Page 151 of Find My Way Down to You

A beat slips by as I stare at my ceiling.

“Your mom sounds like a smart woman.”

An indignant laugh rattles through Max. “Never, ever tell her that.”

I gaze down at my wrist. London’s bracelet is gone. I can’t remember where I lost it. When it fell off. But I don’t think I need it the way I used to.

It was a symbol of the hold his love had on me.

Of the past I couldn’t let go of.

London never lived in the past. He wanted a future. He planned for it. He planned for both of us. I owe it to him—to me—to do a little planning of my own.

I clear my throat. “Can you ask your mom to help me find someone? To talk to about…all of this?”

Moonlight accentuates the surprise around Max’s eyes. “Of course. If you’re ready?”

“I am,” I say, confidently.

I’m done shutting the people I love out. Putting my life on pause. I trace the letters on London’s hoodie.Myhoodie now.

“He wouldn’t want me to give up,” I add.

Max loops her arms around me. Her face presses against my shoulder. “It’s not what I want either.”

Smiling, I rest my head against hers. The world isn’t in full focus yet. Parts of my head are still blurred. But, for now, it’s enough.

The August I am in this very moment is enough to fight the tide.

22

Three Months Later

My fingers flexand close. Over and over.

Thankfully, the stress ball doesn’t pop.

Rebecca, my therapist, watches with a kind smile. She’s incredibly patient. Never seems to mind the silence. It’s been minutes since I last said anything. My eyes keep flitting to the digital clock on the wall.

The slow countdown until our session is over.

Her office is nice. Whimsical, like her. Cozy furniture in bright plaid patterns. Cream shag carpet, soft as a dog’s fur. Shelves stuffed with rainbow-spined books that have nothing to do with therapy.

In one corner, there’s a giant scissors sculpture. On my first visit, she explained, “They represent the things you want to cut from your life.”

That was six weeks ago. After Dr.Cho recommended her.

I squeeze the ball again.

“We can talk about something else,” Rebecca offers.

Quickly, I say, “No.” Another squeeze. “I can do this.”

Rebecca nods, grinning.

Another minute goes by. The air is heavy with my hesitation. I find things to focus on until the words come.

This room always smells of candy. I can never find any. Maybe it’s a candle or one of those fragrant wall plug-ins. In the distance, a dog barks. When I swallow, I taste the spearmint tea she keeps stocked in the waiting room. The sofa is worn-soft under my fingertips. Rebecca’s belted navy dress has orange flowers on it.