I even visited the Airbnb listing of Gran’s cottage in Matunuck—to remember old times, but also to check in with the dreams I’d had when I’d been there. To remind myself that it was okay to have dreams. And it was also okay to find new ones.
Did I think about Noah?
All the time.
I thought about how he hadn’t just seen through my defenses—he’d respected them. He never tried to fix me. Never pushed. With Noah, I didn’t have to prove anything. I was already enough.
He’d called me beautiful, and I believed he meant all of me. Not just how I looked, but who I was.
He’d been steady. Present. Willing. Gorgeous. And he’d been exciting, but also grounding. A soft place to land, if I’d let myself fall. And when he said he didn’t want this to end, I believed that too.
But he had his own work to do. Maybe he didn’t fully see that yet—but I did.
So what else could I do? So what choice did I have?
All I could do was take care of my own stuff. One thing at a time.
And maybe, someday, when we were both a little more whole, we’d find our way back.
Maybe not.
One thing at a time.
So…when all this uncertainty crept in, I found myself playing words Mallory had said on one of our phone calls. “We’ve got this, Luna. You’re not the one who should be afraid.”
Even if I was, that was okay.
So by the time the following week rolled around, after driving across the bridge and into Newport, I was ready.
I spotted Mallory leaning against her car in the parking lot outside the station.
She wore a crisp navy jacket and jeans, holding a leather folder like it was just another Tuesday.
“You ready?” Her lips curved into a confident smile.
I tugged at the hem of my patchwork skirt and squared my shoulders. The peasant blouse was soft against my skin, the kind that made me feel like myself again. The skirt swished when I walked, light and familiar.
I nodded. “Ready.”
Then my gaze dropped to my feet.
Right before leaving, Mom had met me at the bottom of the stairs.
"I thought you might want these," she’d said, holding out a pair of sandals.
My K. Jacques?
The ones I’d brought on the trip, thinking I wouldn’t be hiking through any deserts. The ones I’d left behind in my hotel room, broken.
“Babs brought them over earlier,” Mom had added softly. “Said that your friend had them repaired.”
My friend?
Noah.
Of course, he had.
He would’ve tucked them into his suitcase without saying a word. Found someone to fix them. Made sure they got back to me.
