She had tried his cell several times, but the calls always went straight to voice mail. Either he’d shut off his phone or he was purposely declining her calls. Finally, she’d sent him a text. Finished the manuscript. Was wondering how to get my notes to you.

It had taken him two days to respond. His tone had been distant, even for a text. Out of town. Don’t know how long. I’ll let you know.

She had replied immediately. I’ve made some decisions. Can we talk?

He hadn’t bothered to respond.

Now, as she sat watching Sweetwater Creek tumble smoothly past its bank, it occurred to her that some people might be meant to simply pass through a person’s life, to touch briefly and then move on. Perhaps that’s why she and Wade had crossed paths again after so many years. He had been her fresh set of eyes, a new lens through which to see herself, and perhaps rewrite her life. And now that she had, or was at least trying to, he had moved on.

She stood, turning her back to the creek, and carried her mug inside to the sink. She had things to do, a final run of boxes to drop off at Goodwill, the borrowed ladder to return to Hank, the vintage lamp she was having rewired to pick up from the shop.

Two hours later, Christy-Lynn’s errands were complete, and she was on her way home, eager to put the final touches on her first ever DIY project. Her heart skittered when she pulled into the driveway and saw Wade’s Jeep. He was sitting inside with the engine turned off, scribbling in one of the leather journals he always carried with him. He set the journal aside when he heard her approach but said nothing, his expression unreadable.

“Hi.”

He nodded curtly. “Hello.”

“I didn’t expect to see you. I wasn’t sure where you’d gone.”

“I went to see my mother for her birthday and decided to stay awhile. I needed to clear my head.”

Christy-Lynn wasn’t sure she wanted to know what clearing his head might mean. “I have the notes on the rest of the manuscript.”

“Yes. I got your text.”

“I wasn’t sure you had. I didn’t hear back after the last one.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I thought it best. I wasn’t sure I was coming back, and I didn’t want to . . . confuse things.”

The news that he’d even considered not coming back to Sweetwater made Christy-Lynn’s stomach knot. “But you did come back. You’re here.”

He eyed her coolly, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “At some point, you have to stop running, don’t you? And you still have my manuscript.”

“Right. It’s inside. Do you want to come in?”

“I’ll wait out here.”

His abrupt refusal stung. “All right. I’ll just be a minute.”

Christy-Lynn was more than a little shaken as she unlocked the front door. She was hoping there would be a conversation, a chance to apologize, to explain, but he’d made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in apologies or explanations.

She hurried to retrieve the manuscript and notes from her nightstand, then started back down the hall, wanting him gone before she made a complete fool of herself. She wasn’t expecting to find him standing in the living room holding Tolstoy.

“You left the door open,” he explained, setting the cat down on the arm of the love seat. “He was about to stage a prison break.”

“Thanks.” She handed him the pages and stepped back, not trusting herself to stand too close. “I hope the notes help but feel free to ignore every word if you don’t agree. It has to be yours, or it won’t work.”

He glanced briefly at the pages before tucking them under his arm. “Thank you. I’d be happy to pay you.”

The chilly response felt like a slap. “I didn’t do it for money. I did it for you.”

Wade shifted uncomfortably. “I better get going.”

“Wait. Can I show you something? It’ll only take a minute.” His eyes slid to the door, and she saw that he was about to say no. “Please?”

He nodded, turning to follow her down the hall. Paint fumes wafted out as Christy-Lynn threw open the door to the spare room. Wade stepped inside, pivoting in a slow circle.

“It’s . . . pink.”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t help smiling as she surveyed her handiwork, the pink walls and white canopy bed, the delicate rosebuds stenciled in each of the four corners. It had taken her nearly two weeks to finish, far longer than it would have taken Hank, but it had been important that she decorate Iris’s room herself.

He looked at her, clearly stunned. “You said yes?”

“I did.”

“I guess a lot’s changed in two weeks. Did this change of heart have anything to do with seeing your mother?”

Christy-Lynn looked down at her hands, scraping at the specks of pink paint still clinging to her nails. “It had to do with a lot of things, but I think it’s been coming for a while. I started realizing how empty my life has been—and how much I stood to lose if I kept on playing it safe.”

“It’s a big step.”

“Yes,” she said gravely. “It is. But there are worse things than being afraid, like hurting people you care about. And being alone.”