My eyes fill with tears. This is exactly what Ryan’s been trying to get me to understand about his beloved books: the point isn’t the sex, or the fantasy of the perfect partner, or even falling in love. It’s about being willing to be vulnerable, to dig deep, to confront your shadows, embrace your own story, and become a stronger, braver version of yourself.

It’s not about the happy ending—it’s about believing that you’re worthy of one.

“Thanks for sharing that, Mom,” I say, and I mean it. It may take some time for me to trust her, but for the first time in years, I’m willing to give her a chance.

“Enough about me,” she says, smiling brightly. This is a classic Liz Klein tactic, changing the subject when she’s uncomfortable, but I understand. Baby steps, for both of us. “Do you want my advice?”

“Sure,” I say, surprised that for the first time ever, I do.

“First, you need to tell him how you feel about him moving away.”

She’s right. I didn’t share my true feelings about his plan, his new job, and Ryan deserves better. He deserves to know just how deeply I care about him, that I’m desperate to find some other solution because the thought of him being anywhere else is tearing me apart.

A flicker of hope sparks, and I’m about to tamp it down, but I stop myself. Hope may be dangerous, but just like a fire, it can also be warm and comforting.

“I will,” I say. “Thanks, I should—”

“Wait!” She tilts her head, studying me. “One last piece of advice. Something I wish I’d learned years ago. No matter what he says, do you know what you want?”

I want him to stay. But if he doesn’t?

“I—I’m not exactly sure,” I say.

“Well then,” my mom says, smiling. “I think you need to figure that out first.”

After ending the call, I lean against the railing and consider that. What do I want?

Three months ago, I was hell bent on beating Ryan. Then I joined forces with him and laser-focused on us winning together. But I’ve never stopped to ask myself: Is this truly what I want to do with my life?

I close my eyes, letting an image of my store fill my mind, the way it used to be before construction started. Neat and orderly, cozy and safe, the perfect place to rebuild my confidence after my life fell apart. But recently, it’s started to feel a little…small?

I think back to the months after Georgia’s accident, when she was relearning how to walk, using her brace and cane. She was confident getting around our apartment, but she refused to go outside—too scary, she said, and every step reminded her of how much she’d lost.