Page 105 of For the Plot

“You know,” she continues, “and you walk away without wondering. Without what-ifs or half-finished pages. That’s the gift of loving someone honestly, Skye. Even if it doesn’t work, at least you know you gave it your whole heart.”

I swallow hard. “But what if I see him and I fall apart?”

“Then you fall apart.” Her hand touches my cheek. “And then you get back up.”

I blink, a tear slipping free. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple,” she says. “It’s just what it is and I know you, sweetie. You’re strong. You’ll make it through.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.

She smiles softly. “You’re not seventeen anymore. You don’t need someone to pick you. You need someone who already knows you’re it.”

My throat tightens, the words like a balm and a burn at the same time.

“And if that someone is Reece Blackwood?” she adds, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Then he better be ready to grovel. A lot.”

I laugh through my tears. “You really think I should go back?”

“I think you already have,” she says. “At least in here.” She presses her palm lightly to my chest. “The rest is just catching up.”

I let out a breath and lean in, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. She smells like lemon and lavender and unconditional love.

“I love you,” I whisper.

She squeezes me tighter. “I love you more.”

We stand there a beat longer than we probably should, like if we hold on tight enough we can freeze time. But eventually, I pull back, grab my bag, and walk down the steps toward the car.

She calls after me just before I open the driver’s side door. “Skye?”

I turn.

She tilts her head, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Don’t just wait for him to come after you. If it’s worth it… go after it.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

Then I slide into the car, start the engine, and pull away.

I don’t look back until I reach the end of the street. She’s still standing there, hand on her hip, the other waving after me. And for the first time in days, I don’t feel like a mess of broken pieces.

I feel like a woman driving toward hope.

By the time I kick off my shoes in my apartment, the heaviness has shifted into resolve.

I drop my bag on the counter, sweep my unopened mail to the side, and pull my laptop toward me. For a second, I just sit there, staring at the blank desktop, heart pounding. Then I open my old email account, the one I haven’t touched since college, and start scrolling.

There they are.

Names I used to dream about working alongside. Contacts from my PR internship. People who saw me when I was eager and hungry and fearless. I hover over one email thread with my old supervisor, then start typing before I can talk myself out of it.

Hi Jenna,

I hope you’re doing well! I’ve been thinking a lot about my career path and wanted to reach out…

I tell her I’m freelancing, that I’m ready to take on creative projects again, and ask if the firm has any overflow campaigns orsmall accounts they’d consider passing my way. My hand shakes a little when I hit send, but it feels… good. Like moving forward.

Then I dig out my old sketchpads and spread them across the dining table. Blank pages stare back at me, daring me to start over. I grab a pen and start sketching the bones of a new campaign—color palettes, taglines, the kind of wild ideas I used to love.