Before Him. And After Him.

I’m sitting on the sofa when the front door opens.

Emily comes bounding inside.

Her hair is razor-short now, another reminder of what treatment has taken from her.

I’m still not used to it.

Around her wrist is the bracelet she wears almost every day.

CURE CANCER.

Like she needs a reminder.

Like any of us do.

But this afternoon, she isn’t thinking about cancer.

She’s smiling.

Big.

Dangerously big.

I know that smile.

That smile has gotten me into trouble before.

“Syd, guess what?”

I look at her.

“What?”

“I have the most incredible news.”

“What is it?”

“Do you remember Celebrity Betrothed?”

My stomach sinks.

Oh, no.

The television show.

The ridiculous television show.

The ridiculous television show my ridiculous sister convinced me to apply for.

“Yeah…” I say reluctantly.

“You know the one I signed you up for?”

Technically, I signed myself up.

After weeks of harassment.

“Yes.”

“They want you.”

I stare at her.

She grins.

“You’re going to be one of the celebrities.”

No.

Absolutely not.

My brain rejects the information before she even finishes saying it.

“What?”

“They picked you!”

“How?”

She blinks.

“How what?”

“How am I going to be one of the celebrities? I’m not even a celebrity.”

Emily stares at me like I’ve just said something so stupid she needs a moment to decide whether I’m joking.

“Really?”

I cross my arms.

“Yes. Really.”

“Are we doing this again?” Emily asks in disgust. “I guess you’re just a normal person. Well… except for the world records and gold medals.”

“Emily—”

I try to interrupt.

Unsuccessfully, of course.

She sighs dramatically.

“Not to mention the endorsements. Oh, and the modeling on the side.”

“That is barely modeling.”

She glares at me.

I glare back.

I decide to give up on the celebrity argument.

Not because she’s right.

She is absolutely wrong.

Celebrities are actresses.

Pop stars.

People who have assistants whose assistants have assistants.

Celebrities make millions of dollars and can’t buy toothpaste without someone taking forty-seven photographs of them doing it.

I run fast.

That’s different.

I groan loudly and intentionally.

“I only agreed to apply because I thought there was absolutely no chance they would choose me, and because you wouldn’t stop bothering me.”

I pause.

“I am not doing this.”

“Well, that’s a problem because you already signed the participation agreement.”

I stare at her.

“No. I signed the application.”

The guilt is immediate.

“Yup. The participation agreement was part of it.”

The room gets very quiet.

I blink.

“You said I was just signing an application that you filled out for me.”

“It was an application.”

“With a participation agreement,” she adds.

“Emily.”

“Sydney.”

“I am going to kill you.”

She shrugs.

“I have cancer. Get in line.”

I hate when she does that.

Mostly because there is absolutely no comeback.

She leans toward me.

“Besides, I thought you’d be excited.”

“About what?”

“Meeting your future husband.”

I huff in disgust.

She clasps both hands dramatically against her chest.

“The man of your dreams.”

“Please stop.”

“In one short month.”

“Emily.”

“Isn’t that romantic?”

“No.”

Her smile fades slightly.

“No?”

“No. Frankly, it sounds horrifying.”

I look down at my knee.

I’m still rehabbing my ACL. My entire life revolves around physical therapy, strength measurements, training schedules, doctors, timelines, and the maddening process of convincing one very damaged ligament that we have places to be.

“I’m trying to come back from an ACL tear. I don’t have time to go play reality-TV bride.”

She waits.

I hate when she waits.

Because Emily knows me.

Not the version the public knows.

Not the athlete.

Just me.

And eventually, I say it.

“Besides, I’ve been through enough with men. I’m not exactly looking to volunteer for another disaster.”

The mischief disappears from her face.

Dang it.

I prefer the manipulation.

“You know the pain I’ve been through.”

“I do.”

“Then why would I be excited about this?”

There.

I said it.

Emily comes over and sits beside me.

“Because, Syd, you’re right.”

I glance at her.

“You have been through a lot.”

“But…”

Of course there’s a but.

“That’s partly because you’re not the best judge of character when it comes to men.”

I turn slowly toward her.

“Excuse me?”

She gives me the most sympathetic expression she can manufacture while insulting my entire romantic history.

“Syd, I love you. But you are apparently completely incapable of finding good men.”

She bumps her shoulder against mine.

“That’s where this show shines. Because you don’t pick the guy. The show’s experts do all the screening. Background checks. Compatibility. Interviews. Psychological evaluations. They figure out what you actually need instead of who you’ve chosen in the past.”

