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Ford is tomorrow’s problem.

I slide the turkey back into the oven, closing the door with my hip as I toss the oven mitts on the counter. I need to get through today, enjoy June and her family, and make up for being such a hemorrhoid, then I’ll figure out a way to eat crow to Ford.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of work—of me flipping every piece of my life over to figure out where I want to go from here. I’ve been so busy I haven’t seen Ford or Wren—haven’t spoken to them once in two days—but I know they’ve been here.The birds have been fed and firewood stacked by the door both nights when I get home.

I’ve been waiting for everything to get ironed out—to find the right words to explain if they still want me, I want them. Tomorrow, I’ll know what to say. And if I don’t . . . that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Out of nowhere, I’m at the trailhead twenty years ago, ready to tell Ford I loved him only to find him not there.

Then a month ago, him getting shot.

Anxiety tightens my chest like a tourniquet.

What if I wait until tomorrow only to find all of this gone?Himgone.

I reach for my phone and punch his number; no answer.

My pulse picks up in my throat. I can’t wait. I need to—

The front door swings open, and Molly barks as June appears in the doorway in a chunky turtleneck, rosy cheeks, and two armfuls of groceries.

My eyes narrow. “You’re early.”

She smiles and shuffles across the room like it’s familiar, dropping the bags in the kitchen. She does a double take of the living room. “You moved the chair again—I liked it better on the other side.” She looks back to the kitchen, assessing then rolling her eyes when she catches my face. “Oh stop. You think my best friend gets a lake house and I’m not going to figure out a way to see it?”

“You’ve been coming here?” I gasp, once again violated by her invasion of my privacy. “Inside?”

“A key under the mat?” She gives me a look, likeamateur.“Anyway, hi. Happy Thanksgiving.” She hugs me. “Don’t get mad—and it was all Ford’s idea.” His name gives relief amidst my confusion. I set the phone I’m still holding on the counter. “If you’re going to hate anyone it’s him.” She bends over and pulls boxes of plasticware and tablecloths covered in cornucopias out of the bag as I stand, watching her dumbfounded. “How many chairs do you have?”

“Uh . . .” My eyes narrow. “Six?”

“Right.” She pulls out her phone. “Camp. Hey. Yeah. All the chairs too. Mhm. She’s glaring but fine. Love you.”

What the hell?

“Listen to me. It’s all taken care of.”

“What is?”

“Mom?” a voice calls.

My head whips to the door.

“Lyra. Excellent.”

June’s home-from-college daughter stands in the doorway, more bags in her arms and a big smile on her face.

“Aunt Scotty!” Lyra cries. “This place is awesome!” She sets the bags down and hugs me. “Great sweater!” She tugs at the sleeve of said sweater, talking and moving too fast for me to respond. “Oh, and I have this.” She pulls a framed picture out of the bag. Her and I from her graduation over the summer. In it, she’s sticking out her tongue in her cap and gown and I’m smiling wide, wearing a shirt with her face on it.

To her mom: “Okay, what’s the plan?”

“The plan?” I look at June.

“Right. Camp’s coming with tables, there will be one for the photos. Lyra, let’s set them up there. Scotty, you’re hosting Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Like really hosting it. And it’s all Ford.” She makes an apologetic wince. “Mostly all Ford.”