Page 21 of A Match Made In Fall

“Hold on.”

A few seconds pass which means she’s up to something. “Elise⁠—”

“Okay,” she says. “Austin Reed. Defenseman. Carolina Bears. From Northern California. Six-three. Very good-looking.”

I burst out laughing. “Of course you Googled him.”

“Um, that’s my responsibility as your friend. I need to do my own research and gather my own conclusions. Don’t forget that I’m a lawyer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious. This is important. I can’t just let you wing it on your own.”

“Fine. And what conclusion have you come to, counselor?”

“Oh, I absolutely approve.”

I laugh again. “Thank you. Your opinion is important.”

“You know I always have your back,” she reminds me.

“And I always have yours.”

We stay on the phone for a while longer, chatting the way we always do. She fills me in on everything happening with her—mostly business and cases she’s working on.

By the time we’re off the phone, I’m smiling. Although my smile fades quickly as I’m reminded that I miss my life. I miss my apartment, my friends, dancing. And most of all, I miss feeling like myself.

At the same time, there’s something exciting about being here. And about Austin.

And maybe this is what scares me the most.

“I cannot believe we still have all of this,” I say, searching through a box of memories from my childhood and teen years. One of several boxes I forgot existed.

My mom laughs from where she’s sitting across from me. “I wasn’t going to throw away your things without asking.”

“I wouldn’t have even known.”

She gives me a look. “I’m sure you would’ve asked about it at some point.”

Sunlight pours through the front window as I dig through another box labeled Isabella Lynn Martin in faded black marker.

This must be what it feels like to travel down memory lane.

So far, I’ve found old dance costumes, competition makeup bags. Some tangled jewelry in plastic containers, and a bin of hair accessories. Plus posters, event programs, and journals. I set them aside because there’s nothing more cringey than reading entries from teenage Isabella. They will provide many hours of humiliating entertainment.

I hold up a sparkly leopard-print leotard with an attached skirt. “Oh my gosh. This was one of my favorite costumes.”

My mom raises an eyebrow. “You’ve said that about every costume.”

“Not every single one.”

She gives me a look that says yes, every single one, and I laugh.

I keep digging, pulling memories out one at a time. A hoodie from dance nationals my sophomore year and several pairs of dance shoes.

It’s like I’m sorting through pieces of another person’s life, even though I lived every second of it.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes from somewhere beneath the piles of stuff.