky overhead like a perfectly blue, serene sea, while the ground beneath me rolls and wobbles like tumultuous waves. I’m not sure how I’ll stay on my feet through this gorgeous California day, my first Thanksgiving here.

Aunt Ruthie has called me twice already. Maybe I should have figured out a way to get home so we could huddle together and comfort each other, but even scraping together enough money to fly home for Christmas is a stretch. If I can’t be with Aunt Ruthie, at least I’ll be surrounded by friends at Grady’s.

I know “friend” is Rhyson’s least favorite “F” word, but he has been that to me consistently, even after our argument. I woke up the next morning to a quote from

Talladega Nights waiting on my phone.

“‘I wake up in the morning and piss excellence.’”

I’d been too relieved that we could status quo for a little longer to dwell on what we’ll have to figure out very soon.

“You good in here?” San asks from the kitchen doorway. “Need help getting anything to the car?”

“Yeah.” I grab a mitt to pull a pan from the oven. “We need to load the pumpkin pies, yams, and this stuffing.”

I set the large pan on the stove and stir the gravy I left simmering.

“Oh! And biscuits.” Steam rises from the basket of biscuits I pass to him. “It’s a short drive to Grady’s, but I can pop them in the oven to warm if I need to once we get there.”

“Everything looks good.” San scoops up the pies and heads back out, but gives me one last look before he goes. “Especially you. You’ll have to fight Rhyson off with a stick.”

I fake exasperation—a quick eye roll should do it—but my heart, Benedict Arnold that it is, skips a few beats wondering if Rhyson will think I look good. I took time with my appearance, which I don’t often do. Most of the time Rhyson sees me at the end of a shift, with my hair limp, makeup gone, and wearing the jeans and T-shirt I don’t mind getting dirty.

Today’s a little different. For starters, I’m wearing a dress. It’s a peach shift, shapeless except for the hints of my curves underneath. It hits mid-thigh and has quarter-length sleeves. I’ve chosen simple peach- and mint-green leather flats since I’ll be on my feet a lot today helping Emmy. I give myself one more glance in the mirror, studying the dark eye shadow and nude lips before adding simple gold earrings and a necklace Grammy left me. I’ve piled and pinned my hair on top of my head, leaving just a few tendrils escaping the confines of my hair pins. Will he think I’m pretty? I know . . . why should I care when I won’t do anything about it even if he does?

But will he?

By the time we arrive at Grady’s, my stomach feels about as wobbly as the cranberry sauce I almost forgot to bring. Rhyson’s SUV is already out front. I assume Bristol will be here too. His sister and I didn’t exactly bond at Jimmi Dawson’s birthday party, and I’m hoping we get to know each other a little better today.

Emmy greets us at the door like a perfect hostess, her cornflower blue eyes are bright and welcoming, and her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. It’s only a matter of time before Grady pops the question. Rhyson and I have bets . . . and hopes . . . on a Christmas engagement.

“This all smells so good, Kai.” She takes a pumpkin pie from me and heads toward the kitchen. “Come on in and we’ll get everything settled. Rhys and Grady are in the studio, of course. Bristol is out by the pool on the phone. Thank you for helping with dinner.”