“I don’t think George counts as a farm animal,” I say.

“Well, you’ve certainly brought home the entire garden!” my mom says.

My dad directs me to walk into the living room, where the old couch is set up against the wall that faces two windows looking out over the parking lot and highway beyond.

My dad sets some drywall screws into the wall, and then together we lift up the sign and hang it in place.

Ivy and my mom watch and direct us so we hang it straight. When we finish, we step back. It looks terrible. The sign is dirty and needs a paint job. Against the newly painted white apartment wall, it seems even worse. Still, somehow, it fits.

“To remind us that we’ll have another Bittersweet Farm to hang this at someday — I promise,” my dad says.

I really don’t like these kinds of promises, but maybe if his promise for Rainbow worked out, this one will, too.

George hops back into a box and scratches at the cardboard. Ivy kneels down and scratches the outside of the box and mews at him. He goes nuts and jumps out to see what’s on the other side, making Ivy giggle.

My dad gets busy in the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the vegetables. My mom unpacks more boxes.

I walk to the tiny bedroom I share with Ivy now and stand in the doorway. Her bed is neatly made and on top of her regular pillow is the old Home Is Where the Heart Is pillow. She’s stitched the letters back on and sewed the stuffing back inside. I pick up the pillow and sit on my own bed, tracing the letters with my finger the way Ivy does to comfort herself. Then I pull out my phone, which I’ve been avoiding for days. There’s a long scroll of old texts from Micah, inviting me to come to the beach soon. I text him to say thank you for helping with the move.

Thanks for being my best friend, I write. See you soon!

Just as I finish, a new text pops up. It’s from Cybil.

Thinking of you. How was the move? Want to meet up?

There’s a strange feeling in my chest — something I haven’t felt in so long, I forgot it was possible. My heart feels like a hummingbird waking up and starting to flit excitedly. Happily.

I take one of Micah’s deep breaths and count to five, then let it out. But my heart still flutters in my chest, urging me to smile. Urging me to let myself feel good again.

I take another deep breath and hold it, smile, and let it out.

Hey, I write back. I’d love to.

Acknowledgments