"How long?" It's two words. Two words that affect my entire life.

"Three months."

Three months.

I stop breathing.

Lachlan cries and starts spurting his formula through his coughs.

Dad stands and takes him from me.

I walk out of the room, and to the bathroom.

And I throw up.

Three months.

When I'm done, I run the tap and wash my mouth out, then stare at myself in the mirror. Gripping the edge of the sink, I suck in a huge breath and let it out. I do it a few more times until color comes back into my face. "Suck it up, Lucy," I whisper. "You're fifteen. Quit acting like a child."

A few minutes pass and I finally find the strength to open the door and walk out.

Dad's waiting with his arms folded over his chest. No Lachlan. "He fell asleep in my arms, I put him down for his nap," he answers my unasked question. "You okay, kid?"

That same bitter laugh from earlier tries to escape. And again, I keep it down. Because even though he referred to me as one, I'm not a kid. Far from it.

"I'm fine," I lie. "The heat from being out at the field just got to me. I'm fine," I repeat.

His head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow, assessing me.

"I'm fine," I lie for the third time. I walk past him and take the stairs to the only room I can stand to be in right now. She's awake, but she's so out of it she may as well not be. I curse myself for hoping she would die already. For hoping that it would take the pain away. Not just for her, but for all of us.

Waiting for someone to die has to be the world's cruellest joke.

"Lucy," she croaks out. "How are you?"

I fake a smile. "Fine."

Four fines. Four lies.

She matches my fake smile with her own and pats the bed next to her. I kick off my shoes, lie down and pull my spare e-reader from under the pillow.

She lets out a shaky breath at the same time I switch it on. I don't even know why I bothered picking it up. I know the story she wants me to read to her. I know it word for word. I've read it to her every day since the day the doctors told her she had cancer. I inhale deeply. "The four March sisters sat in the living room..."

*

My mom fell in love with reading after she read Little Women. I fell in love with reading after she read it to me. She said she wanted me to grow up with a house full of sisters. I ended up with six little brothers.

When Mom and Dad tell us their story it's short, but it's sweet. They met college graduation day, somehow never meeting before that. Two weeks later, they were official. Two months later, they were married.

Fate. It's all about fate, Lucy. That's what she always told me.

And I believe that.

They gave us all names beginning with L. Because L—it stands for love. And love is something we should be reminded of every day.

I swallow the knot already formed in my throat and turn my head to face her. She's fallen asleep. She's probably been like that for over an hour and I hadn't realized. I kiss her on the forehead and say what I normally say right before I leave her room. "I love you. Goodbye." Always the goodbye. Because I never know if it'll be the last words I say to her.

Quietly, not wanting to be noticed, I walk to my room and into my bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I lean against it and slide down until my bottom hits the floor.

I cry so hard that I throw up again.

And I don't even care that I do.

Because while Mom is two doors down from me dying, throwing up is the only thing that makes me feel alive.

CHAPTER ONE

-LUCY-

At least the wait is over.

That's the thought that runs through my head during the entire funeral. She's gone, and all I can think about is the relief that I don't have to wake up every day and wonder when.

Dad's family is here and they help me take care of the boys. We wipe their tears, hold them when they cry, assure them all that it'll be okay—even when we have no idea that it will be.

No one takes care of me.

No one.

Not even Dad. He can't even take care of himself.

-CAMERON-

If heartbreak had a face, hers would be it.

I watched her during the funeral, just like I watch her now, walking around her house greeting everyone with a fake smile. I know it's fake because her mom's gone, her dad's a mess, and she has six brothers to take care of. Right now, there is no silver lining. No light at the end of the tunnel. No joy in the face of tragedy. Which is why I find it strange that she hasn't shed a single tear. Not one.

Her baby brother throws up all over her and she doesn't even flinch. She simply hands over the baby to a woman and leaves the room. Minutes go by while I wait for her to return, but she doesn't. And a rush of panic washes through me. I don't know why it affects me so much. Why she affects me so much. But I have to find her. I have to make sure that she's okay.

Her back is turned as she stands in the laundry room, her shoulders shaking up and down. Then she suddenly straightens, as if she knows that someone's watching. Her hands rise to her face before she slowly turns around.

There's a calmness in her eyes that doesn't seem justified... like a calm before the storm. And then it happens—the storm.

Her face changes and I know the dam is about to break. My heart picks up speed, my palms sweat, and my ears ring—all because I can't stand to watch this happening to her. And even though I can see how hard she tries to hold it in—a single sob escapes her.

I take the steps to get to her. "Lucy," I whisper.

She throws her arms around my neck and pulls me down to her, crying into my chest. She cries so hard that it feels like it's the first time she's ever done it. Maybe it is.

I silently hold her until she's done. There's something about the way she feels in my arms. Like maybe that calmness in her eyes from earlier could be justified.

Maybe I could be her calm.

I want to be her calm.

When she's done she takes a step back, wiping her face as she does. Then she smiles, that same fake smile she's given to everyone else. She nods once and brushes past me.

"Lucy," I whisper again, this time to myself.

I try my hardest to read her as she walks away.

***

I wish I had spoken to her. I wish I had the right words. Even now as I stand at her front door, sweating like a pig from the bike ride after school—I still can't think of anything to say. It's been a few days since the funeral. Today was the first day that she was back at school. Not that I was paying attention or wondering where she was, because I wasn't.

I knock three times, but no one answers. I can hear kids yelling and screaming. One might even be crying. I knock again and the door opens. One of the younger kids looks up at me, his eyebrows bunched, but he doesn't say a word. "Where's Lucy?" I ask him. He opens the door wider and points to the kitchen, then runs away.

If I were a murderer, they'd all be dead.

*

She's standing at the island counter with food everywhere, but that's not what I notice. It's the endless tears falling freely.

She looks up when I walk in, the same expression on her face that her little brother had when he opened the door. "Who are you?"