Lillian came out the back door and placed a tray of lemonade on the coffee table between us. She'd put actual lemon slices in the tall, skinny pitcher, and the two glasses were a rosy pink with air bubbles in the glass. I gave her an appreciative smile. She didn't need to go through the trouble for me, but I got the feeling she was extremely happy I was there.

"This is beautiful back here," I commented as I poured myself a glass.

Their house sat on a large pond with water spraying up ornamentally from the middle of it. I could just make out the peninsula of a golf course on the other end. The sky was outlined with the trees that lined their lot, casting light shadows over the backyard.

Their back porch was lined with a glass railing and the steps led down to a beige tiled patio and a rounded bean shaped pool. The water flowing from the circular hot tub made a soothing drum. Beyond that, lush green grass stretched down a slight slope until it hit the edge of the pond.

I imagined Tate spent a lot of time out there during his mysterious year away. I could see him floating on his back looking at clouds, swimming laps for exercise, fishing in the pond, playing golf at the course that must have been in the neighborhood because it was that close.

She looked out at the view before she sat in the brown wicker chair to my right. "Thank you. I like to think of it as a slice of our own paradise." Her blue eyes were striking but held so much affection when she focused back on me. "I've heard a lot about you. Of course, only as his best friend. And Tate definitely never mentioned how beautiful you are."

"It's been a bit of a whirlwind semester," I laughed. A deep rose color must have been dusting my cheekbones. "It all happened so fast. Maybe thanks to a lot of outside forces."

I hoped she wouldn't ask me anything further. I fake-dated your son wasn't something I wanted to get into.

Lillian cast a heavy gaze on me like she was trying to decipher me. She quickly looked out at the pond over my shoulder. "Yes, well, Tate and I haven't talked much in the last few months, but now I see that he's loved you in secret for years. I'm so happy to meet you."

"Mrs. Thacker—"

"Lillian, please."

"Oh," I said nervously.

Right, maybe she wasn't a Thacker anymore? My nerves were stretched. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have involved her in this. I still had no idea how to find Tate though. I was way too ashamed to tell her we'd googled their address. But maybe she could still help me.

She searched my face curiously. "No, I'm still Lillian Thacker. You can just call me Lillian."

I laughed a stupid, high-pitched laugh that embarrassed me. "I'm sorry. Lillian. I'm so happy to meet you too, but I didn't mean to barge into your house unannounced. I was hoping Tate was here. Do you possibly know where I could find him?"

"His bed is unmade, so I'm sure he slept here last night," Lillian said. "I was hoping he would be here too, but I would assume he's visiting his father. He lives by his side whenever he's here."

I blinked. My blank face must have registered something for her—that I had no clue what she was talking about.

"He hasn't told you, has he?" she asked me softly. She already knew the answer to her question, but I supposed she was trying to be polite.

We were both silent for a few seconds. I worked my throat muscles, trying to swallow dry sand as I shook my head slowly.

"I don't think he wants to tell me," I whispered. "Whatever it is, I'm not sure he will ever tell me. He left after the tournament. I don't think he has any intention of coming back to SFU, but I don't know how to help him when I don't know what's wrong."

Lillian dipped her head and looked into her glass of lemonade. "Tate has always had a hard time letting anyone in about it. He'd rather not I think. He doesn't want people to treat him differently, to see that side of him. Maybe he prefers to hide from reality, but the mental toll it takes to know your reality is also harder than most people realize until they're faced with it. Not many people know what he's gone through, what he deals with every day. I wouldn't even know where to start."

She paused like she may have kept talking. I didn't move. I didn't want to scare her into closing her mouth. I needed to know—whether it was her secret to tell or not. I wasn't going to give up until I could figure out how to fix it.

Thankfully, she took a deep breath. "His father is in assisted living."

I think this is where I stopped breathing. I wasn't sure how I didn't pass out while each new sentence came out of her mouth.

"Tate watched Richard and I live our lives with each other, completely in love. We had a beautiful son, we bought our home, we traveled, we watched Tate excel at golf, we loved each other. It was a dream. Until it wasn't. When Richard was diagnosed, we made a choice together, knowing full well how it would end, because he is my soulmate. I took care of him until it got too hard for me to do on my own. Tate helped take care of him too of course, but Richard made Tate promise he would continue to play golf, that he would go to college. He told Tate to let himself fall in love. Richard wanted him to experience everything life has to offer. I love Richard more than I can express, more than I thought was humanly possible, and I would do it over again. I really would. I still feel like the luckiest woman to be Richard's wife. But then Tate had to watch me fall into a depression, listen to me cry every night from the intense toll it took on me. Richard and I decided a long time ago that when it got to a certain point, he'd go into assisted living. I knew it was the right decision, but it was still one of the hardest things I've ever been put through. It almost feels like you're moving on when you don't want to."

