I jerked. “Are you insane? What am I a teenager? I don’t wallow. Especially over assholes.” I stood from the couch and headed to the kitchen.

“Harper, you can’t ignore your feelings.”

“I can’t have feelings, Nic. He’s not coming back. My mother isn’t coming back. Why wallow over things that can’t come back?”

I knew I’d gone off tangent by the look on Nic’s face. Her eyes glanced down to the list she’d seen many times before sitting on my coffee table.

Her tone changed drastically to one I’d come to despise over the past year. “Harper, you did mourn for your mother, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did. I helped arrange her funeral, cleaned out some of her things—”

“No Harper,” she snapped. “I mean really take time to mourn. To grieve, to express yourself somehow over the loss?”

I shook my head. “That sounds counterproductive.” Even I felt the chill over my words. “Of course, I grieved. Doesn’t everyone deal with it differently?”

“You’re obsessed with this list, Harper. You’ve lost yourself in it.”

“I know exactly who I am. I’m an artist…”

“No, you’re a coffee girl.”

“Excuse me? Aren’t you the one who—”

“I’m stating facts, Harper. You’re a coffee girl. An artist is someone who makes art and sells it, you keep it to yourself and obsess over all the reasons you shouldn’t give it to anyone because after all, it will just be rejected or make someone unhappy. What about you? Harper? When will you choose you?”

“I am choosing me. I’m choosing to do everything on this list so I can move on with my life, it’s what’s keeping me strong,” I shouted.

She stilled. “This piece of paper isn’t giving you strength Harper, it’s your weakness.”

My heart ached and I felt myself on the verge of falling apart. “It’s barely been a year and I’m already starting to lose my dad.”

“That won’t happen for years.” Nic shook her head knowingly as if she had a crystal ball.

“I’m losing everyone,” I whispered.

Her warm hand touched my shoulder. “I know it feels that way, but the only person you’ve lost is yourself. I know he doesn’t deserve it, but you keep pushing aside the pain every time you think of him. You’re not crumbling. You’re not breaking, you’re dealing with a broken heart.”

“I am. See?” I held up the empty carton of ice cream.

“Great. That takes care of your stomach. What about everything that’s building up here?” she pressed her hand to my chest, which admittedly, had been feeling like it was carrying a truckful of bricks over the last few days.