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He looked older than she remembered from five months ago. Different. More mature. She always pictured him in her mind as an artsy grad-student type, but he wasn’t that anymore.

He was a grown-up. A twenty-nine-year-old man with broad shoulders, intelligent gray eyes, and an innate authority he exuded even when silent.

“Eve,” he said, his eyes running up and down her body from her long, loose blond hair to her comfortable sandals. “Thanks for coming out here.”

He had shoulder-length brown hair and a full, trimmed beard. A deep, slightly gravelly voice, one she’d never once heard him raise. In anger or anything else.

“Hi, Jude. You’re welcome.” She took the chair next to the desk, pulling it into a better position so she could face him directly. “What’s going on?”

His mouth tilted up slightly at the corners. “I can always count on you to skip the small talk and get right to the point.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to waste time with chitchat. You’re the one who doesn’t like other people, and you must have a reason for asking me here out of the blue.”

“I do.” He was wearing gray trousers and an untucked button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His body was long and lean, although his shoulders were broader than she remembered.

Overall, he just seemed bigger. Moreman.

It was a strange and unsettling perception.

He cleared his throat and opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a thick piece of paper folded into thirds. He opened it slowly. Stared down at it for a minute.

It was some sort of letter. There was a letterhead at the top of the page.

Her heart started beating faster, although she didn’t understand why.

He silently handed her the letter.

With a hard swallow, she smoothed out the paper so she could read the words printed there.

It was only three paragraphs.

After the first two sentences, her eyes shot back up to Jude’s face with a gasp.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t gesture. Didn’t blink.

She started reading again from the beginning, sure she’d misunderstood.

Eve hadn’t misunderstood anything.

The letterhead indicated a doctor at a reputable local practice. A neurologist.

Because Jude had failed to respond to their numerous calls and messages, the doctor was sending this letter by certified mail.

Jude had a brain tumor. Because of its position, the tumor was inoperable. There were other treatments that could be triedthat might extend his life by a few months, but they needed to be started immediately.

Otherwise, by their best estimation, he had three months to live.

The exact same thing had happened to his mother.

Eve’s hands started to tremble, shaking the paper she still held. “Is this… Is this real?”

“Yes.” Jude’s voice didn’t break or waver. “It’s real.”

“Why didn’t you respond to the doctor’s calls? When do you start treatment?”

“I don’t.”

Her face went cold, like all the blood was draining out. Her hands shook so helplessly she had to set the letter down on the desk. “Wh-what do you mean?”

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