“I was on a mission to find the thing that made me excited to get out of bed in the morning. And no, I’m not saving lives with muffins or whatever, but I thought maybe I could put some joy into the world. Because that’s what my gram did for me. When everything was hopeless, she showed up with biscuits. And my world wasn’t bleak anymore.”
Miles reaches over and takes my hand.
“So I decided to go for it. To sink everything I’d saved into this place because I was so smitten with this crazy idea. To bring that front-porch feeling to people who’ve been running around, searching for human connection without ever meeting a human face-to-face. The apps made me more aware than ever that people and relationships have become disposable, and I wanted to create a spot where they were celebrated.
“But I failed. Royally. In the worst way. Before I even started, really. I couldn’t do the one thing I do well. I didn’t even give myself a fighting chance,” I say, voice rising. “And that’s my greatest fear! The thing I poured everything into, the thing that was supposed to help me rebuild my life”—I shake my head—“I screwed it up! John was right!Again!I don’t know what I’m doing! I’m not qualified for any of this!”
I feel heat and anger and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together in a tangled mess, and I go quiet for a few moments.
Miles just sits. Patient.
My emotional RPMs rev down out of the red, and I say the one, familiar, horrible coincidence that has hit me the hardest.
“The worst part of all of this?” I take a deep breath, because saying this is so humiliating. “Once again, my failure is plastered all over the internet for everyone to see.”
“Again?” Miles asks.
“Yeah.Again.These Porch videos? They now have thousands and thousands of views. You know what else has thousands and thousands of views?” I pull out my phone and search “Messy drunk falls into fountain at charity gala”on YouTube.And hand the phone to Miles, sniffing. “It’s a riot.”
His phone chimes. The timer is up.
I feel empty. Hollowed out. But strangely not the same as three minutes ago.
I look at him. “Why are you friends with me again?”
He chuckles to himself, clicking the timer off. “I’m starting to wonder...”
I sink back against the wall, thinking that this exercise was oddly cathartic. Like an out-loud journal.
In front of Miles.
Who, I only now realize, is still holding my hand.
Miles sets his phone on his lap as the screen on mine goes dark. “Well done. Perfectly timed, actually. Do you feel better?”
I nod. “Yeah, I do, actually.”
He rubs a thumb across my knuckles. “All right.” He stands, then holds his hand out in my direction. “Come with me.”
I frown. “Aren’t you going to contradict everything I just said? Tell me all the reasons I’m awesome and give me some sunny pep talk about how I can’t quit now?”
He frowns back. “Why would I do that?”
“I thought this was the pep talk part.”
“I’m not going to contradict your feelings. They’re feelings.” He shakes his hand in my direction, a reminder that he’s waiting for me to take it. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I eye the hand suspiciously.
“You’ll see,” he says.
In the silence that follows, he stands there, hand still stretched out in my direction, patiently waiting until, finally, I slip my hand in his and let him help me to my feet.
Once we’re face-to-face, he scans mine and his frown lines deepen. “Oof. You look terrible.”
I smack him across the arm, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I have to laugh. Because he’s right. I do look terrible. Puffy and pale with streaks of black still on my cheeks. I walk over to the sink, splash some water on my face, then turn to find him holding out a paper towel.
“This is all so humiliating,” I say. “I swore I wouldn’t let this happen again.”
