My eyes burned.
“I let someone break me once,” I said. “A long time ago. Before Lily.”
Willa didn’t move.
“He wanted a version of me I couldn’t be. And I tried. I tried so hard. Gave up friends. Skipped art school. Worked three jobs so he could finish his degree. And when I finally admitted I was exhausted, he said I wasn’t supportive enough.”
I swallowed.
“I spent years thinking if I had just tried harder, he would’ve stayed. That maybe it was my fault.”
Willa reached over and wrapped her fingers around mine. “It wasn’t.”
“I know that now,” I said. “But I don’t know what it means to want something that isn’t just survival.”
“Well,” she said, squeezing my hand, “I think you’re about to find out.”
The next day,Grant came by midmorning with his usual low-key grace, like he belonged on our porch and had been there in every past version of our lives.
He held up two iced coffees and a bag of something that smelled like cinnamon and butter.
“Peace offering or bribery?” I asked.
“Both,” he said, passing me the drink. “Thought you might need fuel for your next masterpiece.”
Lily peeked out the door. “Hi Grant. You’re still in the family tree.”
“Good to know,” he said. “I’ll try not to fall out of it.”
She giggled and disappeared back inside.
I took a sip and sat down on the porch swing. Grant followed.
“I told Willa last night,” I said after a few quiet moments. “About someone from before.”
He didn’t press.
“He made me believe love was a transaction,” I said. “That it was measured in how much I gave up.”
I kept my eyes on the horizon. I didn’t think I could say it while looking at him.
“But with you,” I murmured, “I don’t feel like I owe anything. And that’s what scares me most.”
Grant didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer soft affirmations or big declarations. He just reached over and let his hand rest on top of mine. Not tight. Not claiming. Just there.
Solid.
“I don’t want to take anything from you, June,” he said. “I just want to be where you are.”
I turned toward him. And for once, I didn’t pull back from the way my heart leapt at the sound of my name in his voice.
15
WILLA
Iused to think creative blocks were about laziness. Like if I wasn’t making something every day, it meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. Wasn’t committed. Wasn’t real.
Now I knew better.
