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“No. For my words.” Brynn felt her smile fade.

“You want to exchange words with me in the mail? Don’t people use text messages and socials for that?”

“Not us. We’re different.”

“I can’t argue with that part,” Aster said.

Suddenly, Brynn wanted nothing more than to write letters to Aster. The idea of telling Aster about her world and hearing about hers in return sounded like the best kind of salve. A consolation prize. She needed this.

“Okay.” Aster toed the grass. “Pen pals it is.”

“Walk me to my door?”

“Anytime.” With their fingers still interwoven, they made their way up Brynn’s sidewalk, the impending farewell looming, an unwelcome interloper on an evening full of what-could-have-beens.

“Will I see you before you go?” Brynn asked, clinging to time.

Aster shook her head. She was pulling away. “Maybe not. Family stuff.” Brynn didn’t buy it, but she accepted Aster’s decision. This was hard. All of it, and why drag it out?

“You take care of yourself,” she said, scanning Aster’s features one last time. “And visit soon, okay? Hole in One needs its fearless leader to look in on it. Not that Tori doesn’t do a fantastic job.”

“Hers now. I sold it.”

Brynn’s lips parted as she absorbed that news. It meant Aster was really moving on, officially. She’d grown up and found her wings. Bittersweet in many ways. Her heart tugged unpleasantly. “The end of an era. I’m glad I got to experience it.”

“Me, too. It helps to know the shop is in good hands.”

They lingered, watching each other. “It feels wrong to say good-bye to you.”

“Then don’t.” Aster smiled. “Can we hug? Is that allowed?”

“Yes,” Brynn said and practically launched herself into Aster’s arms.Oh wow. She buried her face in Aster’s neck, stealing a minute to simply absorb. “It was really good to see you, Aster,” she whispered, holding her tight. When Aster let her go, she looked down into Brynn’s eyes, touched her cheek, and took a step back.

“I’ll see you someday.” She didn’t wait for Brynn to answer andheaded off down the sidewalk until Brynn could only make out her silhouette beneath the streetlight. That’s when she realized she was still wearing the jacket.

“Aster! Wait. You forgot your jacket.”

“Keep it,” Aster said. “It looks better on you. Remember me when you wear it, okay?”

As she stood alone in her doorway, Brynn ran her thumbs over the lapels, wondering about all the different ways they could have taken the night. Pickles appeared at her side and gave her shin a nudge. “We went to the playground,” she told her dog. “I was on the swings.” She grinned and tapped her lips, knowing it would be one of those nights that stood out in her memory for the rest of her life.

Part Three

Chapter Ten

While wearing a butterscotch-stained chef’s coat at eleven p.m., Aster unlocked mailbox 12D with a thudding heart, hoping she’d find what she’d been waiting for. It had been a long week of restaurant service, and if there was a letter waiting for her, it would go a long way toward soothing her tired mind and body. She allowed herself to hope, holding her breath as she shuffled through the pile of envelopes.

There, peeking out from a stack of advertisements and bills, was the pale stationery she recognized immediately. She smiled and exhaled, her heart squeezing. A letter from Brynn. It had been a week since she’d mailed her letter and two since she’d heard from Brynn, which felt like a lifetime. They’d been writing back and forth for a year now, and in spite of all she’d felt that last night back in Homer’s Bluff, they’d finally done the impossible and transitioned into a solid friendship that Aster had come to truly treasure. She looked forward to each new letter from Brynn, accounts of veterinary life, updates from home, and the everyday thoughts of someone so important to her.

She tucked the rest of her mail under her arm as she walked to her fourth-floor apartment, holding the unopened envelope reverently, like the most delicate treasure. Once she reached the top of the stairs, she set down her things, took a seat on a concrete step, and tore into the envelope, ready to devour the four small handwritten pages. She smiled at the swoopySin her name, a Brynn Garrett handwriting signature.

Dear Aster,

Pomeranians are scarier than they look. I should know after going toe to toe with Sheila, a three-year-old Pom,who swallowed three ibuprofen and needed intervention. Did I mention they’re loud? Sheila and her mournful yaps to escape her kennel echoed through the town. They thought I was holding her hostage. Luckily, Sheila the Sad Pom recovered and is home yapping to her owner, Bill from the garage, and not me. Until next time, Sheila!

How are you? Tell me everything. How is little Dill, and has he yet to master the great art of sleeping till noon? If I remember correctly, he had eleven a.m. down to a science. I do love a lazy little dog as cute as he is.

Did I ask how you were? I think about that a lot and worry sometimes. I feel like your last letter was you minimizing how much you’re working, but I also know how much you love it. I read the write-up on the restaurant’s food in Boston Magazine. Aster. They mentioned you by name. You’re a big deal now, and I’m not sure you’ll even want to write to me anymore. I still hope to make it up there sometime and try a dessert of yours firsthand.