Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
Then Courtney’s words replay in my mind:“new things aren’t so bad”and“he’s missing out.”
What have I been missing out on?
I glance at the chocolate cookie-dough pie sitting in the passenger seat. My stomach groans. I forgot to eat lunch since I was making this exact pie my sister requested.
I keep plastic forks, spoons, and napkins in the glove compartment just in case anyone needs one.
I sit down in my seat, eyeing the pie. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a piece of pie.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve opened the glove compartment and retrieved a plastic fork. I bite my bottom lip and take a deep breath.
“It’s just one piece.”
I unbuckle the pie, open the lid, and the aroma makes my stomach groan again. I use my fork to gently scoop up some whipped topping. It immediately melts on my tongue as if nothing was there. So this time I scoop deeper, making sure to get to the thick chocolate. My eyes flutter when I take a bite.
I really do make a good pie.
I take several bites, a thrill beginning to dance up my spine with each bite. After a fourth of the pie is gone, I put the lid back on and buckle the pie back into place. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink, and my brown eyes are sparkling. I’m not sure the last time I’ve seen myself—what’s the word?
Happy?
Have I really not been happy?
But I think that’s what I am right now, and I know it’s not the pie. I glance at the list, smiling softly.
What if I . . .?
No, I couldn’t.
But I could.
What if I added to this list?
I make lists all the time. Lists to make sure I don’t forget to do something. Lists to ensure everything in life goes according to plan.
Except, whose plan?
That’s really the question that’s been nagging at me.
Whose plan am I following?
What pieces of me are actuallyme, and what pieces were built from years of meeting other people’s expectations? I’m scared of doing something new—of doing it wrong, of disappointing someone, of not being good.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie . . .
I retrieve a pen from my purse, picking up the list. Then I cross offOrder dessert first.
My smile widens as I begin to write.
I’ve always wanted to travel, to anywhere and everywhere. I used to cut out destinations from my mom’s magazines when I was little. Beaches. Mountains. Deserts. Big cities. Anything that made me feel like there was something different to discover.
So I write . . .
