2. A Personal Kind of Therapy
A PERSONAL KIND OF THERAPY
WILLOW
“H ey, DJ, can I get two tickets?” I knock lightly on the counter of Cherrywood’s beloved Ferris wheel.
“Uh-oh. What happened now?” Decent Joe pops out from the ticket booth, giving me that knowing look. His gray hair is slicked back neatly, and he’s wearing his signature flannel shirt with those loose Wranglers he swears by. This guy is the entire Ferris wheel operation—engineer, operator, mechanic, ticket seller…probably even the unofficial amusement-park therapist.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, trying to sound casual. But who am I kidding? Can anyone actually handle Raymond Teager?
DJ crouches to scratch Captain Lick, my family’s overly enthusiastic geriatric Maltipoo, who looks about as happy as a dog at a bone buffet. “I heard someone was spotted at La Bella Vita the other day. Private corner seating and all.”
God! I’d thought going to that horrendously expensive upscale restaurant could keep a lid on my meeting with Raymond, but this town’s gossip mill could give the national news a run for its money.
“Who told you that?” I ask, already knowing that in Cherrywood, sources are irrelevant.
“Does it matter?” He raises a brow. “But whoever it was, they said you and that ‘rich dude’ looked pretty cozy.”
“Rich dude? Try arrogance in a suit.” I snort. “Please do me a favor and tell the town to rein in their imagination. That ‘rich dude’ and I were at a business meeting.”
DJ slumps, giving an exaggerated sigh of disappointment, like he had already heard wedding bells. And it’s not just him—half the people in this town would marry off every eligible bachelor and bachelorette here if they could.
I roll my eyes so hard they practically hit the back of my skull. Why do you even care, Wills?
The only association I have with the word wedding is that my name starts with the same letter. Isn’t it freaking ironic that I want to open a wedding estate?
But I’ve learned—no, I’ve been smacked in the face by the lesson life insists on teaching me over and over again: the moment you depend on someone else for anything, especially love, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.
I know not everyone’s life is like mine. I’ve seen happy couples, the kind who make you believe in the fairy tales you once thought were a joke. But me? I’m either broken or cursed. Maybe both. Either way, some people are built to figure it out on their own, and I’ve accepted my fate.
“How’s everyone at home these days?” Decent Joe asks, trying to sound casual.
Even in this terrible mood, I can’t help the smile creeping onto my face. “Everyone? Or a certain someone in particular?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He keeps his head down, but I swear the tips of his ears turn bright red.
There’s no way Joe’s parents named him Decent Joe. If they did, they should’ve won an award for setting him up for schoolyard taunting. Odds are, the town stuck that label on him, but he’s lived up to it every day since.
“Even though you didn’t ask,” I say with a teasing edge, “Mom’s doing well. In fact, she has a date tonight.”
His head snaps up, and the shock on his face is priceless, like I just announced the world’s most terrifying horror plot. “Steph has a date? With someone…from here?” His brow furrows as if he’s trying to recall every single guy in town. “No, it can’t be anyone from here.”
Of course not.
Everyone in Cherrywood knows or has at least heard about the way he feels for my mom, his high school crush. Joe’s heart was set on her until she chose someone new in town. That one decision changed everything for us. Maybe he regrets not making a move sooner, but the regret Mom carries every day for putting us both through that hell is much heavier.
“Who’s the guy, Willow? Is he a guest at Whispering Willow?” Panic fills Joe’s eyes. He’s afraid of losing someone he’s quietly cared about for years.
It tugs at something inside me, a complicated knot of confusing emotions. How can someone care so deeply for so long without ever saying it out loud? Isn’t that signing yourself up for inevitable heartache?
I can’t decide if it’s admirable or just plain sad. People like DJ, with their eternal optimism about love, seem to be walking proof that romance movies might not be total fiction. Maybe those grand gestures and lifelong crushes are real for a lucky few.
But whatever the case may be, one thing I know for sure is that men like DJ are from a different generation, and lately, there are only sharks and snakes showing up in my life. Raymond Teager is prime exhibit A, and my distant cousin, Gio, a close second.
Ever since Gio showed up with Gramps’s unknown will, my life has been one long battle.
Instead of expanding Whispering Willow into the dream wedding estate I’ve been planning since forever, I’m spending every ounce of energy I have defending what should be mine.
