“Okay, well.” He pushes off his thighs to stand up. “I’ll let you get back to…” He waves his hand at the convenience store.
“Writing,” I blurt for a reason unbeknownst to me.
He falters in his retreat, eyes lighting up with surprise. “Writing?”
I nod, sheepish.
“You’re writing again?” His entire face brightens. “What are you writing about?”
You, my mind screams like a juvenile.
But out loud, I shrug and say, “I’m trying to write a romance novel. And I’m forcing myself to finish it this time.”
I’m shocked at the confession. I haven’t told anyone else yet. Lately, I’ve been having more conversations with Declan than my actual friends.
His smile fades, and I stare at his lips, the ones that always look like they’ve just eaten fresh cherries. I think about the way I’ve kissed him a thousand times through the pages of my book. His eyes press into mine so hard I’m surprised they don’t pin me to the convenience store wall. “That’s good, Blair,” he says, voice suddenly strained. “That’s really good.”
I’d never heard a statement sound so much like “I’m proud of you” without saying the words.
I offer him a grateful smile. He nods repeatedly and walks backward, raising his hand to say a wordless goodbye.
And then I’m left in front of the convenience store I was raised in, with a blueprint of Lottie’s cottage in my hands, the matured form of my first love walking away.
Chapter 19
There are aspects of myself that are unrecognizable since Lottie’s passing. Things I would have considered “out of character” two months ago are now my natural dispositions.
For example, calculating how long I have before seeing another human being to make sure I have enough time to cry without my face looking blotchy. Or constantly thinking about what Roshi and Faye are up to. Or most notably, my inability to spend an entire day alone. Like right now. I took the day off work to figure out what I’m doing with the cottage, but I find myself searching for something to procrastinate with instead of facing the life-altering decisions I have before me. Mymom has zipped off to one of the convenience stores to start some litany of never-ending tasks, so she’s not around for me to bother, and I’ve already opened my manuscript and stared into the void of the blank white page and blinking cursor for long enough to count as “writing.”
Usually, I’d go on a run or journal or do any other number of things I used to find bearable before this gnawing sensation of anxiety opened in my stomach at the thought of Lottie not being around. At the thought of my world being irreversibly changed.
So, that’s how I ended up on the cottage’s doorstep. Alone. I’ve visited with both my mom and Declan. But perhaps taking it in by myself will help move the decision-making process along. Especially after seeing my mom cry for the first time yesterday, leaving Seabrook was starting to sound like a lofty concept from my previous life. The one that had Lottie in it.
As I’m unlocking the door and stepping inside, an incoming call from Roshi lights up my phone.
Huh. It is her first time calling me since Lottie died, the part of my brain teeming with resentment remarks. But what was I expecting? Was I going to continue measuring her by some impossible measuring stick? You didn’t call me then, so if you call me now, I won’t pick up.
I hit answer.
“Hey, Rosh,” I say as the door swings open.
“Blink!” she trills. “Ugh, I’ve missed you! Sorry I haven’t called. Prep for law school has felt precariously close to actual law school. But how is everything? Fill me in!”
Her voice is so excited, but my updates for her aren’t. How do I begin to tell her that every section of my life feels shrouded in hurt and indecision? In the four years we’ve been friends, I’d never been the type to be emotional. How would I start now?
As I’m mulling it over, I’ve already allowed too long a pause to stretch on as I step into the quiet living room.
“Blink?” Roshi says wearily. “You alright?”
And those two words are all it takes for everything to come gushing out.
I stare at the bookshelf attached to the small desk, lined with books Lottie bought for me as a child, and in a tiny, breaking voice, I say: “No.” A sniffly inhale punctuates the word. “I’m not alright.”
“Oh, Blink,” she coos in sympathy. “No, don’t cry. Or do cry but tell me everything.”
And so I do. Falling onto the cream-colored couch I was on a mere eighteen hours ago with Declan, I tell her everything about the cottage, the convenience stores, and the letter I never received. And for the first time, I let Roshi listen. And she does. It shouldn’t have shocked me, but I had excluded the possibility before giving her the chance.
“He made you a blueprint?” Roshi shouts.
