“That’s progress, Tabitha. You’ve determined that avoiding this question won’t improve your life but answering it might.”
“Or it might make it worse.”
“Or it might make it better.”
I grab a pillow and hug it to my chest, my eyes peeking over the top of it at her. “But also possibly worse.”
She rests her chin on her hand and watches me, her eyes soft and compassionate. “Try answering.”
I answer the question.
She nods encouragingly, and when I’m done, she says, “Good. I’m proud of you. Now, can you say all thatnotinto the pillow?”
I lower it. “Being in love means they have everything you love about your best friend except you also want to make out with them and be with them all the time, maybe even forever, even if logistically, there’s no way to make it work.”
She taps her chin. “Hmmm. Who in your life have you adored as a friend but are also wildly attracted to?”
“You’re not funny,” I inform her.
She leans forward. “I can’t help it. It’s a treat for me as a therapist to watch you having this breakthrough.”
“I haven’t had it yet.”
“Let’s try this again. Finish this sentence: being in love feels like…”
I swallow. Hard. “Being in love feels like Sawyer.”
She sits back, looking the way I feel when I polish off a pint of gelato.
“Great. Now what?”
“Now you go get him.”
I was afraid she would say that.
Chapter 28
It’soddbeingbackin my old bedroom in my parents’ house. This is where I stay every time I come home, but it still feels like visiting someone else’s memory. This room belongs to a Tabitha from a different dimension, someone I was before my life forked and took other paths.
The walls are a pale yellow, the bedding a frilly white I can’t believe I ever loved. The shelves hold my favorite paperbacks. Those are what ground me, reminding me there was a version of me who once slept and studied and dreamed here.
I set down my suitcase and go downstairs to find my mom in the kitchen. “Need help with anything?”
She smiles at me. “You barely got here. Relax. Do I need to remind you of who exactly taught you to cook? I can handle the food prep.”
“I know, but it’s a lot of food.” Every year, Creekville has a huge picnic at Founder’s Park. At least a thousand people show up, and it’s a potluck, which means it’s also a massive, unspoken competition, all the best cooks competing to bring the dish everyone else raves over.
The only prize is knowing in your heart that you did good, but it’s enough for these cooks.
“You can peel eggs if you like,” she concedes.
“Sure. Where are they?”
“Fridge.”
This is when I realize I’ve been hustled. The fridge holds several flats of eggs.Commercialflats, holding thirty each. I’m looking at eight of them. “Mom? What are you doing? An omelet bar for the entire state of Virginia?”
She pauses and considers this. “Not a bad idea. I’ll think about it for next year. But no. Those are hardboiled. I’m doing a twist on deviled eggs, but mine are going to be called angel eggs because they’ll taste heavenly.”
