Chapter 7
SADIE
The aroma of lumber and varnish fills my lungs as I take a deep breath.
Hank’s Hardware hasn’t ever changed. It’s the place I picked out a sky blue for my bedroom walls when Sophie picked out bright pink and Emma chose green.
It’s where Milo and I bought wood, nails, and chain thinking we could build my parents a pretty porch swing for Christmas.
As soon as my parents sat in it with gracious grins, it plummeted to the ground and fell into pieces, sending us all into fits of laughter.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I automatically type in my passcode, the text coming to life on my screen.
Tessa G
Hey, Sadie! Bethany just got engaged! YAY! Could you put together an engagement shower at the church? Maybe in a couple weeks?
I don’t even know Bethany that well, or Tessa, for that matter. These are girls who are younger than Sophie, but I swipe over to my calendar.
Sadie
How about Sunday, June 14th? 2 p.m.? Maybe white lilies and finger sandwiches?
Tessa G
That sounds perfect. Can you make your famous strawberry punch?
I look down at my sandals. I’d sure love to be my comfortable brown sandals right now. No worries. No engagement parties. No responsibilities except for being sandals . . .
“What are you looking for, Sadie?” The question disturbs another moment wanting to trade my life for the life of an inanimate object.
I turn to Grant, who now runs Hank’s Hardware, the fourth in his family to own it. Everyone takes on their family business. It’s what you do in a small town.
“Hey, Grant. I need some sandpaper and stain. I’m not sure the color. I was fostering some puppies when a couple broke free and chewed up my trim.”
Half of Grant’s mouth slips up in a smile. “I think there’s a note in the filing cabinet with the stain color.”
I exhale half a laugh. “Of course there is.”
Grant chuckles and turns around, already pulling open a drawer. I watch him flip through manila folders labeled in thick black marker—Oak, Maple, Cottonwood—until he finds mine.
Pine Street. Summers.
It’s strange, seeing my life reduced to a tab. Like I’ve already lived it all once before and now I’m just maintaining it.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie.
“Early American,” he says as he looks through my folder. “That’s what’s been used every time.”
I nod, even though a small irrational part of me wants to ask what happens if I want something different. But I don’t.
“I’ll take a small can of that and whatever sandpaper you’d recommend smoothing out chew marks,” I say.
He nods. “Be right back.”
When he leaves, my eyes drift to the counter, where flyers sit beneath the glass. Most of them are the usual—a church potluck, lawn-care services, a lost calico with one green eye.
But one of them doesn’t seem to belong.
The words are bold and printed in an uneven black ink, slightly crooked, like someone didn’t bother centering them. Beneath it is a short list.
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
My stomach dips, like I’ve just read something private out loud.
“Anything else you need, Sadie?” Grant asks, interrupting my thoughts again, but my cheeks flush this time, like I’ve been caught reading a passed note in class.
“Oh, um.” I look up at Grant and take in his gentle green eyes and dark stubble. “WD-40,” I say. The word slips out smoothly—memorized and ready.
He leaves for a few seconds, and my eyes flicker back down the flyer. It’s still there. Part of me thought it would disappear, as if I had imagined my thoughts onto the paper.
Grant returns with a can of WD-40. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I laugh, a little too high-pitched. “Oh, no. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Want me to put these on your tab?” He places the items in a paper sack.
“Yes. My tab. That’d be great,” I answer before plastering a practiced smile on my face.
“Sadie?” He bites at his bottom lip.
“Yeah?”
“If you need any help with the sanding and staining . . .” Grant trails off, fidgeting with the paper bag.
“I’ve got it,” I say instinctively as I grab for the bag.
“Or,” he adds, shrugging, “I could help, and we could grab dinner after. Nothing fancy.”
The word dinner lands heavier than it should.
“Oh,” I say quickly. “I’m not really . . . doing that right now.”
He nods once, easy. “Yeah. No problem.”
I’m not sure when right now turned into years.
“Sorry,” I say with a smile. “Thanks for the help, Grant.”
I walk out of Hank’s Hardware, feeling Grant’s eyes follow me to my Volkswagen Beetle parked out front. I get in, shut the door, and rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary.
When I turn the key, the upbeat opening notes of “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield fill the car. I huff out a quiet laugh and reach to turn the volume down.
I back out of my parking spot, the words drifting through the speakers, familiar and persistent. Live your life with arms wide open.
I don’t sing, but I don’t change the station.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my throat feels tight and my ears burn. I blink hard, telling myself it’s just the heat, the day, and a stupid song I’ve heard a hundred times before.
I carry the bag from Hank’s into the house, setting it on the kitchen counter. When I pull out the sandpaper and stain, a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor.
I crouch to pick it up but pause at the crooked font, holding my breath. I close my eyes tightly, but when I open them, it hasn’t vanished.
I tentatively grab the paper, slowly unfolding it.
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
I stare at it for a while, then fold it twice over before tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans without quite knowing why.
I tell myself it’s trash.
I tell myself I’ll throw it away later.
Then I pick up the sandpaper and stain because responsibility calls.