Page 1 of His One True Wish

CHAPTER 1

BILLIE

Iwas raised believing in wishes. I’m not just talking about shooting stars, though I love watching those glorious beams of light streak across the night sky. Goosebumps every time. I made a wish when the clock struck 2:22. I searched for four-leaf clovers. I plucked every fallen eyelash from my cheek and blew into the air with my ask of the universe.

My mother, Moira, and my grandmother, Louise, raised me to believe I was powerful enough to move mountains with my mind. When I was older, I realized all their talk of wishing was a brilliant distraction from the parts of our life that were actually hard. My parents divorced before I could walk. My father wasn’t interested in being faithful or in being a dad.

I wasn’t bitter. It was just a fact of my life. Men cheated, and women were better off on their own. Mom and Gran taught me how to take care of myself. We were the Preston women, and we didn’t need any man to complete us.

A part of me believed the three of us would live together forever in our bungalow on Maple Lane in Denver, Colorado. After college, though, I moved to Seattle for a job in property management. One summer day in July, Gran passed away suddenly. Six months later,Mom called to say she was selling the house in Denver. She wanted to travel, cruise the Med, and explore the National Parks. Life was about to change again, and I told myself I was ready for it. Mom needed me, so I drove home to Denver. After all, I was a Preston woman. We knew how to take care of ourselves — and each other.

It was nineteen hours and change between Seattle and Denver if I drove straight through. I packed snacks, my big dumb Stanley cup, and made a playlist of my favorite road-trip music. Singing along to the one and only John Denver, as one does when going home to Colorado, I optimistically veered off of I-90, opting for a more scenic route on my own country roads.

Why? I liked the trees on I-84 more than the never-ending fast-food stops that peppered I-90. Instead of beautiful vistas, I sadly found myself at a stand-still in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam.

“All I wanted to see were pretty fucking trees.” I sighed, gripping the steering wheel. My black Subaru inched along the highway. I was one hour into this diversion with no alternate routes available. Oh, I was seeing trees. They just moved past my window at less than ten miles per hour. It was torture.

My intuition and positivity landed me right behind a semi filled with Marigold milk, which I feared might expire before any of us reached our destination. As John Denver sang, my phone beeped with a text from Mom.

You close?

Three dots appeared.

Never mind. Don’t text. You’re driving. Be safe.

Three more dots.

You’ll be hungry. Don’t answer. Hands on the wheel.

Three more dots.

I paused, waiting for the phone to ring. Right on cue, Mom called.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, answering on speaker. “I’m not texting and driving.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, her voice muffled. “Let me find my Pods.”

There was a loud rustling noise. Maybe the phone was in her pocket or her purse?

“Mom? You there?”

“Wait.” More rustling followed. “Hello. Hello?”

“Mom,” I shouted. “It’s fine. I hear you.”

“Billie? Are you there? Hello,” she sang.

“I’m here, Mom.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, her voice coming through clear as a bell. “I feel pretty amazing right now. I’m on the phone, and look, no hands! Well, you can’t look since we are not on the magical FaceTime.”

“Glad you like the AirPods, Mom,” I said, smiling.

“Like them? Ilovethem, honey. Best birthday present ever.” My mother was not a technology person. When she bought a new Bluetooth-enabled Volvo, her voice ricocheted between her iPhone and the car on every phone call for months. She finally mastered the art of pairing, but it was a steep learning curve.

“So you must be close,” Mom said.

“Nope. I am on I-84, and there’s an accident or construction. I don’t know, actually, but I’m not close.”

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