“So we are all just sitting waiting for things to cause ripples?” I ask.

What caused me to have that dream? It certainly wasn’t me. Yet that dream rippled my life. Caused me to change everything.

“I think so,” she says.

“But we have power to choose the reaction. That means something.” I’m getting upset, and I don’t know why.

Greer shrugs. “Does it? Or are past experiences controlling our choices? It’s a scary thought, I know.”

“I like math,” I blurt.

Greer laughs.

“I don’t like to think that I have no choice,” I say. “It may be true, but it frightens me.”

“That’s why we make art, Helena,” Greer says. “Art is the war against what we do not choose to feel. It’s the battle of color, words, sound, and shape, and it rages for or against love.”

God, Kit, you’re so fucking stupid. Della?

I want Greer to tell me all the things. Like I need to know who I am, and why I’m not good at painting. And I’d like to know the meaning of life, because I think she has the answer.

She asks me if I’m hungry, and I lie and say yes, even though I just ate. I watch her make Panini in a fancy press. She squeezes oranges by hand and hands me a cup of juice. It’s sweet and pulpy. No one has ever squeezed oranges for me before, except maybe the guy at Jamba Juice.

I learn more from Greer in those two minutes than I’ve learned from anyone in the history of ever.

“I’d like for you to teach me everything you know about life,” I say. “Are you willing to do this?”

She spins around and flicks an orange at me. It hits me in the forehead.

“I know nothing about life,” she laughs.

“Okay, but I’m trying to find myself.”

Greer grins. “That, my dear, is the scariest thing you’re ever going to do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you might not like what you find.”

I move in with my small collection of belongings: mostly clothes, and shoes, and photos. My bedroom has a view of the water, and for the first six weeks, I wake up each morning frightened that this new life will be taken from me like the other one I fell in love with. I have nightmares about having to leave Port Townsend and the cannery. Each dream ends with the Range Rover sinking into the water behind the ferry. During the day I work in the gallery, helping Eldine with the books, the sales, and shipping pieces to customers from other states and countries. I like it; it’s peaceful work, and Eldine mostly keeps to herself. Some days Greer meets me for lunch, and other days I carry my sandwich to the harbor where I wander around reading the names of the boats until it’s time to go back. Nights, I work on my art—all of which is terrible. You can’t force it, Greer tells me when I throw a paintbrush across the room. I’m not really good at anything, but I want to be. That’s enough to keep my hands and mind moving between paints, and clays, and words. What I refuse to do is anything that I did before. It takes discipline to accomplish this, as humans are addicted to the familiar. I don’t eat my usual cereal; I don’t drink a soy latte with Splenda. I don’t watch reality TV, or read romance novels to fill my life with all the things I’m missing. I do not text Kit. Except that one time. But mostly I do not text Kit. And then one day he texts me, after the longest stretch we’ve ever gone without speaking. I am taking a walk along the dock, taking pictures of the boats, when his name appears on my screen. I’m nervous to open the text. Silly. Or maybe not, since I don’t want him to know I’m living in the cannery with Greer.

K: You can’t just move to my home and not speak to me anymore.

Why not?

K: So, you really aren’t speaking to me?

No! I didn’t say that.

K: Where are you living?

Ugh. Yuck. It’s none of his business anyway. I don’t have to answer. In fact, I won’t.

I have a roommate. It’s Greer. I rent a room from her.

I bite my nails while I wait for his text bubble to pop up, but it never does. God, it’s like I have no self-control. No will power. I think about texting PSYCH! But I don’t do things like that either. Oh my God, I’m supposed to be doing things differently.

I text: psych

And then: Just kidding. About the psych. Not Greer. I really live with her.

And then: She’s so great. I don’t even care what you think.

And then: Are you mad at me?

I almost have no nails left by the time his bubble pops up, but that’s cool because everyone has fingernails, and I like to be different.

K: You’re manic.

I swear to God, I’m so sad about my nails. I was trying to grow them. I study my hands before typing: No. Not at all

He sends a picture. I recognize it as being part of the bar at Tavern on Hyde. The picture is of a glass of wine sitting on a beverage napkin. I smile.

K: I feel like you need it

Yeah. I wish

K: The good news is everywhere has wine! A friend of mine owns a winery over on Marrowstone. You should go check it out.

He sends me the address, and tells me it’s called Marrowstone Vineyards.

I mention the winery to Greer that night, hoping she’ll want to go with me. I sit on the only available stool in the reading room and watch her paint.

“Who told you about that place?” She puts down her brush. Her voice is defensive.

“Ummm, I just heard there’s wine. And I like wine. Are you okay?”