Chapter 24
SADIE
My body aches and my eyes blur from sitting in my office chair staring at numbers all morning. Numbers reflecting what others prioritize while I contemplate my own.
I glance down at my calendar.
Thursday.
Go for a walk.
Water petunias for the city.
DRINK WATER
I grab for my Stanley cup and let the cool water slide down my throat.
I hear my dad roll out of his office before I see him. He wheels into my small space. “Hey, kiddo. I’m taking lunch.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning back and stretching my hands high toward the ceiling, tilting my head from side to side, wishing the tension would crack.
My dad doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, his eyes float around. I follow their trail over my walls and floors. “We should update your office,” he muses.
“Excuse me? The man who pinches pennies in his sleep wants to update my office?” I tease. “Isn’t that an unnecessary expense?”
“Well, it comes with a big promotion, Sadie girl,” he says with a wide grin, pride evident in his green eyes.
A heavy weight settles over me, and it’s not comforting. “A promotion?” The words come out smaller than I intend.
“I’m not going to be around forever.” He shrugs. “I’d rather leave you the business before it becomes something I have to do and don’t just want to do.”
The air seems to dissipate, leaving me choking. “Oh.”
“I assume that’s what you want,” he continues, his eyes steady on me. “You’re good at this. Better than I am.”
I’ve been good at a lot of things I never wanted to be. Class President. Tutoring. Volunteer coordinator. Event planner for friends and family. The responsible sister.
But becoming an accountant to keep Dad’s business afloat after the accident feels like the culmination of all those expectations—like someone handed me a life I didn’t choose.
I swallow to coat my throat in saliva. “I—”
“Don’t know what to say?” He laughs. “Why don’t you talk to Grant about some updates? I bet he could build you a new desk and shelves. New paint. I’ll even spring for that newfangled technology you’ve been talking about,” he adds, a hopeful note to his voice. “I just want you to enjoy your work.”
Enjoy my work.
The words puncture my lungs and the lie I’ve been telling everyone for so long.
That I’m fine.
For years I’ve let my life accumulate to what it is now and this business . . .
If I allow my dad to give it to me . . .
I stand from my chair, hearing it roll and hit the wall behind me before I plaster on one of my well-practiced smiles. “Can we talk about this later? I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Oh.” His brows furrow, a hint of concern flashing through his eyes. “Of course. See you after lunch?”
“Um, actually . . . I’ll be gone the rest of the day,” I say as I slip my purse over my shoulder before leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll see you later.”
His eyes search mine, a quiet worry I can’t seem to meet. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” I give my well-practiced lie. “Just forgot about something.”
He nods. “All right. Don’t forget to talk to Grant.”
I don’t answer. I just smile at Dad and push open the door. The summer air hits my punctured lungs, heavy with heat. A tear tumbles gently down my cheek, and I quickly swipe it away.
I love my dad. I do.
When I was in school, he’d tape all my papers marked with A+ to the front windows of his business—displaying my success for all of Dusty Hollow to see as they walked by.
A little embarrassing when you wrote a paper on asexual reproduction in biology and the entire town felt personally informed in a way I never intended.
When I was offered a full-ride scholarship to the University of Texas, he took out a local newspaper ad, as if everyone didn’t already know.
I’ve never doubted how proud of me he is, and yet . . .
I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t want this family business—that this was supposed to be temporary.
Seven years ago, I knew my family needed me.
My mom stayed home with us girls growing up and worked part-time at Fanny Faye’s Flowers, the kind of income that filled gaps but couldn’t carry a family if my dad’s business struggled while he was learning how to live in a body that no longer worked the way it used to.
Emma had just gone off to college and Sophie was a junior. My mom was trying to help my dad—and trying not to fall apart—and I knew Sophie needed someone to hold the pieces together quietly, without making it feel like anything had broken.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself what I wanted and started asking what would make everything easier for everyone else. Easier for Dad. Easier for the business. Easier for the version of me everyone already believed in.
I step off the curb and into the sunlight, the heat pressing against my shoulders like a question I can’t outrun.
What if I don’t want easier anymore?
A life can be good—mine is by certain definitions—but it can still not be right.
For most of my life, or at least the last seven years, I thought being rooted meant staying exactly where you were planted.
But I feel like a flower wilting beneath glass, counting down petals and wondering when the story ends.
What if being rooted really means knowing when it’s time to grow in a new direction—rooted in something other than soil and expectations?
I feel the list in my back pocket, and I smile.
Permission.
Permission to try something new.
Permission to go somewhere else.
Permission to step outside the life that’s already been decided for me.
I turn right, my sandals slapping softly against the pavement, and let permission take me where I need to go next.