Page 2 of 56 Days
And the beat of her own heart, pulsing with promise.
The second thing he says to her is, “Nice bag.”
She has just come out of the supermarket, onto the street, and doesn’t know who’s talking or if they’re talking to her.
When she turns toward the voice, she sees him standing in the next doorway, looking right at her. The sandwich he’s just bought is tucked under his arm, getting squished by the pressure. There’s the hint of a grin on his face, tinged with something else she can’t readily identify.
She stops. “My...?”
“Your bag,” he says, pointing.
He means the little canvas tote she’s put her purchases in. He must, because her handbag is across her body and resting on her other hip, the one he can’t see from where he’s standing.
The tote is blue and has a space shuttle on it, piggybacking on an airplane as it flies over the skyscrapers of Manhattan.
She lifts the bag and looks at it, then back at him.
“Thanks,” she says. “It’s from the Intrepid. It’s a museum in—”
“New York,” he finishes. “The one on the aircraft carrier, right?” He says this not with smug knowingness but endearing enthusiasm. “Have you been?”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t want to sound like she’s too impressed with herself, so she adds, “Once.”
“Was it good?”
She hesitates, because this is it. This is where she makes her choice.
People think the decisions you make that change the course of your life are the big ones. Marriage proposals. House moves. Job applications. But she knows it’s the little ones, the tiny moments, that really plot the course. Moments likethis.
Her options:
Say something short and flippant, move on, end this now.
Or say something that prolongs this, stay longer, invite more, open a door.
She keeps a screenshot on her phone of a quote by, supposedly, Abraham Lincoln:Discipline is choosing between what you want now and what you want the most. Maybe that’s true, but discipline has never been her problem. It’sfearshe struggles with. She thinkscouragemight be choosing between what you want now and what you want the most, because what she wants now is to walk away, to shut this down, to close the door. To retreat. To stay in the place where she feels safe and secure.
But what she wants the most is to be able to live a full life, even if the expansion comes with pain and risk and fear, even if it means crossing a minefield first.
Thisone, maybe.
Ciara grips the handles of the tote and imagines her future self standing behind her, pressing her hands into her back, pushing, whispering,Do it. Go for it. Make this happen.She ignores the heat rising inside of her, her body’s alarm. She reminds herself that this isn’t a big deal, that this is just a conversation, that men and women do this all day, every day, all over the world.
“Yeah,” she says. “But not as good as Kennedy Space Center.”
He blinks in surprise.
He straightens up and steps closer.
Moving aside so a woman pushing a double stroller can get past, she takes a step closer to him, too.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve never met someone who can name all five space shuttles.”
“And Istillhaven’t met someone who knows there are six.”
She bites her lip as every blood cell in her body makes a mad dash for her cheeks. What the hell did she have to go and saythatfor? What was she thinking?
“Six?” he says.
