Page 26 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

The headache I wake up with Sunday morning makes me question every life decision that’s brought me to this moment. I barely slept. My brain wouldn’t stop replaying the kiss with Clay—the way I felt nothing—and then the moment he called me Tasha .

All night, Sarah’s words had looped in my head.

Her fierce brand of honesty forcing me to face what I’ve been avoiding for years: it’s time to move on.

Time to stop doing only what’s expected of me and finally start choosing things because I want them.

I’ve been coasting through my own life, letting the current pull me along.

That has to change. I need to be the one steering.

Having Sarah in my corner helps more than I can say.

We’ve always been each other’s constants during the worst storms. There’s something sacred about being able to speak your truth—however ugly—and knowing you’ll be met with love, not judgment.

We’re each other’s safe harbor, and I pray that never changes .

I still remember holding her the morning she walked away from Trevor for good.

It had taken months of breakdowns, late-night calls, false starts, and quiet sobbing in parked cars before she finally made the decision.

She fought like hell for that marriage—counseling, temporary separations, even a desperate second honeymoon—but in the end, it was Trevor who asked her to consider letting go. They were exhausted. Unhappy. Done.

She showed up at the hardware store that Thursday, her hair clinging to a tired ponytail, her eyes red and puffy, and without a single word I knew it was over.

I wrapped her in my arms and held her in the back office for hours while she cried.

She didn’t have to explain. I rubbed her back and reminded her she wasn’t alone.

Now it’s my turn to lean on her.

Sarah hums cheerfully as she pours us coffee and packs an overnight bag.

The caffeine takes the edge off my headache, but anxiety still curls in my chest like a cold fist. She’s not that shattered woman anymore.

She’s rebuilt herself—stronger, lighter, freer.

It shows in everything she does, from her art, which now bursts with color and life, to the confident way she carries herself.

She’s thriving. And watching her makes me believe I can thrive, too.

She plants her laptop on the coffee table with a bright smile and claps her hands.

“Okay! I pulled up a few short-term rentals I think you’ll like.

We can tour a couple this afternoon and, if we find the right one, maybe get you moved in this week.

Some are even furnished,” she adds, a little too casually, “since I know you don’t exactly have furniture of your own. ”

The reminder hits harder than I expect. I don’t own much—a meager collection of clothes, books, personal things. I’ve always been content with the leftovers at Clay’s house. The idea of starting from scratch makes my stomach twist .

“Are you sure the gallery won’t miss you this week?” I ask, chewing at the inside of my cheek. “I feel bad pulling you away from work like this.”

Sarah snorts. “I already talked to Randall this morning. He basically begged me to take vacation time. Said if he had to watch me re-label another storage drawer out of boredom, he was going to lose it. He promised to send you a housewarming gift for getting me out of his hair.”

She pulls her blonde hair into a messy bun, her eyes scanning me. “You’re having second thoughts.”

“Not exactly,” I murmur. “Just… feeling the weight of it.” I stare down at the ridiculous pink slipper socks on my feet. If only every life decision felt as easy as putting those on.

Hesitation presses against my ribs. It’s not that I don’t want this—I do.

But I hate how it all unfolded. I should’ve had this conversation with Alayna years ago, back when Mara first moved in and I started questioning my place in the house.

Maybe then it wouldn’t feel so sudden. Would Alayna be hurt?

Would Clay forgive me for shaking up their lives with no warning?

I’m not abandoning them. I just need space of my own.

That doesn’t have to mean I stop being part of their family… does it?

Will Clay still let me be a parental figure to Alayna if I’m not living under his roof?

I shake out my arms, trying to chase off the dread. This is the right move. I have to believe that. I turn back to the laptop, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants.

The first two listings are depressing—drab, outdated, barely kept up. I’m not buying, but I still want a place that feels like home, not like a last resort. Even if I could fix them up, I don’t want to.

“See anything you like yet?” Sarah asks casually, picking lint off her pajama pants. She’s trying not to hover, but I see the anticipation in her eyes .

I try to sound casual. “Any of them near Clay’s place? I’d like to be close enough to take Alayna to school.”

