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One day at a time. That's what they'd taught us in rehab, the mantra of recovery. Don't worry about forever, just focus on today. Make it through this hour, this minute, this breath.

I'd thought it was a platitude then, a simplistic answer to the complex problem of addiction. But I understood it better now. It wasn't about avoiding the future; it was about being present in the now. About recognizing that life is built in moments, in choices, in small acts of courage or kindness or perseverance.

And in this moment, rain drumming on the roof, my mother's laughter filling the kitchen, the weight of my completed manuscript sitting on my desk upstairs, I was okay. More than okay.

Chapter 30

Geri

Another year later

Iclosed my laptop on my final draft with a satisfying click. The sound echoed in my new small room, still mostly empty except for stacks of cardboard boxes and a desk. I had just finished my third book, a milestone that still felt surreal when I allowed myself to dwell on it. Writing had become second nature now—as essential and automatic as breathing. Every day I sat and wrote, and every day I felt more certain that I had finally found my path.

Three weeks ago, I'd given my notice at the oil and vinegar shop. Eleanor had hugged me tightly, her eyes bright with unshed tears but her smile genuine.

"You were never meant to stay here forever," she'd said, squeezing my hands in hers. "Some people are just passing through on their way to somewhere else. I'm just glad I got to be part of your journey."

Now my life was packed in boxes, ready for the next chapter. I had decided to move back home. It was snow season again,and I had found a cute little cottage to rent in Lakeview for the season. The rental agent had emailed me photos—a small A-frame with wooden beams and a stone fireplace, nestled among pine trees that would soon be heavy with snow. It was perfect, just enough space for me and my books and the quiet life I'd built for myself.

I'd secured a job at one of the ski hire places in town. I would be fitting boots, selling skis, and handling rentals. The work would be straightforward, social without being overwhelming, and—most importantly—it would give me structure while still leaving plenty of time for writing. I could have chosen to go back to Alpine Ridge, but it had been two years since I'd spoken to Con, and I had no idea if he had signed up to work there again. I had Facebook-stalked him enough to know he had gone back last year, and he had also gotten a girlfriend. That first photo of them together had pulled at my heart a little too much, a sharp ache that had taken me by surprise with its intensity. I hadn't had the courage to check again since.

The truth was, I didn't even need to work full-time anymore, which still amazed me when I thought about it. I had published my second book six months ago, and it had been a success beyond anything I could have imagined. The royalty checks that arrived in my account each month were enough to support a modest lifestyle, leaving me free to work at the ski shop more for the human connection than the paycheck.

I still hadn't published my first book—"To Her." It sat in a digital folder, occasionally opened and tweaked but never sent out into the world. The timing just didn't feel right yet. Some part of me knew I would recognize the right moment when it came, and now wasn't it. I had chosen to go down the path of self-publishing for my other works, and I was glad I did. It was hard but so rewarding at the same time, giving me control over every aspect of the process from cover design to marketing.

I was looking forward to the three days a week I would be spending at the shop in town. Since leaving England and the oil and vinegar shop, I hadn't really had much chance to be social. Having my mum around had helped me through the past two years. Since I had gotten sober again, I had become somewhat of a recluse, but I had also become okay with it. I enjoyed my own company in a way I never had before—the quiet evenings with a book, the mornings spent writing, the afternoons walking through the countryside near my mother's cottage. Solitude no longer felt like loneliness; it felt like peace.

But I still had my family. I had even started a better relationship with my brother, who had moved two streets away from Mum's with his girlfriend when I had first gone to England. Mum had started a weekly dinner for us all when I had gotten out of rehab, a tradition that had become sacred. We now talked weekly and had promised to call each other regularly now that I was heading back to Australia.

I had stayed with my grandparents when I had first returned, deciding to bypass all my old friends. I had cut them from my life when I had gone to England, and they hadn't reached out to me either—except for Alex. He had called me about a year ago to tell me he had started a relationship with Louise, asking if that would affect our friendship. I had smiled and said it was fine, because it was. I had no bad feelings on the matter; I hadn't even known that she and Nick had broken up.

That relationship hadn't worked out either. Alex was now with someone new, a woman who seemed promising from the few photos I'd seen—tall and blonde with bright blue eyes. He had stopped posting on social media for the past six months, which I took to mean he was happy and thoroughly distracted with his new life. I was glad for him. Alex had always been searching for something, though I don't think he knew what. Maybe he'd finally found it.

The only person who knew I was home was James. He had picked me up from the airport and driven me to my grandparents', then helped me go car shopping as I had sold my old one before moving to England. His face when he'd spotted me coming through the arrivals gate had been worth the twenty-three-hour flight—pure joy, no complications, no expectations. Just happiness to see me.

He had some of the best news I had ever heard: he and Liam had hit it off so well that they had bought a house together and were looking at getting married. Seeing James so happy, so settled, had filled me with a warmth that had nothing to do with envy and everything to do with genuine happiness for someone who deserved every good thing.

Life was moving forward, and everyone was slowly heading in the directions that the universe had planned for us. It was messy and it was perfect, and I was happy. Not the frantic, chemical-induced euphoria I had once chased, but something steadier and more sustainable—a quiet contentment that came from within rather than from external sources.

As I untaped a box of books, I thought about the journey that had brought me here. Two years sober. Three books written. Countless hours of self-reflection. A relationship with my mother that was stronger than it had ever been. A future that, while uncertain, no longer terrified me.

I thought about Con sometimes, though less often than I once had. I wondered if he was happy with a girlfriend, if she understood how lucky she was, if she knew all the little things about him that I had catalogued in my heart—the way he hummed under his breath when he was cooking, the particular furrow between his brows when he was concentrating, the sound of his laugh when something genuinely surprised him.

I hoped she did. I hoped she appreciated every part of him, even the difficult parts. I hoped she had read my letter, the oneI'd written to Con's future love, and understood what a gift she had been given.

But mostly, I hoped he was happy. That was the difference between now and two years ago—I could wish him happiness without that wish being tangled up in my own needs and desires. I could love him from a distance without that love consuming me.

In two weeks, I would start my new job at the ski shop. And in between, I would write, because that's what I did now—I wrote stories about broken people finding their way back to themselves, about love that transforms even when it doesn't last, about the beauty that can emerge from the wreckage of a life shattered and carefully rebuilt.

My life hadn't turned out the way I'd planned. Not even close. But as I looked around at the boxes containing everything I owned—a lot more possessions than I'd had two years ago, but so much more of what mattered—I felt a sense of rightness, of belonging to myself in a way I never had before.

Chapter 31

Geri

Igrabbed a set of purple skis, kids' ones, so tiny and cute they made my heart squish with unexpected tenderness. The morning rush at Mountain Gear Rentals was in full swing, with families eager to hit the slopes before the sun climbed too high and softened the pristine overnight powder.

"These should be perfect for you," I said, kneeling down to the little girl waiting patiently beside her mother.