DJ pats my arm, pulling me back. “You don’t like this guy? Is he not good for Steph?”
I shake my head. “There is no guy.”
His eyes go wide. “You were joking? Oh my God.” Clutching his chest, he gasps. “Willow, don’t joke about things like that! I think my heart stopped for a second.”
“Sorry, but if you don’t make a move soon, that day will come.” I cross my arms. “Mom isn’t exactly short on admirers, you know.”
“Any man would be lucky to take Steph out on a date.”
“And I hope that man is you.” I nudge him with a genuine smile.
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling. “Thanks, kid. But enough about me. Why don’t I see you with some dashing gentleman, someone with enough wit to keep up with yours?”
“I think they stopped making men like you, DJ,” I reply earnestly.
His laugh echoes loud and deep, turning his face the color of ripe tomatoes. “Well, I’m flattered, but you don’t need a man like me. Out there somewhere is a guy who’s a perfect fit for you—your one true love. You may have met him, or maybe you haven’t, but when it’s the right time, trust me, you’ll feel it.”
My forehead furrows, all sincerity. “Feel what? An earthquake?”
“Nothing that dramatic,” DJ says, clapping a big hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be like a spark—a real jolt. One that runs from your fingers all the way down to your toes. And that’s how you know that this is someone you’d do absolutely anything for, even if it doesn’t make an ounce of sense.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely caught up in the moment, before shaking my head. “If that spark actually hits, with my luck, I’ll probably mistake it for a panic attack.”
He lets out another laugh. “Trust me, you’ll know the difference.” DJ glances up at the clock. “Now go on. It’s about that time.”
And he’s referring to the well-known “quirk” of our town’s Ferris wheel—it stalls every fifth ride, pausing for thirty full minutes. Many locals skip it on “drama queen mode,” but I practically live for those moments at the top.
“Which cabin am I taking?” I ask, nodding toward the big wheel.
“Third from the right.” DJ grins, pointing to the one that’ll be dangling at the highest point.
Since I was a kid, those thirty minutes at the top have been my sanctuary. Just me, the rolling hills cradling the town, and the endless expanse of sky. There’s something undeniably magical about being up there, like I’m inhaling more than fresh air.
From this vantage point, nature feels close enough to touch, and staring out at the world from this height reinforces what I’ve always believed deep down: you don’t need to depend on anyone else to fulfill your purpose in life. You only need yourself, a little courage, and maybe a moment like this to remind you of how capable you really are.
With my dog in tow, I head toward the ride.
DJ calls out, “You remember the drill?”
“Yep! Captain Lick here will stay comfy and secure in his bag.”
“Good. Now go do…whatever it is you do up there,” DJ says, winking.
I let out a chuckle. My mood already feels much better. I unfold Captain Lick’s carrier from my backpack and settle it next to the ride entrance. With his age creeping up, I always keep his bag close. Around stairs or if he’s tired after sniffing every corner like it’s his day job, he gives me that look—the one that says it’s time to retire.
“You ready for a little therapy session, old man?” I glance down at my thirteen-year-old Maltipoo, who tilts his head like he’s pondering the meaning of life, then offers a big, fat “yes” with his soulful eyes.
“Alright then, hop in.” Without a fuss, he slips into his bag, and I zip it up before heading toward the cabin. I catch DJ’s double thumbs-up from the ticket counter, assuring me I’ve got the right cabin.
I secure Captain Lick’s bag to the safety bar, looking around at the mostly empty cabins. It’s still a few minutes before we take off, so I close my eyes and inhale deeply. As the fresh air fills my lungs, of course—my thoughts land right on Raymond Teager.
Because only in my private mental space will I ever admit that the guy is annoyingly attractive. Handsome like a fallen angel, one who didn’t quite stick the landing. And despite the constant scowl, he managed to snag the attention of every waitress who passed our table at La Bella Vita like moths to a flame.
But can you blame them, Wills?
The media has aptly dubbed him The Shark, and not just because he’s good at getting what he wants. He reminds me of a lurking monster, his true intentions masked behind that signature grimace, ready to strike when you least expect it.
My mom says impatience is my biggest weakness, and Raymond seems to be sent by the gods to test it at every turn.
How I managed to sit there and listen to his condescending tirade without throttling him is beyond me.
The guy’s infuriating—an entitled, self-important, smug jerk.
