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“So,” I start.
“Shut up,” she says, then stomps back inside.
I bite my lips and follow her to the living room, where she flops down onto the couch and stares blankly at the opposite wall.
Feeling very much like I’m treading on thin ice, I settle a few feet away from her.
“You’re upset with me,” I hazard.
She shakes her head, still with the empty, glazed-eyed expression. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers.
“What isn’t?”
“Everything.”
Tears fill her eyes and spill over, even as her expression doesn’t change.
Alarm bells ring in my head and race down my nerve endings. I scoot closer to her. “Peapod, talk to me.”
She shakes her head again, then sniffs and wipes her cheeks with her palms. Finally, she looks at me, and the pain in her eyes lands like a knife to my chest.
“It’s all fucked up, Lucas.”
The air in my lungs crystallizes, then shatters like glass. My numb lips miraculously shape words, make sounds. “What is?”
“Everything.” She stares blankly at the fireplace. “I don’t… do well with change.”
As hard as it is, I keep my mouth shut and brace for the worst.
Finally, she says, “My parents are selling Main Street Flowers and buying an RV. They’re leaving this fall to travel around the States. I know I should be happy for them—I am happy for them. Hell, I’ve dropped hints for years that they should retire and travel. They’ve always talked about it, and I think they would have done it years ago if it hadn’t been for…”
For her. For Damien.
“Anyway, I’m a selfish asshole because now that it’s happening, I don’t want them to go. I want things to stay the same.” She sniffs and sits upright, her shoulders squaring. “It’s immature, I know.”
“Come here, Peapod.”
I open my arms, half expecting her to reject my offer of comfort, but to my surprise, she shifts and sags against my chest. The ache in my heart magnifies—and impossibly, also eases—as I wrap my arms around her. Giving in to temptation, I bury my nose in her hair and kiss her head.
“It’s not stupid. It’s perfectly understandable. Change is scary, especially when you’ve lived through what you have. There’s no rule that says you have to be brave all the time.”
“I don’t feel brave,” she whispers, and I know she’s talking about more than her parents leaving. She’s talking about us.
“Neither do I.”
When she tries to lift her head, I snuggle her closer. She eventually gives up, relaxing again. Her sigh warms the area over my pounding heart.
“What are we going to do?” she whispers.
My thoughts race. I know exactly what I want to do, but she’s not ready for it. Might never be. So for now, I say, “We take it one day at a time. How about after your interviews tomorrow morning we pick up whatever supplies we need and repaint the Wild Lake sign?”
There’s a long pause. “Okay.” Then another sigh. “Lucas?” She sounds sleepy now, her voice soft as spring rain.
“Mmm?”
“I missed you so much. I missed my best friend.”
A tsunami of emotion—joy, grief, hope—roars through me. My eyes burn, and my chest convulses as I fight back tears.
