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I wondered then as I put the cookies in the oven, and Auddie babbled her goodbyes, talking excitedly about going down to the printers to get the books bound, if I ever would have realized that on my own. If none of this had ever happened, if my life hadn’t needed to be uprooted, if Gunner hadn’t put me here, left me here, making me dive into a bottle, be a hungover mess, and appeal to the good nature of the sweet woman across the street. Would I ever have realized that no matter what I did in life, I should be happy doing it?
Honestly, probably not.
I would have kept valuing myself for my work ethic, for my level of production, for my name and respect.
Without ever giving thought to my own happiness.
Not comfort, like having my bills paid, like knowing I would be okay even if I lost everything, if the economy took a turn again, and the demand for designer handbags tanked.
But happiness.
I couldn’t claim to exactly be happy right now. There was still darkness, still pain, still nightmares, still unfulfilled desires.
But I could feel hints of it.
It was a warm thing, happiness.
It was like the touch of spring on buds after a long winter, coaxing them to open up.
And I realized as I took out cookies that weren’t burnt, that didn’t spread, that were the perfect mixture of sweet and gooey, that happiness wasn’t just something you were or not. It was something you chose, something you cultivated, a goal you worked toward.
I set my mind right then to doing just that.
Choosing happiness.
Cultivating it wherever I found it, so it grew.
Working on it even when I didn’t feel like it.
I had one shot at this thing called life.
I was going to do my best to find some joy in it.
Which was what I set to doing after I put the cookies on a rack to cool.
I went over toward my dining table which, since I moved here, hadn’t been used for dining at all, making me eat on my couch much like I had scoffed at Gunner and his team about. It was now my craft table with graphite pencils, markers, acrylics, watercolor paint, brushes, you name it. It was covered.
My easel sat in the center, looking out on the balcony, so I had something pretty to look at when I gave my eyes a break from my projects.
Then I worked, finding myself humming here and there, lost in my little world, putting what I hoped was my best work into creating something the art teacher at the shop would approve of, would like enough to hire me to create and teach to others.
It wasn’t until the sun was casting reds, purples, and pinks across the sky that there was a knocking at my door.
“No way did Billy work his magic that fast,” I declared as I moved to stand, reaching up to brush my hair behind my ear before I undid the locks, and opened the door.
But it wasn’t Auddie standing there.
Oh, no.
It was the last person in the world I ever expected to see on my doorstep.
It was Gunner.
I had been trying. You know, to move on. To suppress the thoughts of him when they popped up. Which was incredibly frequently. To pretend I didn’t wake up longing for him at night.
It was all I could do… try.
I had thought maybe I was making progress too.
But then here he was.
Looking just as good as I remembered, if maybe a bit more tired, a bit more tan, a bit more… rough, even.
And my belly fluttered.
Actually fluttered.
Like I was a teenager with a crush.
“Gunner?” I heard my voice ask, sounding as confused as I felt. “What are you doing here?” I added when he just seemed to stare at me, those green eyes of his boring into me, reading me, picking up on everything like he always so effortlessly seemed able to do.
There was a long moment of nothing before he raised his hand, drawing my attention to the fact that there was a newspaper there for the first time.
Arm straight, the paper was right in my face.
My gaze shifted reluctantly, not wanting to look away from him, almost afraid that if I did, he might disappear.
But he clearly wanted me to read the paper.
Rodrigo Cortez Found Dead.
And just like that, just like the night I saw this man take someone else’s life, everything changed.
“What?” I heard myself hiss, my stomach swirling and sinking somehow at the same time. “Cortez is dead?” I asked, looking over at Gunner, actually needing his confirmation. As though the biggest, most reputable newspaper in the city would put a false headline on the front page.
“You called,” he said, making my belly drop for an altogether different reason. I had, mostly, been able to stop being embarrassed about said call. Because I had worked really hard never to think about it. “You called and cried about not wanting to be here.”
