I blink, gripping the edge of the counter. “Of course I’m here.”
There’s a beat of silence before she hums knowingly. “You were thinking abouthimjust now, weren’t you?”
I exhale sharply, but I don’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
I open my mouth, then shut it.
Whatisstopping me?
On the other end of the line, I hear Annabelle starting what sounds like the bathtub. “Look. I’m not saying you have to marry the guy, but atleastlet yourself have fun.”
Marry the guy . . .
Marry.
The word lodges itself in my brain like a rogue splinter. I shake my head, forcing out a laugh.
“I will not be dating him, let alone marry him.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “He lives a plane ride away.”
Annabelle makes a noncommittal noise, and I envision her dusting her bathwater with lavender Epsom salts. “So?”
“So?” I repeat incredulously. “Hello! Long distance? Have you met me? I can barely keep up with my own schedule, let alone coordinate FaceTime calls across time zones.”
She exhales. “God, you’re exhausting.”
I frown. “Excuseme?”
“Lucy.” Her voice is patient but laced with amusement. “I saidfun—notforever. No one is forcing you to pick out a wedding dress.”
Agitated, I aggressively stir the pasta water, staring into it to see if it’s boiling. “Thenwhydid you put that word in my head?”
She laughs.
“How did this conversation go from you dumping Tim to my relationship issues?”
“Stop projecting.” Annabelle huffs. “You don’t need a five-year plan. You don’t need a color-coded itinerary mapping out your emotional availability. You need to ... I don’t know—do what feels good for once.”
I roll my eyes. “I do what feels good all the time. I’m making pasta right now.”
“That isnotthe same thing.”
I stop stirring. “Annabelle—he is leaving. Why start something when it’s going toend?”
She goes quiet for a beat, and for a second, I think I’ve won. But then she says, “Why are you assuming it has to end? Did he tell you he didn’t want to see you anymore?”
“No,” I admit, gripping the spoon a little tighter. “He didn’t.”
I’ve been daydreaming about going to see him in Arizona but know I can’t afford it.
My pasta water finally starts to boil, little bubbles rising to the surface, but my thoughts are suddenly nowhere near my kitchen.
“Right. So let me get this straight—he’s offering to see you again, and you’re over here acting like you two are Romeo and Juliet, doomed from the start?”
I scowl. “That’s not—”
“Itis, though,” she interrupts, amused. “You’re grieving something that isn’t even dead. You’re so busy bracing for impact that you won’t even let yourself be happy.”
