What’s best forme?
I put my phone down and pick up the list, contemplating what I should try next.
I’m not quite ready to kiss a stranger or get a tattoo. Those ideas seem extreme, and right now, I need to find my balance with this idea of trying new things.
Speeding was fun. Eating dessert ruined dinner, but it was still worth it even if my stomach is now growling because I didn’t eat anything but sugar.
I put my hand on my rumbling waist. “Calm down. I’ll find something to warm up,” I say.
I look back down at the list in my hands.
Wear something just because I like it.
That seems small. Inconsequential. Like it wouldn’t draw too much attention.
“Maybe that’s what I’ll do next,” I say, but the words feel loud in my empty house—my empty house that doesn’t feel like mine because I’ve just kept up what was left behind from the previous owners. White walls, trim stained Early American, and wood floors stained lighter in a color Grant could probably read from my file.
I glare at the sterile walls that don’t even feature a nail hole. I told myself I’d get around to it. That I’d eventually have photos and paintings I wanted to hang. But I never have.
I grab a pen.
Paint the walls in my house.
Another thing on the list.
A knock at the door startles me before my shoulders slump.
If I were a battery, I’d be melted from overuse.
Pies. Produce. Prayer chains.
Why aren’t people making me pies? Putting me on prayer lists?
I imagine for a second, someone texting about my needs . . .
Hey. Sadie Summers is struggling right now, and by right now, I mean for the last seven years, ever since her dad was in that car accident and she abandoned everything to ensure her family didn’t fall apart. She’s stuck now. In a Groundhog Day of sameness. Same books. Same cookies. Same Sadie. She needs to somehow break the monotony of a life she’s built that doesn’t feel like hers. And if she says she’s fine, she’s lying to preserve your own peace. Send this on.
But that message would never get sent.
Sadie Summers is the one who prays for others, not the one who needs to be prayed for.
After all, my life doesn’t look like it’s falling apart. I have a good job, a nice house, and a smile on my face always.
I take a few more moments to compose myself before dragging my feet to the front door.
When I open it, no one is there.
But when I look down, there’s a plate wrapped in tin foil. I pick it up, peeking at the contents beneath.
Meat loaf and potatoes.
Then I hear the faint but familiar sound ofhisengine. I hurry down my sidewalk and see his faded green truck turning at the next corner.
My shoulders slump even more.
Because I know I don’t hate Milo Carter. I don’t even dislike him a little.
But it might be easier if I did.