“Oh, good. Strangers are going to fix my love life.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Wonderful.”

“Maybe they should’ve been in charge sooner,” she blurts out.

I give her a look.

She continues.

“This is your chance at love because, as you mentioned, your past choices haven’t exactly worked out.”

She nudges me again.

“And the timing is actually perfect.”

“I have one functioning ACL.”

“Exactly.”

“How is that perfect?”

“You’re rehabbing. You’re not in the middle of a competitive season. You’re not traveling constantly for meets. You actually have a window.”

“A window for televised emotional destruction.”

“A window for love.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“I’ve been told.”

Then she smiles.

And I see it coming half a second before she says it.

“Besides…”

“No.”

“You know our deal.”

“No.”

“Syd.”

“Absolutely not.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do, and you are not playing the cancer card.”

“I wasn’t going to call it the cancer card.”

“Because that would make it sound manipulative?”

“Exactly.”

I point at her.

“No. Our promise does not apply to dating shows.”

Her expression changes.

“Oh. Interesting.”

“What?”

“So now your promise has exclusions.”

“It does not have exclusions. It just doesn’t apply to this. It applies to things like sports, not dating.”

“Oh, so it has fine print.”

“No. It has common sense.”

She folds her arms.

“Let’s review.”

“I don’t want to review.”

“Your promise was that while I’m sick, you’ll do the things I want to do but can’t, so we can experience them together.”

I close my eyes.

“Correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Am I still sick?”

“Emily.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can I be the celebrity on Celebrity Betrothed?”

“That is not the point.”

“Can I?”

“No.”

Emily holds my eyes.

I exhale.

I’m losing.

Actually, that isn’t accurate.

I lost approximately five minutes before the conversation even started.

Emily just hasn’t informed me yet.

She smiles.

“Syd. Just try it.”

I groan.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Oh, excellent question.

“Seriously,” she continues. “You get to go to Miami. You’ll be on TV. Your agent will love it. You meet somebody new. You get the whole wedding experience. Dress, flowers, venue, all of it. You learn what you like and what you don’t.”

“I already know one thing I don’t like.”

“What?”

“Getting married to someone I don’t know.”

She ignores me.

“And if it doesn’t work, after three months you walk away. They annul the marriage. Done.”

She spreads her hands.

“So what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

I look at the floor.

I know exactly what the worst thing is.

I could have my heart crushed.

Again.

I could open my heart to some carefully vetted, handsome, psychologically approved stranger.

And then he could leave.

Lie.

Cheat.

Decide I’m not enough.

Take your pick. Whatever version life decides to recycle.

Except this time there will be cameras.

Millions of people could watch me discover, in real time, that I’ve been stupid enough to hope again.

“Syd… do you really think you’re going to find someone if you keep doing things the same way?”

I frown.

She brightens.

“I mean, you’re amazing at finding Mr. Wrong.”

“Don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

“I have no doubt you’d find him again—”

“Emily.”

“—if there were gold medals for bad boyfriends…”

“Stop. It’s not funny.”

I shake my head.

“Syd.”

I look at her.

“I know how badly you want this.”

“No, I don’t. I absolutely do not want to marry a stranger on television.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Her voice quiets.

“You want someone to adore. Someone who loves you, who you can build a life with and eventually grow old with.”

I look away.

“That doesn’t mean this is how I find him.”

“Maybe not. But what you’re doing hasn’t exactly been working. Trust the process.”

That sounds exactly like something people say right before everything goes catastrophically wrong.

I look at her.

“You could meet someone incredible. Someone to spend the rest of your life with.”

My eyes drop to the bracelet on her wrist.

CURE CANCER.

And suddenly three months in Miami doesn’t feel quite as enormous as it did five minutes ago.

I sigh.

Long.

Dramatic.

“You’re such a hopeless romantic.”

“Yes.”

“And manipulative.”

“Also yes.”

“And I want it officially documented that I’m only doing this because of my promise to you.”

“Documented.”

“And right now, I really can’t stand you.”

“Understood.”

I look at her.

“But I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I shake my head.

Then surrender the last remaining scrap of my common sense.

“Okay.”

Emily freezes.

“Okay?”

“I said okay. Don’t make me say it twice.”

She squeals.

Actually squeals.

“This is going to work!”

She throws her arms around me.

I hug her back with enough reluctance to make my position clear.

I think Emily is talking me into three ridiculous months that will make for a funny story someday.

I have absolutely no idea that my life has just split into two very distinct categories:

Before him.

And after him.