“I think,” I say, my mouth dry, “that it wasn’t either. It wasn’t a choice, or because I didn’t have money to buy extra towels. I think it was more out of a survival instinct.”
He sets the ice cream scoop down and faces me. His eyes are full of empathy and concern. I really want to launch myself at him and have him hold me while I change the subject. But that’s not fair—to him or to me.
It’s time.
“I told myself that staying light meant that I could travel easier,” I say. “And that’s technically true, because it’s much easier to move when you have seven boxes rather than fifty.”
Hartley nods but doesn’t comment. He just stands silently by the sink, following me around the room with his eyes.
“But it wasn’t about the stuff,” I admit. “And it wasn’t even about seeing the world or living varied experiences.” It sounds so goofy now.How was I seeing the world being cooped up in a single-bedroom apartment away from my family?It was almost as if not seeing them every day meant I wouldn’t miss them so much when they were gone.Sad, but true.“It was really about not getting too comfortable. Making sure no place, and no person, ever felt essential to my life.”
The words surprise me as they fall past my lips. I’ve never been able to put it so succinctly, even in my head. But this is right. It’s true.
“Why?” Hartley asks as if the question holds the key to the future. But there’s no judgment in his tone, no frustration or indifference. Just curiosity and concern.And love.
“The last time I really felt comfortable, like where I lived felt like my home, was on Cherry Street with my parents.” Tears fill my eyes as I remember that house and how it smelled like pumpkin. “I love Lolly, and I’m so thankful to her and Pop for taking Markie and me in. They treated us like we were their own. Lolly and Pop’s love saved us. But that house … it always felt, to me, like we were creating another life on top of the one that already existed there. Mom’s roomstill existsover there. Her childhood bike isstillhoisted into the rafters of the garagebeside mine and Markie’s. It was the house where I lived, but it wasn’t my home.”
It never became the place where my sister and I created all the family memories. And I don’t know if that’s a fair feeling or not, but it’s mine. It was as though Mom were somehow enshrined… and existed in her shadow. And I hate how much that grieves me. How it rips my heart into two. Because I would have given anything to just stay in my pumpkin-smelling home with my parents.
“I hate how ungrateful that makes me sound,” I admit. “I feel very guilty about it, but that’s the truth.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way you feel. You were a kid, Mira. This is going to be complicated.”
You can say that again.
Hartley crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms, nuzzling me under his chin. He kisses my forehead as tears stream down my cheeks. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. His touch says it all.
“After they were gone,” I say softly, swaying back and forth against him, “I couldn’t fill that hole they left behind. I couldn’t just accept this new world, no matter how grateful I was. It felt disrespectful, and I remember sitting in my room at Lolly’s, wondering how everyone could just move on so easily. Then I got bitter about it.” I look up into his eyes. “Then I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of never feeling like I truly belonged anywhere.” My heart wobbles. “Scared that if I ever loved anyone—like I loved someone enough to need them—I’d lose them and have to survive that kind of pain all over again.”
He leads me into the living room, sitting on the couch and pulling me onto his lap. We don’t speak for a while. I don’t know if he’s processing what I’m saying or giving me the space to work it out myself. But admitting this to him—saying it out loud andnot having the world cave in on me—feels like a weight has been rolled off my shoulders. The tears keep coming as if they were stored under the weight, and now that it’s gone, the pool can empty.
“You know that I’m always here for you, right?” he asks, stroking my back. “I always have been, and I always will be.”
I nod against his chest.
“Everyone processes grief differently, Mira. You ran from it, and I planted myself square in the middle of it. Neither is right nor wrong.”
“How did you heal, though?” I ask.
“It’s a choice you make every day. Are you going to let yourself get fucked up today? Or are you going to make the best of it and try to have a good life?”
That makes sense, and it sounds so simple. It’s not. It’s not that easy—at least, not for me.
“How did you become someone who can love so easily?” I ask. “Doesn’t it scare you to be that vulnerable? To know you could end up feeling the same debilitating pain that we’ve already survived?”
I sit up and pull back so I can see his eyes.
“Of course, it does,” he says with a shrug. “But what’s the alternative?” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “If you want to love someone the way they deserve, you have to hand them every part of you. And yes, that means giving them the power to hurt you, whether intentionally or not.”
“That’s a big ask.”
His thumb traces my cheek. “Not for me. I’d rather risk the pain of losing you someday than spend the rest of my life wondering what it would’ve been like to love you.” He grins. “Because I’ve been in love with you my whole life. Getting to love you is a whole different thing.”
My breath catches as a new wave of tears stains my cheeks.
