Chapter 8
SADIE
I balance the baking pan in my mitted hands, the lemon bars still warm enough to fog the plastic wrap. The house smells like sugar, citrus, and responsibility.
I set the pan on the counter beside the grocery list—milk, eggs, butter— and peel off my oven mitts, wiping my sweaty hands on my apron.
My phone buzzes against the laminate.
Sophie
Can you make that chocolate cookie-dough pie you made a few months back for supper tonight? IT WAS THE BEST!
My shoulders tense as I stare at the lemon bars. I add chocolate chips to the grocery list.
Sadie
Of course.
Emma
Can you bring my Crocs?
I pause, go to the front closet, and retrieve Emma’s lilac crocs.
Sadie
I have them set out.
Emma
Thanks, Sadie!
Sophie
Are you bringing a plus one?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. There’s part of me that wants to tell my sisters that Grant Williams asked me out, but another part of me knows I need to keep this group chat from exploding into chaos.
Emma
Soph. Stop it.
Sophie
Milo posted on TikTok today.
This piques my interest more than it should.
Sophie
The link sits there, blue and underlined, like it’s humming. My thumb drifts closer before I curl my fingers into my palm.
Emma
That’s his username?
Sophie
Kind of hot, right?
Emma
NO . . . not kind of hot. But clever.
Sophie
Which is hot.
Emma
I want to click the link, but I don’t.
Sadie
My plus one is the pie.
Sophie
Sad.
Emma
It’s not sad. Pie is a great plus one, Sadie.
But even I know it’s not, and now I must make sure I get to the store before work to get the ingredients and then use my lunch break to make a pie.
Sadie
See you tonight!
Nine hours later with the chocolate cookie-dough pie carefully strapped into the passenger seat of my Volkswagen, I’m heading to Firefly Farms with a crate of spoiled fruits and veggies in the back.
The dirt from the road cradles around me, summer draining all the moisture from the ground. I drive carefully, watching for every pothole or large rock that might cause my car to swerve or shake.
It’s only five miles outside of Dusty Hollow, and yet it feels like forever when you drive ten miles below the speed limit.
I turn into the gravel drive, the large white sign with Firefly Farms hand-painted with fireflies and flowers surrounding the name. Underneath, it reads Where community matters.
I’ve been delivering almost-rotten food from Waters Grocery & Feed since high school.
When I moved back seven years ago, I told Mr. Waters I was more than happy to make the weekly trek every Friday.
I welcomed the short drive outside of town, feeling like the potential for freedom was under the pedal.
Not that I’ve ever driven past Firefly Farms. I’ve just thought about it.
I pull up beside the small bright-red barn that serves as the office. Sunflowers grow tall, framing the building, and chickens peck at the ground as they wander about freely. I watch them, the erratic rhythm of their movements somehow lulling me into a state of haziness.
Courtney opens the metal door and it slams shut immediately behind her, causing me to startle and blink. Her red hair is threaded into two braids, and she’s wearing a Firefly Farms ball cap and T-shirt, her standard apparel.
I fix a polite smile on my face and wave back before opening my door. “Hey, Court!”
“Got this week’s spoils?” she asks.
I nod as I use the lever to fold my seat flat so I can retrieve the crate, lifting it out like it’s a prized possession.
“Oh! There’re blueberries! That’s Billy Bob’s favorite,” she squeals happily.
“Billy Bob?”
“One of the pigs,” she answers.
I quirk a brow. “They have favorites?”
Courtney chuckles, her eyes glittering. “Of course they have favorites. Billy Bob isn’t fond of trying new things, either. I keep trying to tell him that new things aren’t so bad.”
I tilt my head. “Does he listen?”
She shakes her head. “Usually not. He’s a bit stubborn, or maybe just stuck in his ways. But he’s missing out!”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
“Thanks, Sadie. See you next week?”
“Of course.”
She smiles, then heads off to the pigpen with the crate. I start to sit back into the driver’s seat when something pokes me from behind. I glance back at the seat, but nothing is there. I try to sit again and realize that something’s in the pocket of my jeans. I pull it out, unfolding it.
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
Then Courtney’s words replay in my mind: “new things aren’t so bad” and “he’s missing out.”
What have I been missing out on?
I glance at the chocolate cookie-dough pie sitting in the passenger seat. My stomach groans. I forgot to eat lunch since I was making this exact pie my sister requested.
I keep plastic forks, spoons, and napkins in the glove compartment just in case anyone needs one.
I sit down in my seat, eyeing the pie. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a piece of pie.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve opened the glove compartment and retrieved a plastic fork. I bite my bottom lip and take a deep breath.
“It’s just one piece.”
I unbuckle the pie, open the lid, and the aroma makes my stomach groan again. I use my fork to gently scoop up some whipped topping. It immediately melts on my tongue as if nothing was there. So this time I scoop deeper, making sure to get to the thick chocolate. My eyes flutter when I take a bite.
I really do make a good pie.
I take several bites, a thrill beginning to dance up my spine with each bite.
After a fourth of the pie is gone, I put the lid back on and buckle the pie back into place.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror.
My cheeks are flushed pink, and my brown eyes are sparkling.
I’m not sure the last time I’ve seen myself—what’s the word?
Happy?
Have I really not been happy?
But I think that’s what I am right now, and I know it’s not the pie. I glance at the list, smiling softly.
What if I . . .?
No, I couldn’t.
But I could.
What if I added to this list?
I make lists all the time. Lists to make sure I don’t forget to do something. Lists to ensure everything in life goes according to plan.
Except, whose plan?
That’s really the question that’s been nagging at me.
Whose plan am I following?
What pieces of me are actually me, and what pieces were built from years of meeting other people’s expectations? I’m scared of doing something new—of doing it wrong, of disappointing someone, of not being good.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie . . .
I retrieve a pen from my purse, picking up the list. Then I cross off Order dessert first.
My smile widens as I begin to write.
I’ve always wanted to travel, to anywhere and everywhere. I used to cut out destinations from my mom’s magazines when I was little. Beaches. Mountains. Deserts. Big cities. Anything that made me feel like there was something different to discover.
So I write . . .
Go somewhere without a plan.
I think about the cute dresses and tops I’ve purchased over the years that hang in the back of my closet.
Those pieces you try on in the store that make you feel like a new version of you—or maybe the truest version of you.
I never wear them. They’d be too tight or low cut or impractical.
I know the kind of looks I’d get. So instead, I play it safe.
But I want to wear those things. I want to stand out a little.
So I write . . .
Wear something just because I like it.
I think of other things I’ve wanted to do but have felt like I’m not allowed to.
Things that might disappoint my parents.
Things that will be whispered about. Things that might make me misunderstood, and I hate feeling misunderstood.
In fact, I usually overexplain myself just so there’s zero chance someone misunderstands me.
It’s why I’ve always said yes. Why I’ve always done the “right thing.” Why I’ve kept a smile on my face and done whatever was asked of me.
And I’m exhausted.
I look at the paper and write a few more things. When I’m done, this is what I have . . .
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
Go somewhere without a plan.
Wear something just because I like it.
Climb the water tower.
Watch an R-rated movie.
Get a tattoo.
Kiss a stranger.
Some of these things are crazy, especially for me, but if I keep doing the same things, I’m just going to continue being the same Sadie.
I fold up the list and tuck it back in my pocket.
When I leave Firefly Farms, I push the pedal farther toward the floor, feeling the rush as my speed increases. I roll down my window, the breeze playing with my brown hair and my pulse racing beneath my skin as I drive ten miles over the speed limit on a back road.
Because staying the same suddenly feels more dangerous than changing.