She perks up. “Actually… There's one two blocks away on Elm Street. Right next to the park, with a porch that faces the community garden.”

She clicks on the listing and I lean in.

A small brick house fills the screen. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Warm hardwood floors.

Built-in bookshelves around a fireplace.

Tasteful furniture that makes it cozy but not cramped.

Sunlight pours in through wide windows, bathing everything in soft gold. My heart gives a quiet kick.

I click through the pictures again, slower this time. I can already see Alayna curled up on that couch, doing homework or sketching. She could have her own room. Her own space with me.

The excitement buzzes up through my chest, loosening something inside me.

Sarah watches me with a quiet smile. “Is this the one?”

“It feels right,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “There’s a number listed—I’ll call while you shower.”

She pulls me into a tight hug, the woody scent of her skin triggering a thousand memories. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Let yourself enjoy this. No guilt today, Frankie. Let yourself be excited. Dream big. You deserve to have something that’s yours.”

I almost tell her about my plans for the hardware store—about the little spark of ownership I’m finally ready to fight for. But it feels good keeping something just for me.

“Thank you, Sarah,” I say instead. “I promise. I will.”

We meet the listing agent at the house on Elm Street at five o’clock. She’s smartly dressed, with gray hair and kind eyes, and introduces herself as Kay. Walking through the rooms and imagining myself living here is like finding the final long-missing piece of a puzzle.

The front door has a large stained-glass window, and the last rays of sun cast dancing rainbows across the living room walls. As if the house isn’t charming enough on its own, the deep soaker tub in the master bathroom seals the deal for me.

“I’d like to rent this house if it’s available right away,” I say to Kay as we step back out onto the front porch.

“I’m happy to hear that. When I told Mrs. Melanie your name, she was thrilled.

She’s more than happy to give you the keys and fill out paperwork later this week.

Apparently she considers you family and isn’t worried about a deposit.

” Kay smiles and hands me a keyring with a little Vegas dice keychain attached.

Mel. I blink in surprise. I had no idea this was the rental she always talked about—her first home in Pinewood, the one she brought her son Mike home from the hospital to. No wonder the house is so beautifully kept.

“Wow. Small world,” I murmur, turning the keys over in my hand. “I’ll have to make sure I don’t miss any more of her ladies' nights after this.”

Kay laughs. “She does throw a great game party, doesn’t she?”

Sarah squeezes my arm, her voice soft. “It’s kismet.”

I nod, unable to deny it. The house glows in the warm orange light of the setting sun, and tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.

If I needed a sign that I’m making the right decision, this is it.

I love Mel—she started building her own life here, and now it’s my turn.

I can feel the love that’s soaked into the walls over the years.

All her cooking and singing must’ve left something behind—some invisible thread of joy still humming through the air.

Kay hands me a business card. “Come by my office on Tuesday and we’ll sign paperwork and get your first month’s rent paid. The address is on the card. Congratulations, Frankie—I think you’re going to feel right at home here.”

“Thanks, Kay,” I say, smiling through the blur of emotion. “I think so too.”

After she drives off, Sarah and I sit side by side on the front porch steps, taking it all in. The fall air smells like falling leaves and promises of change. My phone pings in my pocket, and Sarah lifts an eyebrow.

“Who’s texting you?”

I pull my phone out and stare at the message.

CLAY

Can we talk?

I turn the screen so she can see. She winces.

“I know I’m not Clay’s biggest fan, but… I do sorta feel bad for the guy. A little bit, anyway.”

“You want to go see your parents tonight?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re going to go talk to him, aren’t you?”

I laugh—nervous and a little guilty. “I think I owe him an explanation at least. I don’t want to leave like my sister did. I want us to still be a family after all of this. I just… don’t know exactly what that looks like. ”

Another ping. Sarah snatches my phone before I can reach for it.

CLAY

Are you coming home tonight?

“Geez. He’s persistent.” She holds the screen up for me. “Fine. I’ll drop you off so you can put him out of his misery. But don’t let him guilt you, okay? This house is meant to be, and you deserve it, Frankie. You deserve to have a life outside of them. Okay? ”

“Okay,” I say.

And this time—I’m really starting to believe it.