Page 209 of That Rush

She laughs and heads back to the circulation desk.

I stack the leftover activity sheets and refuse to look at the purple cushion near the front of the rug.

Josie always takes that one. She sits close enough to correct my reading voice, explain the illustrations before I turn the book around, and offer plot improvements no author requested. Aiden usually stands beside the picture-book display until she notices him, watching me with the patient focus that used to make the room feel private.

The cushion stayed empty today. So did the space beside the display.

I carry the supply bin into the workroom and wash the glue from my hands, focusing on the routine. Books to the cart. Crayons to their labeled containers. The dragon back on his display. Each task is a small, solid thing to hold onto when the rest of the day is a reminder of who is missing.

I push the cart toward the front of the library and pause beside the romance display I arranged last month. The covers stand face-out in coordinated rows. Warm colors on one shelf. Dark covers beneath them. Illustrated couples in the center, all of them frozen at the perfect point between argument and kiss.

The display looks polished enough to promise every difficult feeling will fit neatly between two covers.

I still believe in the books. I know how much work the characters do before they earn the ending. Today, the display leaves out the part where two people can love each other, tell the truth, and still end up alone on a Friday night.

I turn one crooked paperback until it lines up with the others.

“There. Emotionally devastating, but symmetrical.”

A woman browsing nearby glances at me.

I offer her a small smile. “Professional assessment.”

She smiles and reaches for the book.

I return to the children’s area and crouch beside the craft table. A few paper scraps remain beneath it. I gather them into one hand, then pull the supply bin closer to put away the markers.

A folded sheet of construction paper sticks out from behind the purple cup.

Uneven block letters spell JOSIE across the back.

My fingers stop.

I open it carefully.

Sprinkle dominates the page, purple and enormous, wearing her crown and standing beside my hammock. Three people sit on the cabin porch beneath a yellow sun. Josie has given herself a book. Aiden wears a brown hat despite never wearing one on my porch. I am holding a coffee cup with steam curling high enough to reach the roof.

FRIDAY stretches across the top in purple crayon.

I remember when she drew it. She worked on it while Aiden made breakfast, refusing to let either of us look because the horse’s boots were not finished. We left before she remembered to take it from her backpack, and she must have brought it to the library later.

Josie drew a life we already lived.

I sit back on my heels with the paper resting across my palms. The cabin is mine. The hammock is mine. Every quiet piece of the drawing belongs to the life I built for myself.

Aiden and Josie are there because I chose to let them in.

By the time I pull into the gravel drive, the sun has dropped behind the trees and Josie’s drawing has slid halfway off the passenger seat.

I carry it inside with my purse, set both on the kitchen counter, and stand in the quiet, listening.

The refrigerator hums. A bird calls from somewhere beyond the porch. Wind moves through the open windows, carrying in pine and the faint promise of rain.

My cabin is quiet, peaceful, and mine. It always has been.

Relief settles through me as I change into soft shorts and an old T-shirt, twist my hair onto my head, and pour a glass of wine. I have spent years protecting evenings like this. Nobody needs dinner at a certain time. Nobody asks where I put their shoes. I can read until midnight or fall asleep on the couch at nine.

I take my wine onto the porch and lower myself into the hammock.