Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
But I’m trying.
“I’m not saying you need to go fuck half of Tennessee as Gianna would suggest, but I am saying that Brooks is a fun guy,” Astrid says. “He’s safe. If you wanted to have fun with him while you’re on your getaway, I think it might do you some good. And there’s no doubt he’d be up for it, if you get what I’m saying.”
Yeah, I get it. I’ve seen just how up he can get.
Memories of his cock pressed against the towel on the first night we met left little to the imagination.
I sigh, pacing the room.
How did this conversation get here? One minute we were talking about cabin life, and the next we’re discussing a possible fling with Brooks.
We’re discussing a possible fling with Brooks. The sentence rolls around my brain, accompanied by a half shriek, half cheer. Goose bumps prick my skin at the thought of it.
But the idea is so irrational that it’s ludicrous. Sure, there’s a mutual attraction, and I’m far too comfortable around him for my own good. Despite him seeing the whimsy list, I still wouldn’t blink an eye if he showed up on the porch because he didn’t make me feel foolish or immature about it, and he didn’t laugh at me. Men always laugh at me. I’d bet my life that he didn’t run and tell his friends, either.
But a fling is impossible. He walks away from every interaction without looking back, almost as if I’m out of his mind as soon as he’s not in front of me. And God knows I’m not bold enough to make the first move.
“Hey, I need to go,” Astrid says. “Gray is calling, and we’re supposed to meet for dinner tonight but—”
“Go. Call me later. Love you.”
“Love you. Bye.”
I end the call and toss my phone on the table. My legs are wobbly from the adrenaline her suggestion sent spiraling through my veins, so I sit. And when I face the table, staring back at me is my list.
“It’s fascinating …”
I stare at it, remembering the day I opened the document and began typing. Fresh off the plane with tears stinging my eyes after being humiliated by Seth. I felt small. Managed. Reduced. And as I added to the list, shaking from frustration and grief, something in me collapsed. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, just a quiet unraveling of the person I’d let myself become.
It was also the day that something else took root—something brave and beautiful. A path to a life that fits.
And it led me here. To now.
To this.
“He’s safe. If you wanted to have fun with him … there’s no doubt he’d be up for it, if you get what I’m saying.”
A knot twists in my stomach, slowly at first, pulling tighter by the minute. I’m caught in a tide, and my balance begins to slip—caught between instinct and expectation. Drawn forward by the promise of hope and held back by the fear of failure.
“Hesitation gets you hit.”
“You know what? Screw it,” I say, highlighting lines and moving them around the screen. A rush of adrenaline hits my bloodstream, and my fingers are shaky against the trackpad. “If I don’t do something now, I never will.”
Whimsy List
Have a one-night stand.
ORGASM! (with a man)
Wear a bold lipstick.
“Wearing lipstick is easy enough,” I say, dropping it into third place. “Let’s put an easy one at the top for the satisfaction of scratching one off.”
Buy more lingerie (and wear it often).
Stop being sweet.
Learn to flirt.
Take a self-defense class.
Get a tattoo.
Sleep in the dark without being scared.
Cut my hair.
Learn to be okay if others are disappointed (even if it’s in me).
Eat alone in public.
Do something spontaneous.
I heave a breath and sit back, taking it all in. I’m twenty-seven years old and haven’t done these things. I wonder … would my sister have done them by now?
I bite my lip and add one final thing.
Make Anna proud.
Seeing my sister’s name in print makes my chest burn with emotion.
What would she have been like? That’s a question I have often wondered over the years. Would we have been best friends? Would she understand me like no one else really does?
I hate that Anna isn’t remembered—that her short life wasn’t deemed important enough to celebrate. She didn’t get the chance to do any of the things I’m fretting over, and that realization stings.
I’m too scared to be fully myself, and Anna didn’t get a chance to be anything at all.
The truth crashes over me, heavy and unavoidable. I don’t fight against it. The shame of wasting my life, of allowing myself to be underrated—of treating my life like it’s expendable and not a gift to be treasured—settles in my soul.
Because that’s the truth. I’m wasting this one, precious life. Why?
There isn’t an acceptable answer.
“No more,” I say, clarity wiping all fog and uncertainty out of my head. “No more wasting time.”