Page 140 of Just One More Thing

“Usually isn’t.”

“No kidding.”

I fidget with the straw again. “What if I do it anyway? What if I panic and make one of my neat little sensible decisions and convince myself it’s for the best? Then spend the rest of my life pretending it was emotional maturity?”

Because running has never looked chaotic on me. It looks responsible. Reasonable. Thoughtful.

It comes with explanations. It wears sensible shoes and says words like timeline.

It says this is complicated when what it means is I’m scared.

It says I need to think when what it really means is I already found the nearest exit.

“What am I supposed to do instead?” I ask.

Willard studies the ocean for a long moment before answering. “What do you want to do?”

That should not be a difficult question.

It is an absurdly difficult question.

Because the answer rises so fast and so plainly it makes my chest ache.

I want to go find Jake.

I want to stop standing outside my own life like I’m waiting for permission to enter it.

I want one day—just one—where I enjoy being happy without locating the nearest emergency exit.

I want to see his face when he looks up and realizes I came looking for him.

The thought makes me smile.

“I want to stop treating this like a problem I need to solve,” I say softly. “I want to be happy.”

Willard nods once.

For a while, the only sounds are Chip munching his peanut, the buoy bell out in the water, the hum of a boat idling, and the faint ting of the flagpole rope.

Then Willard says, “My wife used to put the good dishes on the table for no reason.”

I turn toward him. He keeps his eyes on the water.

“Middle of the week. Soup from a can sometimes. Sandwiches.” A small smile touches his mouth. “Didn’t matter. Said saving joy for later was a good way to end up not using it at all.”

Something in his voice catches me off guard. I look down at Ida’s plaque again.

Ida Mae Brown

Beloved wife. Beloved friend.

The best seat is always beside you.

My throat tightens, and I can feel my eyes welling up. “I think I would’ve liked her,” I say quietly.

Willard smiles. “She’d have liked you.”

“Even with the emotional support water bottle?”