His bushy brows bunch together.
I roll my eyes up and shake my head. “I mean, youknowme.”
“So, what’s the question?”
“Am I . . . Am I the same girl I’ve always been?” The words land hard, my heart hammering.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie,I repeat in my head.
“You want honesty?” he asks, his blue eyes boring into me.
“Aren’t you always?” I raise my brows.
“No. The girl I once knew wouldn’t need to ask that question. She was too busy living the ‘what-ifs’ instead of asking about them,” he answers.
“So . . .” I trail off again.
“Sadie,” he huffs. “I can’t give you the answers you want. Have you tried asking the girl in the mirror? Seems like you ain’t happy with who you are.”
I swallow and stand, suddenly uncomfortable with Joe’s honesty.
“I’ll be back to wash that dish,” I mutter.
“I can wash a dish,” he says softly, though firm.
I pour the rest of my latte down the drain before throwing the cup in the trash can. “See you next Saturday,” I say.
He grunts. “I could walk down and get my own scone.”
“With a new hip, maybe.” I give Joe a half smile and then walkback to the front door, but instead of taking my usual right, I go left.
I walk for a while. I pass the park, smiling faintly as kids scream and race down slides and parents push babies in swings or sit on benches, holding coffee from Buttercup Brew while they talk.
My phone buzzes, and I reach into my pocket to grab it, but I feel the corner of the list. I glance around before taking it out to unfold it. I read the words again, my eyes spying the hardware store down the street.
Why not paint a wall or two?
I fold the list back up and slide it back inside my pocket, ignoring another buzz from my phone reminding me I have a message.
When I get to the hardware store, I stare into the window and see that Grant is helping a customer.
I take a deep breath and open the door. Immediately I notice how Grant’s eyes flicker up and linger for a few seconds, making my cheeks warm slightly.
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson. Let me know how you like that new hammer,” Grant says before his eyes are back on me.
I wait until Mr. Wilson leaves before I walk up to the counter. “Hi, Grant.”
“Sadie,” he replies. “Did the stain match?”
I nod. “Perfectly, but I’m in need of some paint.”
He turns around and starts to open the filing cabinet.
“No,” I say. “I’m looking for something new.”
He turns back around, crossing his arms, and my attention snags—not on his words, but on the easy strength in his stance. I look away. “What are you thinking?”
“Um, I’m not sure, but I want muscle. I mean . . . color.” I clear my throat as all my blood floods my face.
