There is pain. Physical and emotional hurt. A cruel inevitability that I can’t prevent no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try.

I lied to Scarlett. I am scared. Of course I’m scared. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be scared? It’s a nightmare out there, a great big, terrifying world. How does anyone trust anyone? We have such little control as it is, how does anyone willingly relinquish more on hope and hope alone?

Maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time, thinking Mom and Scarlett were weak for seeking companionship, for a hand to hold through it all. It takes fucking guts to open yourself up to someone. To love someone. To hope for their love in return.

When I get home, I take a long bath. Soak until I prune. Think.

When I get out, I don’t avoid my reflection.

It’s me. It’s just me.

Wild and fierce and imperfect.

I kiss my fingers, then touch them to the mirror.

—

I spend the week in anxious limbo, unsure if I should reach out to Ian or if I should wait and go to the New Year’s Eve party, see what happens.

My anxiety manifests in constant motion. I clean obsessively. Vacuum. Scrub. Do laundry. Organize the pantry.

I suspect I’m annoying Scarlett.

It’s the Q-tip dust of the baseboards that gets her.

“Enough,” she says. “You need to hold still. You’re stressing me out.”

I go upstairs and hide in my room, delve into work emails. Most people are out of the office this week, but whoever didn’t take off probably regrets it now, as I micromanage while still technically on leave.

Mia messages me the day before the party to ask if I’m going.

Still undecided. You?

What else is there to do??

I respond with a contemplative emoji and leave it at that. Usually, I’m all about New Year’s Eve. I always find someone to kiss at midnight. Some beautiful stranger at some exclusive party downtown with good music and expensive champagne. I wear some glittery dress and my faux-fur coat—ha-ha—and my hair in an elaborate updo. There’s this energy in the city on New Year’s Eve, this electricity. It’s glorious.

I find the edges of these memories have frayed, gone sepia toned. My life in the city, who I was there, it’s in the past, and I feel surprisingly at peace with this.

I remember something Scarlett said at the cemetery. Once I stopped thinking about what my life wasn’t going to be, I started to see what it could be.

I could attempt to arrange a remote-work situation or maybe branch out on my own. Freelance for a while. Find a house nearby and fix it up. Start going to Lowe’s on a regular basis. Put up funky wallpaper and learn woodworking. Take up gardening. Host dinner parties for Scarlett and Matty and Ash and Seth. Make cheese boards. I could spend time with my niece, spoil her with toys.