The very first thing I did when I finished that book was reach to text her. An impulse, an instinct. And even though I didn’t send the message, the feeling didn’t go away either.

For another week, I moved through the world feeling like I’d forgotten something, like there was somewhere I should be, like there was someone I’d meant to call.

I was hurt and angry and confused by the distance in our relationship, but more than that, I missed my friend. I didn’t want to write her off.

So I wrote her a letter. A letter seemed more Sadie than an email. Austenian, even. In college she’d had personalized stationery and a wax seal stamp, but I had to settle for a Pure Michigan sticker.

The day she got the letter, right after she read it, she’d called me right away, and even though I was terrified, I answered on the second ring.

We’d talked for hours. We’d both cried.

She’d been engaged for two months by then. “I wanted to tell you so badly,” she said. “But I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me. I thought—when you and Peter broke up, I thought you were pushing me away. Because of Cooper. Because as long as I’m with him, I’m kind of . . . stuck with Peter, you know?”

And I did know. Peter and Cooper were like family. The real kind, who will always love you, even when your decisions make no sense to them.

The decision, for her, had never been me or Peter. It was her best friend or the love of her life. And now that I understood, I realized I didn’t need it to feel like an easy choice after all.

Things were allowed to be complicated. They were allowed to be messy. We were allowed to disagree and argue and even hurt each other, on occasion, and it didn’t mean it was time to let the revolving door of life carry us away from each other.

Sometimes things are hard. They just are.

That first phone call had been like a waterfall, but after that, our texts and calls had been slow and steady. We still aren’t back to where we used to be—maybe we never will be—but we are something. We still love each other. We’re still trying.

As for how she’ll mesh with my new life and friends here, I have no idea. But I’m working on being excited instead of nervous about the unknown. So many of the most beautiful things in life are unexpected. Look at Dad and Starfire. It’s not like he’s suddenly a different person, but he’s more settled, less restless. He’s actually made it to two of our last three scheduled visits, and to be fair, he and Starfire won an all-expenses-paid trip to Switzerland (on a hot tip from their psychic) that overlapped with that third visit, so I can’t really blame him for that one.

At the front door, I smooth down my skirt and swing it open. (Door, not skirt.)

“Hiiii!” Both women on the front step shriek. Ashleigh’s sun-bronzed from her solo Eat, Pray, Love–style trip to Portugal—most of which she spent with a gorgeous local named Afonso who already has plane tickets to visit her next month.

“Happy housewarming!” she cries, shoving an enormous bottle of espumante toward me.

“That’s from both of us,” Julia says.

Ashleigh scoffs.

“I bought the bow,” Julia says. “I’m a twenty-four-year-old barista, give me a break.”

“I thought you were bringing a date,” I say to Jules. “That guy you just went to Chicago with?”

“Ryan.” She rolls her eyes. “He cut his fingernails on the bus ride.”

“Ew,” Ashleigh and I say in unison.

Julia nods solemnly. “Flags so red, they veered toward maroon.”

“Come in, come in!”

Instead they pin me in a tight hug between the two of them. The heat is sticky against our skin, the buzz of insects in our overgrown front yard loud enough to dull the resumed singing of one Ms. Celine Dion.

“Okay,” Julia says, pulling back. “I’m taking control of the playlist.”

“I’ve never known a happier man who loves sad songs more,” Ashleigh muses.

Inside, Julia talks Miles into letting her take over the sound bar. He finishes making a batch of margaritas, and adds salt and pepper to the guacamole.

Barb and Lenore let themselves in a few minutes later, Barb’s arms loaded with bags of freshly picked apples and Lenore’s with a housewarming bouquet of lavender.

Mom’s cab from the airport shows up next. After giving me and Miles each a rib-cracking hug, she introduces herself to everyone without any hesitation.

We’d invited her to stay with us, said we’d camp in the living room so she could take the bed, but she’d insisted on booking an Airbnb with a home gym.

Harvey and Elda are the last to arrive. They knock, rather than ring, or else the bell just doesn’t work this time.

They make quite a pair: Harvey in his Red Wings sweatsuit, a box of cigars under his arm; Elsa with her pink disco ball earrings and elegant cheeseboard, wrapped in beeswax cloth.

Everyone’s here now. The family I didn’t expect, minus Mulder, who is strictly banned from poker night, due to strong language, smoking, gambling—take your pick, really. He’s not allowed to join until he’s eighteen, the same rule Ashleigh’s parents had for her.

I take Harvey and Elda back to the living room, and there’s one last round of introductions for Mom. She doesn’t drink often, so her few sips of margarita must be hitting her: she tears up when she shakes Harvey’s hand, and thanks him for “taking such good care of my girl.”

“She’s a great employee,” he says, “and a wonderful friend. Terrible poker player, though.”

Mom cackles. “She’s always been too honest for her own good. Except that one time you told that girl you grew up on a horse farm. Remember that, Daphne?”

“I’d finally sort of forgotten,” I say.

“And the time you told your ex-fiancé you were dating his new fiancée’s ex-boyfriend,” Julia puts in.

“What’s this, now?” Elda sets the cheeseboard on the counter.

“Harvey didn’t tell you?” Ashleigh says.

“I don’t gossip about the staff,” he says, with false and unconvincing sternness that doesn’t hide his grin.

Miles slips his arms around my waist, the woodsmoke and ginger smell folding around me, my heart pattering at the feeling of him kissing the side of my neck. I let myself lean back into him, the best feeling in the world. At least, the best feeling that’s appropriate to have in front of your mother.

“You really don’t know this already?” I ask Elda.

She shakes her head.

“It’s how Daphne and I got together.” Miles’s arms tighten around me.

Elda claps her hands together. “Oh, I love a good meet-cute. Let’s hear it.”

I crane my neck over my shoulder to look at him. His dimples sink into his beard, and it feels like my heart is unzipping, stepping out of its calloused skin, a glowing, sunlit thing.

“Funny story . . .” he says, but he doesn’t go on, just watches me and waits.

He knows how much I love to tell it.

OceanofPDF.com

Acknowledgments

I’m worried my acknowledgments are going to keep getting shorter and shorter as the list of people I need to thank gets more and more impossibly huge. It’s a good problem to have, to be so surrounded by love and support that you can’t realistically name-check every piece of it. I usually thank my readers last, or nearly last, but this time, I want to thank you first. Whichever of you, like me, actually read the acknowledgments. I love this job, and if it weren’t a job, I would still do it, but it would take a lot longer and be nowhere near as much fun. Thank you for your enthusiasm, your joy, your openness, your softness, your inspiration, and your presence here on this big, messy, beautiful, heartbreaking planet. I am so grateful for you and to you.