A/N: Revisions made to the structure and introduction of this chapter in January 2012.

Ellie and I haven't spoken since that night two weeks ago.

It's the longest we've ever gone without contact.

I still can't believe what I said, and I refuse to tell anyone about it because – Christ, it makes me seem like a terrible person.

The worst part, of course, is that it's exactly the type of thing one of her old boyfriends probably told her. And I was supposed to be the one who offered her more than that. That's what I always promised her.

And look what I've done.

She refuses to take my calls, so I've written her a letter:

E –

I've taken you for granted. You're wonderful and talented and gorgeous and I'm a complete bastard for making you feel I thought otherwise.

I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me for my stupidity.

Love,

ESC

I tuck the letter inside the Sennelier custom photo album I bought her and placed a print she did of herself last year on the cover. I beg her roommate, Caroline, to meet me at Fauchon – her favorite luxury grocer – to pick up the package.

"T'es fou," Caroline says, looking over it. I wrapped it in pages from New York Times Magazine, Ellie's favorite.

I shrug. "Mais oui," I say. "L'amour est fou."

She gives me a questioning look, but doesn't inquire further.

"Bon," she said. "Je te souhaite beaucoup de chance."

"Merci," I say. "Et Joyeux Noel."

"Toi aussi."

I arrive in San Francisco three days later. Ellie still hasn't contacted me, but I'm more preoccupied about mum at the moment.

After surviving yet another landing (they absolutely terrify me), I walk through the terminal toward baggage claim. Mum, of course, is not here to welcome me back. I'm all alone now.

I gather my things and walk toward public transport when a "St. Clair" sign catches my eye. It's a rather strange sight, as it's not a common name in these parts.

"Excuse me," I say, approaching the tall, older gentleman holding the sign. "I can't imagine that's for me?"

"Is your name Elton?" he asks. I laugh. My name always gets butchered beyond recognition here.

"Étienne," I say, extending my hand. "A pleasure."

"Your mother arranged for this," the gentleman says as we walk toward the private transport area. "We'll be at the hospital in about 20 minutes, depending on the traffic."

We ride through the city and it's oddly bleak and beautiful in the rain. I never liked San Francisco much – it's not the city, more the experiences I've had here – but it feels okay to be back.

The driver leaves me at the hospital entrance, informing me that my baggage will be left with the doorman of my mum's flat.

"Thank you," I say, handing him a $50 for his service.

"No, thank you, sir," he says, genuinely touched by the gesture. "Happy holidays to you and your family."

I smile and go toward the visitor's desk, my palms sweaty with nerves. The woman behind the desk is gorgeous. She's probably 30, but I try my best to charm her anyway. Anything to distract myself from my increasingly worried state.

"Here's your pass, dear," she says, handing me a green plastic card. "Remember you've only got an hour or so."

"Of course," I say. "But we won't tell anyone if I stay longer, right?"

I flash her my most charming grin and she laughs. "I know nothing," she says, covering her ears.

I take the elevator up to mum's floor and walk toward her room, grateful that no one else I know is around. It's one of the few times I'm happy to be completely and utterly alone.

"Mum," I say, entering the door. I thought it would be worse, but not much worse than what lays before me.

"Étienne," she says softly, her smile bringing some life back to her face. "I'm so happy you're here."

We hug and her body feels like bones. My eyes start to well with tears.

"Me too," I say, my voice strained.

"It's okay, dear," she says. "I know it's hard, but we're going to get through this like we always do. Your father – "

To my surprise, I sob in a way I never thought or ever wanted to be possible. I rarely cry, even under circumstances where most people would.

"I'm sorry, mum," I say between sobs. "I'm really, really sorry."

She pats my back reassuringly like she used to do when I'd injure myself in a childhood prank or adventure.

I wish this time I could be the one to tell her everything was going to be all right.

"Stop apologizing," she says. "I'm fighting with everything I've got – you know that, right? We just have to take it one day at a time."

I nod. I catch a glance of myself in the hospital room mirror and barely recognize it. My eyes are bloodshot and I suddenly look exhausted and worn. I've got to calm down. This isn't helping anymore.

I manage to relax a bit, and we pass the next hour talking as we normally would. I can tell mum's worried about me, but she's not prodding me for more information. I'm almost grateful for it.

A young nurse knocks at the door.

"We're ready for you, Mrs. St. Clair," she says. "I'll give you a few moments?"

"Yes, thank you, Lisa," she says calmly.

They're starting the internal radiation treatments today. Neither my father or I will be able to see her much these next few days. We're only allowed a half hour, at most, so our exposure to the radiation is minimal.

"All right," she says, turning toward me. "It's time."

I bite my thumbnail out of habit, thinking of the right thing to say before I leave.

"You'll have no nails left if you keep going like that," she says, chuckling. "Go back to the flat and get some rest, okay?"

Right. The flat. Where my father is. Brilliant.

"Your father is in meetings all day, but I told him to leave an extra key with the doorman," she says. "Be sure to ask for that when you arrive."

"Right," I say. "Got it."

"I know you do," she says, looking at me with pride in her eyes. "And no matter what happens, you always will."

She wraps me in another hug, comforting me when I should be comforting her. Maybe I'm not an adult just yet.

"Good luck, mum," I say. "I love you."

The nurse comes back into the room and I step back as an entire team prepares her for treatment. My mum takes a deep breath, looking toward me. She mouths a goodbye to me and I exit the room.

I can't get out of there fast enough. I walking slowly, then quickly, then feel myself run until I nearly smash myself into the automated doors of the hospital exit. Though I'm not hurt, it makes me feel even more panicked. My heart races, my breath quickens, and I feel like I'm going to faint.

I walk outside the door for air and find the young nurse from before there, smoking a cigarette.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"I think I will be," I say. "I just need a…few moments."

I lean myself against the building, willing myself to calm down. She's no longer laughing with me, laughing at my bravado. She's seeing the real me, and it concerns her.

I don't like feeling this exposed.

"Here," she says, pulling out a business card from her pocket. "These are the contact details of a support line – for patients' families."

I take it and put it in my trouser pocket.

"I'm not telling you to do it," she adds, carefully. "But I think it's good to know the option's there."

"Well," I say. "I do appreciate it."

And I do. With just a simple gesture, she's offered more support to me than most people in my life. You know, like my father, who I'll have to spend these holidays dealing with.

Great.