ROWAN
There’sa festive hum in the air as I steer a sweet little beagle mix through historic downtown Sycamore Falls. The sidewalks are busy but not chaotic — couples bundled in scarves, kids clutching hot chocolate, shop doors chiming as people pop in and out with full bags and wide smiles.
It’s nothing like Chicago.
There, I’d keep my head down. Earbuds in. Anonymous in a sea of rushing bodies.
Here, I make eye contact. I say hello to Grandma Estelle outside the café and wave at a little boy I recognize from taking Jemmy to story time.
After only a few months, I know names. I know stories. I know who just got engaged and whose son made varsity.
I know which chapters in Grandma Estelle’s latest book have the spiciest bits.
I almost feel like I belong.
Almost.
I refuse to admit I actually do.
Because I’m not supposed to belong.
I’m not supposed to plant roots or grow attached to towns with charming downtown stores and handsome single dads.
I’m just supposed to follow my joy.
Which is exactly what Groucho Barx is doing, his nose to the pavement as he drags me toward the bakery like he’s on a mission from God.
“You are not subtle,” I inform him.
He sneezes and doubles down, attempting to pull me inside.
“Fine. I’ll get you a pup cup on the way back.”
His ears lift and his tail wags. With the future promise of a treat, he allows me to steer him away from downtown, the noise fading behind us. Unlike last week, I make a deliberate turn that avoids the cemetery.
Especially today.
What would I even say if I stood in front of Cora’s headstone?
Hi. You don’t know me, but your husband is extraordinary in bed. And don’t even get me started on that thing he does with his tongue. You know what I’m talking about.
Not exactly appropriate.
Instead, I follow a quieter street until we reach asmall park a few blocks away. With almost everyone downtown or at the Christmas festival, the park is essentially empty, allowing me to unclip Groucho’s leash to let him run free, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
As if he’s not worried about when the next time he’ll be able to do this might be.
This is what I admire about animals. They don’t worry about things in the future. Their sole focus is on what’s in front of them right now. And right now, Groucho’s sole focus is on chasing after the tennis ball I throw across the field.
I inhale a deep breath, savoring the simplicity of this moment.
Cold air in my lungs. Sunlight filtering through bare branches. A dog losing its mind over felt and rubber.
Then my phone rings, cutting through the peaceful silence. I reach for my cell, Emily’s name popping up on the screen. I almost don’t answer.
Not because I don’t want to talk to her. But because I have no idea what I’m going to say.
It’s why I’ve been avoiding her since I found the letter all those weeks ago.
