But staying closed off hasn’t exactly worked out great either.
I think about what Ellen said at the coffee shop—Find someone who makes you feel stuff. Like, real stuff.
I think about Delilah’s face when she asked if I was still blocked. The way her voice softened. The way she looked at me like she actually cared about the answer.
Maybe I’m about to make a huge mistake.
But for the first time in ten years, I’m ready to find out.
I close my notebook, grab my guitar, and start playing something new.
SEVEN
DELILAH
Mom’s house is too quiet.
I’ve been here awhile now, and I still haven’t gotten used to it. The creak of the old floors. The hum of the refrigerator. The absence of another human being breathing, moving, existing in the same space.
Mom left for Florida three weeks ago. “Just for the winter,” she said, which in Eleanor Smart language means “until I decide otherwise.” She’s staying with her sister, sending me daily photos of sunsets and shuffleboard tournaments and plates of food I’m pretty sure she’s not supposed to eat.
I’m happy for her. Really. She deserves rest after running the flower shop for forty years.
But the house feels enormous withouther.
I eat my breakfast standing at the kitchen counter because sitting at the table alone feels too sad. Toast and coffee. The breakfast of women who are definitely fine and not at all lonely.
I rinse my plate and grab my keys.
Time to go talk to flowers. At least they don’t judge me for eating toast over the sink.
The flyer catchesmy eye while I’m restocking the front counter.
Second Chance Rescue—Adoption Event This Saturday.
Someone must have pinned it to my community board while I wasn’t looking. There’s a photo of a scruffy terrier with one ear up and one ear down, looking at the camera like it’s personally offended by the concept of photography.
I should take it down. I’m not in the market for a dog. I work long hours. I live in my mother’s house. I’m not even sure I’m staying in Twin Waves permanently.
I leave the flyer where it is.
By noon, I’ve looked at itapproximately fifty times.
By two o’clock, I’ve googled “German Shepherd mix temperament” and “how much exercise do dogs need” and “signs you’re ready for a pet.”
By closing time, I’m in my car, driving toward the rescue shelter on the edge of town, telling myself I’m just looking.
Just looking.
The shelter is a converted barn painted cheerful yellow, surrounded by fenced yards where dogs of various sizes are doing dog things—sniffing, running, barking at absolutely nothing. A hand-painted sign over the door readsSecond Chance Rescue: Where Every Pet Gets a New Beginning.
The woman at the front desk has gray hair, kind eyes, and a name tag that says “Barb.”
“Just browsing?” she asks.
“Just looking,” I confirm.
Barb smiles like she’s heard that before. “Take your time. Let me know if anyone catches your eye.”
