Page 13 of Five Summer Wishes
HARPER
T he email sat in my inbox like a dare.
Subject: Strategic Counsel Opportunity – Boston HQ
I’d read it three times already.
I knew what it meant. A subtle way of saying we still want you without actually promising anything. A return ticket. A pivot. A parachute. All the things I used to think I wanted—status, structure, security—wrapped in corporate language and a soft deadline.
I didn’t reply.
June found me in the kitchen later that morning, halfway through my second cup of coffee and halfway through ignoring the laptop screen glowing in front of me.
“You look like you’ve been staring at that email for an hour,” she said.
“Thirty-seven minutes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She sat anyway.
I folded the laptop shut.
She waited.
Eventually, I said, “It’s an offer. From the firm.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Are you going to take it?”
“I don’t know.”
I’d never said those three words with so much weight behind them. I didn’t know how to be the person who didn’t know .
“You always know,” June said, like she could read that thought from my face.
“I used to,” I said quietly.
We sat in silence. Not heavy. Not tense.
Just honest.
Later, I walked down to the harbor again.
I didn’t mean to find Nate. But of course, he was there—doing something competent with a winch and a coil of rope and making it look annoyingly effortless.
He looked up when he saw me. Didn’t wave. Just smiled like he’d been expecting me.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.
“More like paradise just got a job offer from Boston.”
He leaned against the post. “Is that a metaphor?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Are you thinking about going?”
I didn’t answer.
He wiped his hands on a rag, slow and steady. Then said, “You don’t look like someone who wants to leave.”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s allowed, you know.”
“Not for me.”
He looked at me for a long time. “You’re allowed to want things that don’t fit in a spreadsheet, Harper.”
“I don’t know how.”
He stepped closer, just enough to make my breath hitch. “Then maybe stop trying to do it perfectly.”
I swallowed. “What if I’m not good at anything else?”
“Then you start learning.”
He didn’t try to touch me.
But something between us cracked open anyway.
Back at the house, Willa was painting on the back porch; some wild, bright canvas that looked like grief and joy and summer all exploded in one place.
“Want to weigh in on color theory?” she asked without looking up.
“I got an offer,” I said.
She set down her brush.
“From Boston.”
“Ah.”
She wiped her hands on a towel and handed me a glass of lemonade. Real. Tart. Slightly too strong.
“What’s the number?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t open the full doc.”
“That’s new for you.”
I sat beside her. “It feels like going back would be giving up.”
“Or maybe staying is the bigger risk.”
“I don’t know how to stay.”
Willa looked at me, her voice quiet. “Then maybe you need to stop trying to get it right, and start getting it real. ”
I sipped my lemonade.
She leaned her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be here.”
The wind picked up. The painting dried under a stretch of midafternoon sun. I held the glass tighter than I needed to, just to keep myself tethered.
That night, I found my list.
The one I’d written after the potluck. The one that started not with action items, but with truths.
I added a line.
I want to stop proving I’m okay.
And then I opened my laptop.
The cursor blinked like it was waiting for permission.
I didn’t give it an answer.
Just this:
Thank you for the offer. I need more time.
Then I closed the lid and stepped away.
I walked out to the porch. The swing was empty. The house behind me quiet.
I sat, phone in hand, thumb hovering.
Then, finally, I texted Nate.
I told them I need more time.
His reply came quickly.
That’s a good start.