Chapter 23
SADIE
It’s a typical Tuesday night—takeout and Jane Austen. I’m rereading Persuasion because maybe I misunderstood Anne Elliot. Or worse . . . understood her a little too well.
Sometimes we find the best—or worst—parts of ourselves tucked inside a story and call it literary analysis when, really, it’s just a polite way of avoiding our own character development.
At least . . . that’s my working theory. It sounds better than admitting I’m the problem.
On the couch cushion next to me, my Bible is open to Proverbs. I’d like to say that was intentional—that I was seeking wisdom—but really, it’s been sitting there all evening, quietly waiting its turn while I’ve been busy rereading other people’s lives.
Wisdom on one side. Regret, very well-mannered and quietly suffering, on the other.
Between Jesus and Jane Austen, I’m feeling very confident that my life is not what I want it to be right now.
I twist my fork through a container of teriyaki noodles, which probably shouldn’t be served by Ruthie’s Café (known for the kind of food that sticks to your ribs and your childhood), and shove a giant helping into my mouth just as my phone buzzes on the other cushion beside me.
I slurp and chew, tasting a hint of burger grease alongside the garlic, before setting the noodles on the floor. Then I pick up my phone.
Milo
Hey. I’m coming over. Make popcorn. We’re checking off another item tonight.
My eyes widen and I sit up a smidge straighter.
Sadie
R-rated movie?!
Milo
R enough to make Q and S jealous.
I roll my eyes but laugh to myself.
Sadie
Thank you. Honestly, I had no idea what movie to pick.
Milo
Be there in five.
I look around my living room, my eyes widening when I catch my reflection on the television screen. My hair is tumbling out of a bun, and I’m wearing cotton shorts, a tank top, and socks. I jump up, my noodles spilling out on my floor.
“Ugh!” I groan, using my fork to funnel them back into the container before rushing to the kitchen to grab a rag.
After cleaning up my mess, I hurry to the bathroom and look at my reflection for only a handful of seconds before I pull the elastic out of my hair and then brush with vengeance, willing it to turn into voluptuous waves instead of crazy frizz.
Then I quickly apply a dusting of blush and a swipe of Chapstick just in time.
There’s a knock at the front door before I hear it open and Milo says loudly, “Sadie?”
“Here!” I yell as I slide in my socks toward the front door, where I lose a bit of control, my arms flailing until Milo catches me, my body suddenly slammed against him.
“Hey,” he says quietly, looking down at me with a grin, his arms wrapped securely but gently around me.
“Hey,” I reply, willing my eyes to quit looking at his lips that are just lingering there like they have no better place to be. I straighten my body, stepping out of his embrace, and tug at my clothes as I back away.
“I hope tonight was okay,” he says, brushing at his T-shirt with one hand and holding a DVD in his other.
“It’s great. What’d you bring?”
He hands me the DVD. “Hope you have a player.”
“You’re lucky that I do. I’m surprised you were even able to find a DVD,” I say while staring at the cover—an old shadowy farmhouse and a rope swinging from a tree like that’s completely normal and not terrifying at all.
The Conjuring.
“It’s R because it’s horror, nothing else,” he assures me. “I wasn’t sure what kind of R you wanted . . .”
“Have you watched this before?” I ask, glancing back up at him from the creepy cover.
“Once,” he replies.
“And how scary is it?”
“Scarier than Dusty Hollow’s corn maze,” he teases.
I look up at him and let my head roll to the side with an exaggerated expression stretching out on my face. “Well, that’s not a difficult feat.”
“No, it’s not,” he admits. “It was a good corn maze, though.”
He holds my stare as my skin sprinkles with a memory of Milo and me choosing to get lost in the maze so we could make out in the harder-to-find parts of it. We were seventeen, and the only thing that worried me that night was curfew.
“Yeah,” I mutter before I clear my throat. “I’ll make some popcorn.”
He follows me to the kitchen. “The paint looks good.”
I look at the walls. The walls Milo’s never seen before, reminding me that he’s never been inside my house. The only house he had known as mine was my parents’.
“Oh, yeah. It was all just white before,” I say.
“Grant did a good job.”
“He did.”
“So, are you two . . .” He trails off as he leans back against the counter.
