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Jonathan leans down and kisses me, not caring that the bartender is waiting. He’s just getting started with his declaration, and we still have fourteen months to go. I need to find out the date of the third weekend in August next year.

Holy shit, I’m marrying my best friend and the love of my life!

So, how’s your triathlon training going?”

I shoot her a side-eye. “Really?”

“Well, I need to talk about something.” Emma huffs. “From the looks of it, we’re heading back to Weslyn. And if we’re going where I think we’re going, then we’d better start talking before I make you turn the truck around.”

“Training’s going great,” I answer with a burst of energy. “I haven’t been cycling lately because the weather’s sucked, but so far—”

“Okay, that’s not helping.” Emma interrupts my rambling attempt at distraction. “Sorry, I do want to hear about it, but I’m about ready to have a heart attack, or anxiety attack, or something.”

I’m pretty sure she’s been holding her breath the entire ride.

“Breathe, Emma.” I remind her. “Slow, deep breaths. Just breathe.” And I’m instantly transported to every moment all at once when I’ve said the same or similar thing to Sadie. And instead of brushing it away, I let the sorrow seep in.

We’re meant to be admitting what’s keeping us from moving on. Loving Sadie is pinning me in time. To every moment she laughed. Cried. Yelped with glee. Smiled. I don’t know how to be free of her. Or if I want to.

“Wait. How do you know where to go?”

I laugh, almost in relief, not liking where my thoughts were taking me. “It’s not hard to find anything in Weslyn. All you have to do is ask, and people talk. Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” I glance over at her. “I promise.”

I’m starting to understand that we can only be hurt by our past if we choose to relive it. What keeps us trapped is our response to the memory—the feelings, the emotions, the beliefs. Letting go is bigger than a choice.

I pull the truck to a stop at the curb, across the street from the cape house lost in the shadows.

“Come on, Emma.”

“I can’t,” she says from behind the hands covering her face.

“Yes, you can,” I counter. “I’m here. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Emma reluctantly lowers her hands, but her eyes are squeezed shut. Her breath is coming out in short pants. “I don’t think I can get out.”

I walk around the truck to her side. She doesn’t move when I open her door. I take her hand in mine, assuring her, “You can do this. Come on, Emma.”

She opens her eyes, her face full of fear and uncertainty. I hold her gaze, silently encouraging. Her hand squeezes mine, like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll be imprisoned in her nightmare. I can feel it coursing through her body and into her shaking hand.

This is fear.

“Just look at me,” I say, as she gets out of the truck. “Keep looking at me.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

This is trust.

“Okay, close your eyes,” I instruct. “I’m going to turn you toward it.” She moves on unsteady legs. I grip her arms to keep her upright.

Tears escape beneath her lids. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because I can sleep,” I whisper into her ear.

“What?” This surprises her—she tilts her head toward me. “What did you say?”

“I don’t know if it was facing it, or sharing it with you, but I’ve been sleeping through the night. And I want you to be able to, too.” Two nights doesn’t a cure make. But it’s a start. And the nightmares aren’t nearly as jarring. They may finally be letting me go.

I brush away her tears with a sweep of my thumb. “Go ahead and look.”