“You always are.”
I sat and pulled the cup into my hands. “They offered me the position. Full package. It’s the job I used to think I wanted more than anything.”
He sipped his coffee. “And now?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked down at the porch floor. The familiar grain of the wood. The way it had softened with years of use and sun and memory.
“I spent so much time trying to be undeniable,” I said. “To be the person no one could overlook. But now that I have the chance to go back to that… it feels like stepping into someone else’s skin.”
Nate didn’t speak.
I wasn’t even sure I wanted him to.
“I’m scared,” I said finally. “Not of failing. Of stopping.”
He turned to me, eyes steady. “Stopping what?”
“Performing. Proving. Running.”
He let that hang in the air.
Then said, “What if the version of you who stays isn’t a smaller version, but a freer one?”
My breath caught.
Because that was it.
That was the fear. That staying meant shrinking. That choosing softness meant surrender.
And yet, nothing about this life had felt like giving up.
Not with them.
Not with him.
We sat on the porch until the sun pushed over the horizon.
Then I stood.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said.
“Anytime,” he said. “And Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“If you stay, make sure it’s for you. Not for anyone else.”
“I know.”
And this time, I meant it.
I didn’t tellWilla and June right away. I needed to sit with the knowing first. Let it settle in my body. Let it feel real.
So I spent the morning cleaning the pantry. It was the kind of mindless work that felt productive without requiring anything emotional. I sorted spices, wiped down shelves, found three expired cans of cranberry sauce, and remembered that Iris had once labeled themholiday insurance.
By noon, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by paper towels and half-organized spice jars, when Willa appeared in the doorway.
