Page 153 of Find My Way Down to You

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I say, “I want to see them again. One day.”

Rebecca smiles. “One day,” she echoes. “When you decide to. Let’s circle back to that another time. Are you still writing music?”

My face lights up. “Yeah.”

It was slow in the beginning. Part of it was fear. Would I stilllove it? Could I write anything without thinking of London? But it happened, on a sunny morning while sitting in my mom’s greenhouse.

A song I couldn’t get out of my head.

I’ve already filled the leather journal from my dad. Lyrics inked down every page.

Songs are stories. And stories need to be told. Carried from one voice to the next. I don’t want the end of my story to be what happened the night of the accident. I want it to go on.

“How does it feel?” Rebecca asks.

Tipping my head back, I breathe, “Amazing.”

Her grin stretches. “Good. And college?”

I give the stress ball a half squeeze. That was the topic of our second appointment: College, my dad’s expectations, the plans London created for us. What I really want for myself.

That last one took some thought. “I’m still going to apply,” I finally answer.

“Do you want to talk through where?”

“No. I have a few places in mind.”

UC Santa Barbara is one of them. I missed the deadline for fall semester. That’s okay. I did some research. I can do a year at SB State and then transfer to UCSB. Or I can go somewhere else.

For once, I’m living in my moment rather than someone else’s. I’m giving myself permission to change my mind too.

Rebecca studies me. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

Another minute ticks by on the clock. I lower my eyes.

For the last three months, I’ve been having recurring dreams. A place near but far. Real but not. It’s never clear. When I wake up, I can’t remember specific details.

Just that it’s beautiful. And calling to me. A siren’s song.

“August?”

My head snaps up. Gentle concern fills Rebecca’s eyes. The ball is squeezed to its limit in my hand.

“Umm.” I decide to pivot from the topic of dreams. I’m not ready. Smiling, I say, “I think I want to start driving again.”

My parents stand when I walk out of the office. They come to every session. My dad made it a point to drive me here the first time.

His hand wraps around the back of my neck. “Okay, son?”

I grin. “Okay.”

Mom sidles up to my other side. She smells of soil and fresh lemons. She looks younger too. They both do. As if worrying over me took years from the time they have.

Guilt sits as heavy as stones in my stomach. The feeling dissolves when I remember something Rebecca said:

Great parents will always worry they haven’t done enough for you. It’s in their nature. It’s also something you can’t control, so don’t let it control how you feel.

Mom looks at my dad. “Should we get lunch? Do you have time?”