Page 47 of Five Summer Wishes

“From Boston.”

“Ah.”

She wiped her hands on a towel and handed me a glass of lemonade. Real. Tart. Slightly too strong.

“What’s the number?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t open the full doc.”

“That’s new for you.”

I sat beside her. “It feels like going back would be giving up.”

“Or maybe staying is the bigger risk.”

“I don’t know how to stay.”

Willa looked at me, her voice quiet. “Then maybe you need to stop trying to get it right, and start getting itreal.”

I sipped my lemonade.

She leaned her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be here.”

The wind picked up. The painting dried under a stretch of midafternoon sun. I held the glass tighter than I needed to, just to keep myself tethered.

That night,I found my list.

The one I’d written after the potluck. The one that started not with action items, but with truths.

I added a line.

I want to stop proving I’m okay.

And then Iopened my laptop.

The cursor blinked like it was waiting for permission.

I didn’t give it an answer.

Just this:

Thank you for the offer. I need more time.

Then I closed the lid and stepped away.

I walked out to the porch. The swing was empty. The house behind me quiet.

I sat, phone in hand, thumb hovering.

Then, finally, I texted Nate.

I told them I need more time.

His reply came quickly.

That’s a good start.

14

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