Page 97 of Every Beautiful Mile

Staring at the ceiling as the warm water washes over me, the bubbles pop under my fingers, and I blow out a breath.

When I drop my head back and look at the ceiling, for the first time since we ruined that poor moose’s life, I think of Ethan. He hasn’t called, texted, or emailed me to explain why he left without saying goodbye.

Every sip of wine reminds me of the taste of him.

As much as I don’t want to think about it, I wonder what he’s doing. Is he on a date? Probably not at 9:30 in the morning. Unless he stayed the night with a woman.

Nope. Not letting my mind go there.

I close my eyes and slide under the water, letting the warmth wrap around me and wash all the sadness away.

When I finally pull myself out of the tub, I wipe the condensation off the mirror and stare at my reflection.

I trace the lines of my face with my finger and try to see who I was before they were there. When I was young and naïve. When the idea that life might not work out the way I planned was an impossible notion.

I see her, but not really. Life isn’t designed to keep us the same versions of ourselves.

My eyes land on the gold ring that dangles around my neck—the last reminder that keeps me clinging to a life I’m never going to have again while stopping me from moving any further into a new one.

When Travis died, it was as if I was forced awake from a sweet dream I didn’t know I was having—the gold band a constant reminder I can never go back to it.

I can’t keep wearing it. If I do, I’ll keep considering him every time I feel it on my flesh. It’s not that I don’t want to remember him, I do desperately, but I know I’ve taken it too far.

I don’t just remember him—I live for him.

Marin was right when she told me I’ve changed. With every breath I take, I feel I’m different from the person who set out on the road at the beginning of summer. I think of Travis when I see airplanes and watch Finn do something exactly like him, but somewhere out on the road, I stopped looking for him. I delight in the times I catch glimpses of him, but I’m no longer mourning the moments I don’t.

I unclasp the necklace and drop it on the counter.

I have an idea.

Thirty-six

I somehow make myself look like a living being by the time I step out onto the sidewalk and head toward the bustling downtown.

I wander the side streets, taking in the unique architecture designs. Huge mansions and small cottages make the entire town feel like there’s something for everyone.

Well, in the words of Smokey Tony, anyone with money.

Flowers are in full bloom in every picket fence garden box as trees wave green leaves so bright they rival the sun. Remnants of the Fourth of July banners and buntings hang on houses in a kind of picturesque patriotism.

Bar Harbor is a rainbow, realized.

Even the yards where bushes explode chaotically look like they’re by design.

My first stop is a jeweler where a man smiles kindly when I hand him my ring, the gold chain, and the smallest remnants of Arizona gold flakes and explain my idea.

“I need a week,” he tells me, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

I wait for an unbearable wave of sadness to wash me away when I walk away from everything I’ve handed him, but it never comes. Instead—peace.

Three stores later, I’m staring at myself in a fitting room wearing an emerald green dress that cuts low in the front, ties in the back, and hits mid-calf with a pair of ankle boots that are not made of rubber and a set of gold bracelets dangling off my wrist.

I look damn good.

I’m not buying something to hide myself like I have been for the last year, and there is nobody I need to impress. This is all me. My ode to surviving the worst heartbreak of my life and being able to come out alive on the other side.

I doubt anyone notices the forty-one-year-old woman in the green dress attempting to strut, but I do it anyway. I do it with my chin up, my shoulders back, and the slightest smile on my face.

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