I’d bet my last dollar he’s never been denied anything in his life. I can practically see the silver spoon stuck in his mouth, permanently lodged there since birth.
My knowledge of the man is not based on assumptions. No, it’s from hardcore research, as I’d hoped to find one tiny chink in his armor. But, of course, I came up empty-handed.
If Raymond Teager ever lost his memory, I’d be the best person to help him piece it all back together.
It’s mildly terrifying, given that my brain can’t help running mental laps around the guy, dissecting every aspect of him down to the last detail, hoping to bring him down. I do feel guilty sometimes, but then I remember his face. I’ll give him one thing, though—he didn’t just coast on his dad’s legacy at Elixir Inc. or on his mom’s thriving baking empire. He’s forged a name for himself in real estate and hotels.
The cabin jolts to life, and I open my eyes, blinking as I shake off the fog of my own thoughts. I glance over to check on Captain Lick, only to nearly jump out of my seat when I see a little girl—maybe five or six years old—sitting beside me, quiet as a whisper.
Well, crap. Talk about being in my own head.
“Hey there,” I say softly with a small wave. “Didn’t see you there.”
She grins, showing those perfectly spaced baby teeth, but doesn’t say a word. Just sits there, all serene and sweet, like she belongs here.
Alright then, maybe we’re both here for a bit of peace and quiet. We share a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. But eventually, my curiosity gets the best of me. She’s so tiny and mysterious, it’s impossible not to reach out.
“I’m Willow,” I say before gesturing to Captain Lick’s bag. “And this is Captain Lick.”
She gives me a shy, almost secret kind of wave, but no words follow. I was hoping for a bit more—at least a name. But no, she looks down, her smile slowly fading as time passes, and I feel an odd pinch of worry.
Did I do something wrong?
“Hey,” I say gently, catching her gaze. “If you don’t want to tell me your name, that’s totally fine. We can still be Ferris-wheel friends.” I try to coax her back from wherever her mind just wandered.
After a moment, she loosens her grip on the safety bar, relaxing a bit. She brings her pointer finger to her chest, signing, “I,” and something in my heart gives an unexpected tug.
Slowly, she fingerspells her name. One letter after another, her small hands carefully shape each one.
“Quill?” I ask out loud.
A few years ago, we hosted a wedding at Whispering Willow. The bride and groom were both mute, and all our communication was through email. They’d asked for an ASL interpreter to help with the ceremony, but I figured, why not learn some ASL myself?
We had a few months before the wedding, so I spent every free moment practicing the basics. Seeing the couple’s faces relax the moment they realized I’d taken the time? It was one of those rare, heart-pounding moments that made all the late nights worth it. After that, Mom and I decided to keep learning. Now, Whispering Willow is a top choice for couples in the sign language community, mostly through personal recommendations.
I smile down at Quill and sign, “It’s nice to meet you, Quill.”
She points to Captain Lick, her eyes alight with curiosity. “His name is really Captain Lick?” she signs, that grin slipping back onto her face.
“Oh, absolutely. When he was a puppy, licking was his favorite pastime. Everything and everyone. He even licks his own butt. So, Captain Lick.”
She lets out a soft, silent laugh, her shoulders shaking with mirth, and just like that, I feel a little warmth break through the tension in my chest.
“You can pet him, if you want,” I offer as I unzip the top of Captain Lick’s bag enough for her small hand to reach inside. “He’s a total lovebug.”
Quill doesn’t hesitate. She slips her little hand inside, letting him sniff her fingers before stroking his side. Captain Lick’s tail thumps against the bag, wagging with unrestrained joy. Her whole face lights up, and I think I might’ve just witnessed the purest form of happiness. Her laughter deepens, silent but so contagious, just as the Ferris wheel jolts to a stop. Her smile fades in an instant, and a flicker of panic crosses her face.
“Hey, no worries.” I try to keep my tone light. “This Ferris wheel is a bit of a diva. Likes to take little breaks now and then, but she’s totally safe.” I hope I sound convincing.
Quill’s shoulders ease, even if the uncertainty doesn’t fully leave her eyes.
I can’t help but wonder where she’s from—she doesn’t seem to be a local. And where are her parents? No way would anyone who knows this town let her ride solo on this quirky old wheel.
“You want to see something magical?” I raise my brows dramatically, and Quill nods. “This is the best seat in all of Cherrywood.”
