Swallowing, I blink up at the ceiling as though it might have the answers. “I always fumble when it comes to Macon.”

My mother keeps talking—gently because she truly does know me. “The fact that you’re willing to even try with Macon Saint speaks volumes. Don’t beat yourself up for taking your time getting all the way there.”

“You’re supposed to have a magical solution to make it all clear and easy,” I mutter.

“Ha.” She slaps a hand on the table, her wedding ring—which she has never taken off—clinking on the wood. “You wanted me to give you permission and tell you it was a good idea to pursue him.”

“Well, duh.”

Her eyes narrow, but she can’t hide her smile. “When things come easily, we don’t fully appreciate them.” She stands and smooths her skirt. “I may not have a clear solution, but I can offer you a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“God, yes,” I groan. But then I think about how of all the dishes in Macon’s life he could have mentioned when I asked him for a good food memory, he picked grilled cheese. Were we really his best memories?

A leaden ball falls in my belly, and I suddenly don’t want grilled cheese. But it’s too late. My mother gives me a pleased nod and heads to the fridge.

Despite myself, the scents of frying bread and butter whet my appetite. I eat my sandwich slowly, my eyes closing with each bite because there is nothing else like her grilled cheese to bring me back to being a young girl, her whole life ahead of her. I hated being a teenager. I was filled with impatience to get on with the adventure of living my own life on my terms. How little I knew then. A fierce longing for those awkward yet wonderfully ignorant days nearly overwhelms me now. I’d go back there if I could.

And yet a persistent voice whispers in my head, exposing the lie for what it is. Because I want something else much more.

Part of me wants to stay in my mother’s kitchen forever, that simple place with its florid fruit wallpaper and yellow cabinets. But when night falls, I return to the perfection of Macon’s house and find the place oddly quiet.

Come morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, running over menu ideas in an effort to do something productive. I didn’t sleep well last night. Macon has kept his distance, texting to say he needs some time to think as well. And though it’s my own damn fault for opening my mouth, I feel the loss of his open affection keenly. Why did I have to say anything?