“It’s a two-way street, honey,” Aunt Rosey retorts.
Addie rolls her eyes and pushes the chair back from the table. The legs scraping against the hardwood floor. “If you’ll excuse me. I have some work to do. Thank you for dinner.” She turns on her heel to leave.
“Rose,” Mom scolds.
Aunt Rosey shakes her head. “No. I’ve had it with her bad-mouthing her father. She never bothered to ask about him. Plus, if he had called or written, would she have given him the chance? I don’t think so. She’s as stubborn as a mule.”
“I wonder who she gets that from.” Mom gives her a pointed look.
“Rowan,” Aunt Rosey says. “I think you should see your father.”
I raise my eyebrows in confusion. She tells me that, like it’s so simple, to just go see him. A man I haven’t seen in so long.
“I don’t know where he lives,” I say.
“Three hours away,” Aunt Rosey responds.
My mom's expression is neutral, like her sister isn’t telling me to see a man who most likely didn’t care about us and lives three hours away. Three hours. He is so fucking close to us. For how long? I feel my teeth clench and I try to calm down my breathing.
“He lives three hours away, and he has not once visited,” my voice comes out angry and frustrated. I look at my mom, waiting for her to say something.
She turns to me and grabs my hand in hers. I don’t think I’m going to like where this is going.
thirty-four
ELLIE
I’ve already written halfwaythrough the journal I picked up not that long ago, thought after thought pouring onto the pages.
It’s amazing, really, the way our body goes through stress and anxiety. If I look back through the pages, I can see when I had anxiety, when I felt helpless. My penmanship isn’t clean or legible. It’s fast and sharp, like if someone were rushing to sign documents.
Most of the pages with the desperate handwriting are about work and Charlie. The pages with soft, smooth writing are about my family, friends, and Rowan.
I came across a page I’d written after having my breakdown in front of the girls on emergency movie night. Anxiety was pumping through me the entire night after they left. Some of the lines are shaky or scratched deep into the paper to the point where you can see an indent on the other side. I’ve never felt this much pressure in my life. Not even during culinary school.
I hear a knock on the guest house door and turn from the kitchen table chair to see August peeking his head in.
He gives me a cheesy smile. “Can I come in?”
“Like you even need to ask.” I turn my attention back to my journal, finishing the entry for the day and then closing it.
August walks to the cabinets in the kitchen and grabs himself a glass, then opens the fridge, scanning his options.
“How’s your day going?” he asks and then pulls out a jug of sweet tea.
I relax more into the chair, grabbing my hair to wrap it in a ponytail and out of my face. “My day has consisted of cleaning, going to the farmers market, and journaling. I dropped off the desserts for Mrs. Anderson's show.”
“Oh shit, how did that go? I didn’t know that was today.”
“It was fine. I got there an hour before it started. I’ve never seen someone that excited over something as simple as chocolate and peanut butter.”
August tilts his head and deadpans. “That’s because the favor came from someone who genuinely enjoys what you make. You remember how she always had her daughter buy a box full of pastries when you ran the bake sale? Answer me this: how did it feel to see her react that way?”
I tap my finger on the table and think back to her expression. It was full of light and joy. Such genuine happiness that it made my heart feel full. I didn’t stay to see what she thought about them. But after I left, I felt…happy and calm. I felt like I accomplished something that didn’t give me anxiety. I felt grateful for agreeing to do it when I dropped it off and witnessed the smile on Mrs. Anderson’s face. I smile to myself thinking about it again.
“You don’t even need to answer me when you have that look on your face.” August pulls me from my thoughts. “Admit it, Ellie, you felt great. You probably even felt amazing. Don’t you miss that feeling?”
I look up at him from the table. “Of course I miss that.”
