“A holiday special,” my sister added with a small smile of her own.
Call it intuition, but something told me that the return to filming wouldn’t make a difference. Ian would still prioritize George. And I worried some of that would continue to extend to me as well.
“Maybe things should change,” I finally admitted. “It might be easier if we kept our distance.”
“Easier for who?” Candace asked, her tone gentle, her expression even more so.
I shook my head, knowing the answer but unwilling to voice it aloud.
Ian’s presence in my life—in this town—felt natural, easy in a way I never would have predicted.
I couldn’t remember what my days looked like before he was running beside me. Or a time when George wasn’t following along behind me in the fields. Or what it felt like to eat dinner alone in my kitchen, without a drawing from the kid on my refrigerator and a friendship bracelet on my arm.
Three months from now, I didn’t want only memories keeping me company, ghosts from a fraction of my life, haunting me at every turn.
Like a damn mind reader, my sister said, “If you’re worried about getting attached or Ian leaving in the spring, I think you should trust that you’re both adults. Adults communicate. Adults compromise. Adults figure shit out.” She made uncomfortably intense eye contact. “Be an adult.”
I nodded, unable to resist my amused smile to go along with it. A year ago, I never could have imagined Candace being brave enough to disagree with me. She wouldn’t have wanted to rock the boat or force an uncomfortable conversation. She wouldn’t have inserted herself into my business or given me any sort of advice, and, honestly, I would never have considered asking.
It was proof that we’d come a long way since my sister had moved back home. We talked. We communicated. We compromised. We figured shit out ... like adults.
Maybe that’s what relationships were. A journey. Not a path with one single destination. Maybe you didn’t cross a finish line or reach “the end” when you were dealing with people.
I recalled a little hand holding out a beaded bracelet.
I thought of terrible coffee in a travel mug just for me, a clean-shaven jaw beneath my palm, sneakers hitting the dirt next to mine.
Maybe—just maybe—there was room for the path to grow.
Ian
I got a text from Joan just as I was settling into the hair and makeup chair at 5:22 a.m. on the first day back to filming.
Joan: What do you call someone who takes care of chickens?
Of course, she didn’t give me a chance to respond. She immediately replied with the punchline.
Joan: A chicken tender.
“Mouth relaxed,” the makeup artist called suddenly.
I worked to control my grin. “Sorry, Imogen.”
Me: Are you flirting with me, Joan Judd?
Joan: No.
Joan: Maybe.
Joan: I know people your age are into texting. I thought I could at least try.
Hmm. I wondered what had brought this on. I tried not to read too much into it. Didn’t want to get my hopes up.
The last time we’d kissed, Joan had been confused and unsure. She was the steadiest person I’d ever met. It had been strange to see her so hesitant and indecisive. Knowing I’d been the one to throw her off hadn’t made mefeel any better either.
When I looked at her, I felt like I’d never been more sure of anything in my life. If she wasn’t there yet, I wasn’t going to push her. I’d made that mistake early on, and I wouldn’t be repeating it.
Did I want to kiss her again? Of course, I did. I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that. But she needed to be on board. I didn’t want to be the only thing in Joan’s life that made her question herself.
