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I felt like it was wrapping itself around me.

“What song is this?” I asked Wes, who was lighting his marshmallow on fire.

“Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” he responded without a thought. My throat tightened, and even though Wes was just answering my question, it felt like more.

Wes felt like more.

This place, this family—it all felt like more. In thatmoment, I could almost see it—the future I wished I could have. A future where I got to sit by this fire next to Wes while surrounded by people I was starting to feel close to.

My heart ached for a future that wasn’t beholden to my past.

The past that gave me an interminable urge to run just to avoid feeling stuck—even if running made my heart blister and my soul weary.

I couldn’t be here right now.

“I—I’m not feeling well,” I whispered to Wes. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“Are you okay? Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine. Just need some rest.”

I stood up. My head had the same feeling it did when Emmy found me on the path—like it was full and could spill at any moment.

“Tapping out?” Teddy asked. “Aggie and Dusty haven’t even shown up yet.”

I nodded. “I’m not feeling well,” I repeated. “Thank you for letting me be part of your day,” I said. “It was wonderful.” And it was, but wonderful things didn’t last. I walked toward the door, trying not to let anyone see that I was falling apart.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Emmy called after me. I didn’t respond. I just kept walking. I didn’t stop until I made it into the room and shut the door behind me.

My back against the door, I sank to the floor. When I looked up, I realized I’d gone to Wes’s room instead of my own.

I sighed. I couldn’t stay in here, so I got to my feet. I was about to open the door and head to my room when I saw a notebook on Wes’s bed. I recognized the brown leather. It was his sketchbook.

I didn’t know what possessed me to cross the room and pick it up—much less open it. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t here to comfort me and this felt like the next best thing.

Either way, I flipped it open. It landed on a page near the middle of the sketchbook. I’d never seen any of Wes’s sketches up close—just in passing—so I didn’t know what to expect. The first thing I thought was that the sketch I was looking at was beautiful.

Of course it was.

It was a string of roses, thorns, and leaves. They were shaded beautifully, boldly. The style looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

I turned the page to find a similar drawing, but the roses on this one were colored. The red was vivid.

Again I turned the page, and again I found roses, thorns, and leaves. Again, and again, and again.

Every page looked familiar to me, as though I’d seen it before. But it wasn’t until I flipped the page again and the roses, leaves, and thorns were drawn onto the sketch of an arm and shoulder that I realized why these images looked familiar.

It was because I saw them in the mirror every day.

Just then, the door opened, and I froze.

I didn’t turn to look at him. I didn’t close the sketchbook. I just stood there staring down at the drawings.

The door clicked shut, and within a few seconds he was behind me—so close I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. Every nerve in my body was firing little bolts of lightning.

“These sketches,” I whispered. “Are they…”

“Yeah,” he breathed before I could finish.