“He feels bad,” she murmurs. “Do you think you could ever forgive him?”
I pause, thinking how to explain what I’m feeling. Then ask, “What’s your biggest fear?”
She blinks. “Getting in another car accident.”
“Right. Now imagine the only way to get around was with one driver. And that driver speeds, swerves, ignores signs. You end up in another crash. Would you forgive them?”
“No,” she whispers. “They made it happen again. On purpose.”
“Exactly. My fear is financial instability. And Sam, without talking to me, burned through my savings and left me exposed. Vulnerable.”
“But you’re not homeless,” she says softly. “You’re not destitute.”
“No. But could you get back in a car with someone who chose to make your nightmare come true, even if you weren’t hospitalized?” I challenge.
She’s quiet for a long moment then, “No. I couldn’t. But he loves you so much, Becca. I’ve never seen a man love someone like that.”
“Maslow’s hierarchy of needs,” I say.
She frowns. “Come again?”
“Basic needs come in levels: food, water, safety, love. You can’t reach for love until you feel safe.” I meet her eyes. "Right now? I don’t.”
12
BECCA
The next morning, on my walk with Bernie, my thoughts keep circling back to Holly. She sent me some photos from the salon, and Sam’s work showed in every detail. There was even a selfie of her holding a hammer, grinning like a kid who’d just learned to ride a bike.
Against all odds, we’re building something. Not a friendship, not the sister-like relationship I once hoped for, but something else, something earned.
As Bernie and I make our usual loop through the neighborhood, we pass my favorite house—the one with the wraparound porch and cobalt shutters I’ve always admired. But today, it’s buzzing with activity: a window cleaner on a ladder, a landscaper hauling mulch, a guy fixing the leaning fence out front. My amateur realtor radar kicks in.
Then I spot the kind older man who’d seen me unravel on the sidewalk a few weeks ago while I walked Bernie. He notices me looking and waves me over. Bernie loses his mind, tail wagging like a flag, practically dragging me across the lawn.
“Well, hello there, Bernard,” he says, kneeling to scratch under Bernie’s ears. “I didn’t catch your name last time, young lady.”
My cheeks flush with the memory of my sidewalk meltdown, but I keep my chin up.
“Becca. And your place is looking fantastic. The mulch contrast will really make the hydrangeas pop once they bloom.”
He gives me an inquisitive look. “Are you a realtor?”
“Sort of.” I hesitate. “Mostly property management like condos and entails, but I do hold my license. I’ve only sold a handful of places. Small ones.”
“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “A woman who wears many hats. My Dahlia was the same way.”
His eyes flick toward the porch. There’s a silence that feels like reverence.
“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “How long?”
“Eighteen months,” he answers, eyes wistful. “Everyone tells you not to make big decisions in the first year. So I didn’t. But … this house—it’s too much. Too many memories.”
“You’re not just selling a house,” I say. “You’re passing on a story.”
He studies me then, like I’ve revealed a secret about myself without meaning to, and nods, resolute. “I was going to go with one of those big brokerages you see plastered on benches everywhere. But I think I’d rather list with you.”
I blink. Once, twice. “I'm sorry, what?”
