Maybe.
Let me think about it.
And I’ve deleted every single one. I’ve Googled the Institut and looked at photos of the campus, the students, and the beautiful rooms where I would be teaching.
I’ve imagined myself there, in Switzerland, in that life.
I’ve imagined myself here, in Copper Creek, in this life.
Both of them feel real. Both of them feel possible. Neither feels like the clear answer.
Thursday night, Wyatt comes over for dinner. I make pasta, something simple, because I just can’t focus enough to make anything complicated. We eat at my tiny table while the sun sets over the mountains.
“You’re sure quiet tonight,” he says.
“Oh, am I?”
“You barely said ten words since I got here. You keep looking at your phone like you’re waiting for something.”
I set my fork down. “Sorry. I’m just distracted.”
“By what?”
I let the question hang in the air because I don’t know what to say. This is my chance. I could tell him right now. I should tell him, but the words just won’t come.
“Oh, work stuff,” I say instead. “Nothing important.”
He studies me for a long moment. His blue eyes are searching for answers. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. Wyatt has always been able to read me better than I would like.
“Okay,” he says finally. “But if you want to talk about it…”
“I know. I will. When I’m ready.”
We finish dinner, do the dishes, and sit on the sofa to watch the last light fade from the sky. But something has shifted between us. A distance that wasn’t there before. And I know it’s all my fault.
Friday morning, I wake up to another email.
Ms. Whitfield,
I wanted to follow up on my previous message. I know this is a big decision, but I must be transparent. We’re on a very tight timeline. If I don’t hear from you by the end of next week, I’m going to need to extend the offer to other candidates. I hope to hear from you soon.
Best,
Genevieve
End of next week. Ten days. Ten days to decide whether to stay or go. Whether to choose the life I’ve been building for the last few months or the life I was raised for.
I close my laptop and put my head in my hands.
Saturday at Meredith’s garden, I’m distracted and clumsy. I pull up a seedling that wasn’t a weed. I overwater the tomatoes, and I nearly trip over the garden hose twice.
“Okay,” Meredith says finally, setting down her pruning shears. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“Whatever’s got you wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. You’ve been somewhere else all morning.”
“I’m fine.”
