Page 110 of How to Walk Away

On the tray, dessert was a chocolate chip cookie, which seemed like a stroke of luck—until I bit in and discovered it was oatmeal raisin.

Things seemed quieter than usual. Everybody, I guess, was in the rehab gym.

Then the door pushed open, and it was Kit.

“I need you,” she said.

“What?”

“The mariachi band is terrible! The children are crying!”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, yes, it can!” she said, pulling back my covers. “Go pee. Brush your teeth. Put on your dress! You’re doing a love song medley in ten minutes.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

She put a hand on one hip. “How many times have I been there for you when you needed me?”

“Are we talking recently, or our entire lives? Because I think you started with a deficit.”

Kit pulled on my arm. “I need you. The kids need you. Valentine’s Day needs you. Ian’s mother needs you!”

What?She got my attention with that last one. “Ian’s mother?”

She pointed at me, and repeated the favorite saying of hers Ian had told us once: “When you don’t know what to do for yourself, do something for somebody else.”

***

SHE GOT MEwith that.

I did go to the party—although, when I showed up, the mariachi band was totally normal, not one kid was crying, and it was clear that Kit had tricked me.

I glared at her. “Not cool.”

“Just try to keep that scowl on your face while you eat one of these cookies,” she said, handing me a heart-shaped one with sprinkles.

It wasn’t oatmeal raisin, I’ll give it that.

Kit had gone all out. There was a craft table, a disco ball, the world-famous stolen chocolate fountain, and hearts and streamers everywhere. She had even hung a ball of mistletoe off the end of a stick to dangle over people’s heads and force them to kiss. Rob was doing the honors for her, bursting out with that foghorn laugh every time it worked.

Confessions: Itwasa lovely party, Ididlove wearing my diva dress, Ididsing a love song medley, and everything about being there was better than being in my room alone. It was, in truth, an effective distraction.

As sad as I was, I felt a little happy, too.

I stayed and stayed. We sent the children to bed at eight o’clock, and we all continued eating cookies and singing our hearts out.

My best song of the night by far was my last one: I absolutely belted out “Best of My Love,” and halfway through, I looked up and saw Ian across the room, watching like he was spellbound. That, of course, made me sing harder and better, and I poured everything I had into the restof it. At the end, I got the cheering equivalent of a standing O, and when I rolled across the room for cookies afterward, Ian followed and met me there.

We both held still for a few seconds too long.

“That was a hell of a song,” he said at last, his expression focused and warm and non-robot-like. The sound of the real Ian filled me with longing.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve never met anybody who could sing like you do.”

Now I smiled. “Thank you.”

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