I gesture to the sweeping view before us. The hills, dressed in deep greens for summer, will be blanketed in snow come winter, but today they’re vibrant, alive. The whole town is basking in the glow of the annual Cherrywood Summer Festival, and we’re sitting here with front-row seats to the yellow-and-red banners decorating the streets below.
“Have you been to the festival yet?” I ask, pointing to the town before us through the wide glass windows. But when I turn to her, her gaze is fixed on my wrist.
“Sunflower,” Quill signs, pointing to the silver bracelet I purchased from the salary at my first summer job. I’d helped Gramps with some bookkeeping work at Whispering Willow. It was the time when I hated my name and everything it represents so badly. Sunflowers felt like the antidote, the opposite of a weeping willow: bright, bold, unapologetically joyful.
“Do you like it?” I ask, giving the tiny silver flower a soft flick. It swings gently from the hoop attaching it to the bracelet’s chain.
Quill nods, her movements tentative, then signs shyly, “I love sunflowers. They are happy.”
Her words hit me square in the chest, simple but profound. In three little words, she’s voiced the very reason I’ve clung to this bracelet for so many years, even when I couldn’t explain it to anyone else.
“Me too. When I was your age, my mom and I used to come here all the time. Decent Joe, the man at the ticket counter, would let me ride for free. He has a secret crush on my mom. I’d sit exactly here and leave the sunflowers I had collected from my nana’s garden for the fairies. I used to think if I was asking for them to grant me a wish, shouldn’t I do it with the happiest and prettiest flower?” I pause, the memory of that little girl washing over me. The one who wanted to change her and her mom’s life so bad.
“Fairies?” Quill’s ears perk up, a hint of wonder in her expression.
“Yup.” I push up my slumped shoulders and smile. “One of my best friends, Violet, was completely obsessed with fairies, and she used to tell us all these stories about them and their wishes.” And oh, how my little heart believed in them. “She was always dragging us into all sorts of trouble, things we weren’t supposed to do.”
Her eyebrows lift with interest. “Like what?”
I’m not surprised she’s hooked on this. “Oh, you know…sneaking into the woods to feed wild bunnies, lighting little fires even though we were way too young, sneaking out to watch the fireflies dance.” I glance at Quill’s excited face and cringe. Crap! I probably shouldn’t be giving her a checklist of bad ideas. “But just so you know, that’s all really dangerous stuff, and our moms were totally right to be mad.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And what about your dad? Did he get mad at your friend too?”
I feel a quick pinch in my chest, the kind that’s familiar whenever someone asks about my sperm donor. I’ve plenty to say, but none of my words are suitable for Quill’s ears.
“I don’t have a dad.” I shrug it off. “But I have an amazing mom and nana, who’ve always been there.”
“Me too! I mean, I don’t have a mom, but my dad is the most awesome dad, and there’s Grandpa Will, Grandpa Zach, and Grandma Hope. Plus, my dad’s got a ton of cousins, and I have two aunts. They’re all just…the best.” She hugs her arms around herself, as if gathering all these people close and wrapping them inside her.
“Wow, Quillbug, you’re one lucky girl.”
The nickname that slipped off my tongue without thought earns me a happy, scrunched-nose smile. “You called me by a nickname! My dad calls me his bug.”
“He must love you a whole lot.”
Her smile softens into something sincere, something almost too big for such a little face. “I think so too. Do you have a lot of aunts and uncles?”
“Not really,” I admit. “But I have some pretty amazing friends. And then, of course, there’s Captain Lick.” I nod toward the scruffy little guy curled up beside us.
“Do you think he likes being on top of the world?” she signs, glancing at Captain Lick with fascination.
I grin inwardly, totally charmed by her curiosity. “I think he loves it here.”
“Me too,” she signs before she rests her head against the safety bar. “This is the best therapy. I hate the other ones.”
Oh.
My heart tugs, and then, as if sensing her need, Captain Lick wiggles his way closer, his little doggy butt scooting over until he’s right next to her. Quill brings her face lower, and he tilts his head up, poking his nose through the opening in his bag. I know what’s coming next.
A second later, his tongue swipes across her chin.
And then she squeals. “Willow, Captain Lick licked my face!”
I freeze, staring. Holy crap.
Did she just…
Did she just speak?