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She tried to blink them back.

"Tate swore to himself that he would never fall in love. He said he could never do that to someone. That it wasn't fair. He never understood how I could have chosen that life for myself. And this past year was possibly the hardest on him. He spent a lot of time in therapy, making his own decisions about his own life. But Richard and I decided together that when I was ready, I could try to find someone who could make me happy again. Tate could never come to terms with that. He didn't understand how Richard could be okay with that. But he was... is. He and Tate have always been so similar and at the same time so different. Tate has such a strong personality. This past summer I did find someone—someone in my support group. Someone who understands what I've gone through because he's gone through it himself. We don't judge each other. We empathize with the situation we've both found ourselves in. He's someone that I could see myself with for a long time. I think it's easy for people to judge, but people don't understand when they haven't lived it; when your spouse goes into assisted living in their mid-forties. Richard will always be my husband. He will always be the love of my life. But he knew that I couldn't stay heartbroken forever. He didn't want me to be. That's no way to live. Tate has a hard time accepting that I can date someone while I'm still married to his father; while I still love his father."

"I'm not judging you," I said. That was the only thing I could think to say. I didn't know this woman's grief. It wasn't something I could begin to comprehend, and it wasn't fair to judge her. Most people won't know that type of heartbreak in their lives. I certainly didn't.

She looked up at me with pain and fondness in her eyes. "Tate has a hard time not judging it. I always told him he would understand when he fell in love. When he realized that he would let the love of his life go so they could find a chance to be happy again..." Lillian trailed off. Her eyes traveled to the ceiling like she wished she could take back her last words.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think those words are enough, but I am sorry. I don't even know what to say. I cannot begin to fathom what you've been through." But I still hadn't grasped the full picture, and a hole burned into the bottom of my heart when I realized I would have to ask because she hadn't told me. "What exactly was Tate's father diagnosed with?"

The look in her eyes told me she'd avoided saying it on purpose, but she replied anyway.

"Early-onset Alzheimer's."

The porch spun. I couldn't tell which way was up, which way was down. Colors blurred together, streaking around my head. I found a semblance of balance as my brain tried to compensate.

"Isn't that..." I couldn't bring myself to finish my own sentence. I was afraid I was going to throw up from vertigo.

Tate's voice, deep, even, and unemotional, cut through the air and finished it for me.

"Genetic?"

I hadn't seen him come into the open doorway. I whipped my head up at him, air surging back into my lungs painfully. They stung, oxygen burning through my bronchioles like fire. His face held little to no emotion. He raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for me to confirm that that was exactly what I was thinking.

Words were inconsequential. This was what Tate had been living with most of his life? The prospect that he would forget everything and everyone around him. The possibility that he would have to be alone, otherwise he'd see history repeat itself. The chance that he would have to be taken care of by a loved one.

Or did he already know?

I locked eyes with him and told myself not to cry. My eyes pressurized, keeping my tear ducts sealed. I don't think I'd ever loved Tate more than in that moment. He was so much stronger than I'd ever realized—so much more passionate.

He took two steps and stopped beside the table.

Lillian's tears started to fall. My heart hurt for her. She'd had to see her husband go through this, and she might have to see her son go through it as well? I was in absolute amazement that she could bear that burden with such strength and beauty. I was in complete admiration of her.

She couldn't look at me or Tate, so she looked out at the pond behind us instead.

Tate put his hand in his right pocket and pulled out a white envelope. It looked worn and dirty, like it had been folded and refolded, crinkled and uncrinkled hundreds of times. Like he'd been playing with it in his pocket for weeks.

He placed it in front of me. Lillian's eyes fell on it, and she finally looked up at Tate in surprise. She gasped ever so slightly, but he didn't look at her.

His eyes cut through me when he spoke.

"I can't bring myself to open it, but maybe you can. Let me know what the results are if you do. My odds are fifty-fifty."

He turned, went back into the house, and left both of us sitting at the table—both of us fighting back a waterfall of tears.