Page 44 of Remain
Lena nods slowly. “That’ll mess you right up.”
“Yeah.” I manage a small laugh. “It really does, it really has.”
“So, what happens now?”
Before I get a chance to respond my phone buzzes on the table and I glance at the time, groaning.
“I have to log on in ten.”
“Okay,” she says immediately. Then, brighter, “I can stay.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I know.” She pulls her laptop out anyway. “But I was already planning to work from here. We can sit. Be productive. Pretend we’re not emotionally exhausted women approaching thirty.”
I laugh, the sound easing something in my chest. “You came prepared.”
“Always do,” she says, clinking her latte against mine. “You survived estate paperwork, emotional whiplash, and the rude realization that the love of your life is a genuinely good man who lives far away. The least I can do is sit here with you while you pretend commas are your biggest crisis.”
I take another sip, warmth spreading where the ache was. “Deal.”
I settleat my desk and open my laptop, pulling up the document I abandoned mid-sentence before I flew out. It’s a romance novel deep in its third-act conflict, all angst and longing. The heroine is afraid of staying. Afraid of leaving. Afraid of choosing wrong.
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Of course.”
I edit for an hour or two, my fingers moving on instinct, the familiar rhythm grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I cut a paragraph that’s trying too hard, soften a line that doesn’t quite trust the reader, and add space where something important needs room to breathe.
When I finally lean back, my neck aches. Lena is fast asleep on the couch, the sweetest snores.
I take a break and rummage through my bag, beginning to unpack since I haven’t even managed that yet. I carefully pull out the snow globe Erik had returned to me, holding it to my chest for a moment.
“You dangerous man, you,” I murmur to myself, setting it gently on the dining table.
That’s when I notice the notebook, in the bottom of the bag. It’s unfamiliar to me. Soft leather cover. Corners worn. My mother’s handwriting peeks out from between the pages loopy and confident and wholeheartedly hers.
I must have unpacked it without thinking.
I open it slowly.
It isn’t a journal. It’s a collection of lists, half-ideas, notes scribbled in margins. Things she noticed. Things she wanted to remember.
Rules to Live By:
Give without being seen.
Never ask why someone needs help.
One cart can change everything.
One page is titled simply:
If I ever had the time.
I swallow, tears begin to form at the corners of my eyes.
Below it, bullet points trail off unevenly.
– Coordinate deliveries so families don’t feel singled out