Ever since I left Stoningham at eighteen, I’d been looking for that moment when everything in my life came together the way I dreamed it would. It never had, though, had it? I liked teaching quite a bit, loved my little students, St. Catherine’s, loved New York with all its treasures, felt a bit of pride that my couch paintings paid the bills. I’d created a good-enough life in New York. A solid life, a happy life.

But joy was a different animal, wasn’t it?

Joy was a quiet night watching the sunset, stroking Pepper’s silky ears, laughing at her antics. Joy was painting those damn skies. Talking with my nieces. Taking care of my dad. Sending my mom and sister to Boston. Joy was that moment when the dolphin and her mama had swum around my legs before speeding out to sea. Joy was walking through the streets of New York looking up, always up, at the beautiful architecture, the sky, breathing in the smell of the city, listening to the constant song of traffic and languages and feeling that surge of life, all that life, swirling around me.

Joy was being with Noah, from the first time I’d seen him with that beautiful baby strapped to his chest, to irritating him as he fixed my furnace, to walking through a shower of cherry blossoms with him, to finally kissing him again.

But as much as I loved Noah Pelletier, the fact remained that I didn’t want the life he did. I didn’t really know what life I did want, even now. A little of everything, whereas Noah wanted a lot of one thing. He wanted home, a partner who was always there, more kids, and who could blame him? Those were nice, good things to want.

I was pretty sure I didn’t want those things. Oh, I loved my nieces, loved little Marcus even, loved hearing Mickey talk about the horrors and wonders of motherhood. But in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure it was for me. My mother had once called me a butterfly, flitting to whatever bright thing caught my attention, and she wasn’t wrong.

I just wasn’t sure how to make a life around being a butterfly. I mean, those things didn’t live real long, did they?

A few days after my meeting in New York, I went to the hardware store for some more plastic to patch up another hole in my roof. I turned down the aisle and there was Noah, studying a drill bit. He did a quick double take when he saw me.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” My insides flooded with heat, my heart pulsing with that beautiful scarlet red only he could incite.

“How was New York?”

“Oh . . . it was . . . it didn’t work out. My stuff wasn’t what he was looking for.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”