"Then you'll deal with that too. But Lucy?" Emma waits until I'm looking at her. "Stop waiting for other people to decide if you're worth fighting for. You are. You always have been. And anyone who doesn't see that doesn't deserve you."
The words hit something deep. How many times have I waited for someone else to choose me? To decide I was worth the effort, worth the risk, worth staying for?
When I wake the next morning, Connor's already gone. Left early for a work thing, Emma tells me when I come downstairs. Translation: he couldn't handle facing me.
Part of me is relieved. Part of me is hurt all over again.
Dad gestures to the kitchen table. "Sit with me for a minute?"
"I want to apologize," Dad says once I'm settled. "For the other night. For not shutting Connor down sooner."
"Dad, you don't have to say anything."
"I do." His voice is firm. "What Connor said was inappropriate and hurtful."
My throat goes tight.
"Lucy, you have always been the bravest of my children. You feel things deeply. You love completely. You take chances that scare the rest of us. And yes, sometimes you get hurt." Dad reaches across the table and takes my hand. "But you've never let that stop you. You've never let heartbreak turn you bitter or cynical. That takes courage, sweetheart. Real courage."
"Connor thinks it makes me reckless."
"Connor thinks anything he can't control is reckless." Dad's smile is wry. "Don't let anyone, not Connor, not anyone, convince you that's something to apologize for."
The tears spill over. Dad squeezes my hand and waits while I swipe at my face.
"Thanks, Dad," I manage.
Dad brings over a plate of pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream, trying to make them the way Mom used to. "Eat. Everything's better with pancakes."
He's not wrong.
Around noon, I retreat to my room and pick up my phone. Stare at it for a long moment. Then I open my messages and type:
Me:Hey. I know the other night was a lot. I just wanted to check in. Hope you're okay.
I read it three times. Delete "Hope you're okay," replace it with "We should talk." Delete that too. Put "Hope you're okay" back.
Finally, before I can overthink it anymore, I hit send.
The message delivers. I watch the screen for a minute, then two, then five.
Nothing.
It's fine. He's probably busy. He'll respond when he can.
And if he doesn't? If this is his way of ending things?
Then I'll deal with it. I'll hurt, I'll cry, I'll let myself feel it all. And then I'll move forward.
Maybe it's time I start believing in me too.
I spend the afternoon with Emma, watching movies and avoiding the tension. We make it through two episodes of some cooking competition show before my willpower breaks and I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
"Stop," Emma says without looking away from the TV.
"Stop what?"
