I watch as he pulls out of my drive, the dented green truck disappearing down the road.
I blink and see a teenage boy driving away. I blink again and Milo Carter is gone.
Then I turn to my house, pulling my suitcase behind me.
When I get inside and I close the door, my legs give out beneath me.
I hit the floor and sob.
I let the minutes pass as tears freely fall. It feels good not to control them, to just let the emotions pass through me. When my vision finally clears and the tears stop, I glance to my side and see Milo’s Bible on the floor next to me. I reach for it, opening it to a random page, tracing the notes he left in the margins.
One readsGod’s not a genie. He’s a guide.
I’ve always prayed for others.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to pray for myself.Forgot that it’s okay to admit when I’m not okay. To ask for help. To stop pretending I have it all figured out.
I close my eyes, leaning my head against the door, and give it all to God. The fear. The grief. The parts of me I’ve kept tidy and the parts I’ve tried to hide.
When I open my eyes, nothing is magically fixed—but I feel a little steadier. A little clearer.
I’ve been the good girl for as long as I can remember. The one who does everything right, who smiles through discomfort, who makes it all look easy.
But life isn’t easy.
And if I’m going to face it, I have to do it as myself—not as the version everyone else expects.
I stand slowly, my feet finding the floor again, and roll my suitcase to my bedroom before I go to the bathroom to wash my face. My eyes are puffy and my skin splotchy from crying, but I smile at my reflection, tracing the evidence of pain still fresh on my face.
Then I splash cold water and scrub, because while I can appreciate the grief, I need Grant to see my clarity.
I choose to walk in the summer heat, letting it warm my bare shoulders. People timidly wave at me when they see me, confirming the gossip chain is alive and well. Who knows what people think happened on my impromptu road trip with Milo, but I can guarantee it’s not the whole truth.
Grant sees me through the glass before I open the door to his store. He swallows when I enter, and I can tell he’s bracing himself.
“Hey, Grant.” I greet him with a grateful smile.
“Sadie.” My name is quiet but firm.
I shrug. “I’m not sure exactly what to say.”
His brow quirks. “You with Milo?”
“Milo’s—” I pause. “Well, I’m figuring some things out for myself.”
“Like what?” he asks.
I turn my head and look out the large glass window, my reflection faint against the view of the building I’ve worked in across from Grant for almost seven years. I’ve waved at him through that glass thousands of times, stepped into this hardware store for one thing and left with three, stood beside him at community events where our names were already known before we said them.
Grant and I aren’t strangers—we’re rooted in this town, part of its history.
“Like why you decided to ask me outafterMilo came back? I know you said you finally gained the courage, but the timing . . .” I trail off, tilting my head, gazing intently at Grant.
His eyes dart down toward the counter until he finally meets mine, his face softer than it was seconds ago. “Truthfully?”
I nod. “I’m only accepting honesty these days.”
He removes his ball cap and runs a hand through his dark hair. “I thought I had more time.”
