My Last 100 Sunsets

"Will you let me finish telling you what else I've lied about?"

Suddenly, a woman's voice came through the stream.

I had just changed the stream title, and my hand was still on the mouse. The request came from an account called "DefinitelyNotDenise."

For a few seconds, the chat went quiet. Everyone assumed she was just another viewer calling in.

But I recognized her voice. It was Denise Snyder, the receptionist at Veylune Inn.

I said nothing. Out of frame, I picked up the kettle and slowly poured hot water over the coffee grounds.

Denise's voice was hoarse. "Alice, I know you're listening. Eric and I have been seeing each other for four months. What you saw the night before you started chemo wasn't the first time."

The chat immediately filled with question marks. More than 100,000 people were watching now, and the viewer count kept climbing.

Private messages from Eric kept popping up on my screen.

At first, every message said some version of "Where are you?" Then they became more demanding, telling me to send my location immediately.

I glanced at the screen and turned my phone face down on the table.

The camera stayed trained on the snowcapped mountains outside my window in Varenia.

Denise went on. "He kept telling me you'd only gone away for treatment. He said once you finished this round, he'd leave the inn and call off the engagement. I thought sooner or later, he'd choose me."

A burst of gold flashed across the screen as a verified VIP account joined the stream.

It was Eric. He didn't request to join the call. He went straight to the chat.

"Denise, shut up.

"Alice, don't listen to a word she says. I just had a few drinks with her that night. Now she's using your illness and all the attention this livestream is getting to force my hand."

I stared at the message, then reached over and nudged the enamel mug toward the center of the frame. It rocked slightly and settled back onto the wooden table with a dull thud.

Denise gave a humorless laugh over the call. "Eric, do you really think Alice is stupid?"

A second later, she posted a screenshot in the chat. It showed her messages with Eric.

Eric's profile picture was a photo of a mountain glowing gold in the sunlight. I was the one who had taken it. One of his messages was right there for everyone to see.

"She won't actually leave me. Once she's done with this round of treatment, I'll have the conversation with her. Just give me a little more time."

The chat erupted. A few former guests of Veylune Inn recognized Denise's account.

"Holy crap, isn't that the receptionist?"

"I stayed there last year. Mr. Jones told me the wedding had been postponed, but he never said it was because Ms. Graham was sick!"

"He even made it sound like Ms. Graham was the one getting cold feet."

People in the chat began uncovering things even I hadn't known.

I still didn't show my face. The faint clink of the enamel lid against the rim betrayed the tremor in my fingers.

My phone suddenly lit up with an audio recording Denise had sent me privately.

"Alice, he talks about your pathology report in this recording," she said over the call.

I opened the recording, turned the volume all the way up, and held my phone close to the microphone.

Eric's low voice came through. "Her treatment costs a lot, and taking care of her is exhausting. She hates being a burden. If she were really going to leave, she would've done it already.

"She's not going to make a scene. Stop using her to pressure me. Just give me some time."

He sounded like he was talking about some worn-out piece of furniture at the inn he was ready to get rid of.

Denise spoke again as soon as the recording ended. "I also have a photo proving that he saw your pathology report."

The chat was scrolling so fast I could barely make out the comments anymore.

Eric flooded the chat with messages, desperately trying to explain himself.

I gripped the mouse and opened the livestream settings. With more than 100,000 people watching, I changed the title of my next stream to "Let Denise Finish Her Story."