“That’s not fear, Willa. That’s growth.”
“Gross.”
She laughed. “You’re allowed to want things that aren’t temporary.”
I stared out at the yard. “What if I screw it up?”
“You probably will. But maybe not the way you used to.”
“And what if staying doesn’t make me free?”
Harper’s voice softened. “What if it makes you real?”
That landed hard. Because she was right. And because I was tired of being made entirely of escape routes.
The next morning,I did something I hadn’t done in a long, long time.
I applied for the summer residency program at the Oaklight Gallery downtown. Three months of shared studio space, exhibition planning, and—if I was accepted—a commitment to be here, in this town, in this moment.
I wrote a cover letter that didn’t try to impress anyone.
It just told the truth.
That I’d spent years making beautiful things while trying not to be seen.
That I was ready to change that.
That I didn’t want to run anymore.
16
HARPER
The email came just before sunrise.
Subject: Final Offer – Senior Counsel, Boston HQ
There it was. The thing I used to believe would define me. Title. Salary. A corner office with a view of the river and all the built-in prestige a girl raised in a small town was supposed to want like oxygen.
It was clean. Precise. Structured.
And it made my stomach turn.
I didn’t open it.
Not right away.
Instead, I pulled on a hoodie and walked to the harbor and texted Nate.
You’re not up already, are you? Heading to the harbor.
The air was damp and still. The kind of quiet that felt like it had weight to it.
Nate didn’t reply, but he was already there.
He nodded toward the foam cup of coffee sitting beside him. “Figured you could use coffee for the spiraling.”
“You always assume I’m spiraling.”
