Page 25 of Hooked on Emerson
As his truck pulled away, she remained on the sidewalk, the air becoming thicker against her skin without his presence to keep her mind off it. The weight of decision still pressed on her, but now it felt different. It was less like a burden and more like a privilege. The freedom to choose, to decide her own path.
Seattle or Millfield. New beginnings or deeper roots.
But now she wondered if perhaps she didn’t have to choose between the two at all. If maybe there was a way to honor both the pull of adventure and the tug of connection. If she really could build something new without leaving everything behind.
Ava touched the lavender charm on her wrist, feeling its delicate metal petals, and she turned to head home with her mind churning.
Amonth later, Ava sat cross-legged on her living room floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes she'd pulled from the hall closet. Each one contained pieces of her mother—old photo albums with faded corners, recipe cards with splattered stains, Christmas ornaments wrapped in yellowing tissue paper. She finally felt it was time to start sorting through things.
The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across the hardwood and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. She'd been at it for hours, sorting through what to keep, what to store, what to let go. The process felt both necessary and impossible. How do you decide which pieces of someone to hold onto?
Her fingers brushed over an old leather journal, its spine cracked from years of use. She recognized it immediately—her mother's garden diary, where she'd documented every plantshe'd ever grown, every season's bloom and fade. Ava opened it carefully, her mother's handwriting flowing across the pages in blue ink. Notes about soil conditions and frost dates, sketches of garden layouts, pressed flower petals still holding their color after years between the pages.
Near the back, she found what she'd been thinking about all week—the list. "Someday" written across the top in her mother's bold script, underlined twice. Below it, items crossed off (Plant climbing roses by the back gate. Learn to make sourdough bread.) and others still waiting (Take that train to Oregon. See the northern lights.).
Ava ran her finger along the uncompleted items, feeling the indentation of her mother's pen in the paper. All these things left undone. All these experiences they'd never share.
A memory surfaced—her mother sitting at the kitchen table, this same journal open before her, adding something to the list with a smile playing at her lips.What's that one?twelve-year-old Ava had asked, peering over her shoulder. Her mother had closed the book with a laugh.That's between me and someday, she'd said, tapping Ava's nose with her pen.
Without thinking too much about why, she reached for a notepad on the coffee table and began writing. Her own list, not of someday possibilities but of concrete plans. Things to do before making her decision about Seattle. Experiences to have while she still could, in this town, with these people.
1. Visit the sunrise market in Fairview (Mom always talked about their heirloom tomatoes)
2. Go canoeing on Miller's Pond (We always meant to but never made time)
3. Find that old bookshop in Westdale she loved
4. Dance under the lights at the Harvest Festival
She stared at the list, pen hovering. After a moment's hesitation, she added a fifth item:
5. Figure out what I really want
The last one made her smile ruefully. As if she could check that off like buying groceries or mailing a package. But seeing it written down made it feel more tangible somehow, like acknowledging the question was the first step toward finding an answer.
Her phone buzzed beside her, Emerson's name lighting up the screen. Her heart did that little jump it had started doing whenever he called or texted.
"Hey," she answered, leaning back against the couch.
"Hey." His voice was warm through the speaker. "Just checking if you need anything for tomorrow. I'm at the hardware store."
Tomorrow. The Harvest Festival. Where she'd be selling flowers from a booth all day, where Emerson had promised to help. Where there would be dancing under string lights once the sun went down.
"I think I'm all set," she said. "Just finished making up the bouquet samples."
"Alright. I'll be by early to help load up."
There was a pause, comfortable but filled with the unspoken. She could picture him in the hardware store aisle, phone pressed to his ear, probably absently examining some tool or fixture while they talked.
"Actually," she said suddenly, "there is something."
"Name it."
She glanced down at her list, heart thumping. "I made a list. Things I want to do before I decide about Seattle. I was wondering if maybe you'd want to help me with it."
The line went quiet for a moment. She could hear the faint sounds of the store in the background—a cart rolling by, someone asking about paint colors.
"What kind of things?" he finally asked, his voice cautious yet curious.