I shake my head as I reach for a bag of popcorn in a cabinet. “No. We’re just friends.”
“Okay. What does he think we are?” He uses his finger to point between us.
“Friends.” I peel the plastic off the bag of popcorn before placing it in the microwave, the beeps and noise a welcome interruption.
“It’s weird seeing him with you,” Milo admits.
I scrunch my forehead, turning back to face him. “Why?”
“Well, he was in Emma’s class, and I always thought Emma liked him.”
“No,” I say immediately. “She didn’t like him.”
“She used to draw hearts along the margins of her notebooks with the letter G in them.”
“No, she didn’t,” I argue, even though I have no idea. I’m not sure I ever watched Emma doodle.
Milo shrugs. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. I would have known if Emma liked Grant.”
“You’re probably right,” Milo concedes, going as far as to put his hands up in surrender.
The sound of the kernels popping grows louder. We stand there, looking at each other. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt and gray sweats, both of which somehow bring out the blueness in his eyes. I bite my bottom lip, startling when the microwave beeps loudly.
I open it, grabbing the hot bag carefully by the edges.
“I can grab a bowl,” Milo offers. I hear drawers and cabinets begin to open and close quickly as he searches. Then silence. “Why do you have a photo of us in the silverware drawer?”
My feet sprout roots and my pulse ramps up. “Oh, um . . .”
“Man, we were young,” Milo mutters, his voice barely above a sigh.
I finally turn to see Milo holding the photo of him wearing his Dusty Hollow football jersey while he holds me in his arms, both of us grinning, but while I’m looking at the camera, he’s looking at me.
It’s a photo I know well, one I’ve stared at for years.
Sometimes while eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Half Baked.
I cross the small kitchen, looking down at the picture of us in his hand. “That Sadie thought she had life figured out.”
Milo turns his head toward me, his eyes finding mine. “No. That Sadie knew it was okay that she didn’t.”
I wince because his words are true.
The Sadie in the picture was a dreamer, and while she loved her plans, she loved the idea of not having them. Of living life fully, her arms wide open to possibility—not afraid of pain because she was more afraid of not feeling.
I snatch the picture and put it back in the drawer before I open the correct cabinet to retrieve a large bowl. I walk back over to where I left the popcorn, rip the bag, and dump it in.
“So, are we doing this or not?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re doing this.”
We walk into the living room, and Milo cues up the DVD player and TV.
“You’ve really never seen an R-rated movie?” he asks.
“Did we ever watch one?”
He shakes his head. “You said people who made scary movies had psychological issues.”
“I stand by that.”
“Fair enough.”
I settle on the right side of the couch, putting the popcorn bowl on the middle cushion. When Milo walks over, he picks up the bowl and plops down right beside me, the popcorn now in his lap.
“So, what’s this one about?” I cross my arms, leaning against the couch arm.
Milo takes a handful of popcorn. “Well, I think it’s about paranormal activity.”
I frown at him. “What?”
“Demonic things and some kind of investigators. It’s at an old farmhouse or something,” he tries to explain.
“Demonic?” I feel my forehead wrinkle.
“It’s like really ramped-up haunted house stuff.”
The movie starts up, and it’s not long before I’m using Milo as an arm rest instead of the couch. Milo places the popcorn on the other cushion and his arms around me, pulling me into his scent of memories and musk. I want to dissolve into it, wearing his warmth.
“We can turn it off,” he says.
I shake my head with my face buried into his chest, focusing on matching my breath with his. “No, I have to complete the movie to mark it off the list.”
“But the list says to watch an R-rated movie, not listen to it,” he teases gently, his chin resting against the top of my head.
“Can you watch it for me? I’m good down here,” I mutter, my words hot against his shirt.
“My eyes are yours,” he replies softly.
I let my body and mind fall heavy into Milo, letting him simply hold me. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself relax into someone like this—actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever let anyone hold me like this except for him.
Milo’s fingers soon thread through my hair as he gently massages my scalp and then carefully untangles any knots he created. Every weary and worn atom within me seems to exhale, and I melt into this comfort.
The movement of his chest slows, and mine mimics it. Soon, everything feels cozy and turns black.
The next thing I remember is Milo tucking me into my bed, placing a whisper of a kiss onto my forehead and saying, “Night, Sadie,” before he leaves.