Chapter 56
SADIE
THREE MONTHS LATER . . .
The rain patters softly against my umbrella before sliding down the fabric and landing in the puddle my black galoshes are firmly planted in. I would move, but a rainbow just appeared over the Eiffel Tower and I’m afraid if I blink, I might miss it.
Paris smells like wet stone and warm bread drifting from a bakery down the street. It’s true what they say—you’ve never really had a pastry until you’ve had one in Paris. I’ve had one, or four, every day the last week.
Cars hiss over the rain-soaked pavement while strangers hurry past me, collars turned up against the drizzle, but I remain still because for the first time in my life, I’m not rushing toward the next responsibility or trying to be the version of myself everyone else expects.
I’m just standing here, watching a rainbow stretch across the sky I once only knew from the pages of books, and somehow, it feels like the beginning of something instead of the end—even though I fly back to Texas tomorrow.
The last few months have been filled with lazy mornings that didn’t ask anything of me, afternoons spent wandering cities I’d only ever imagined—drifting through Venice canals like I had nowhere else to be, chasing golden sunlight through Spain, standing breathless beneath Switzerland’s mountains that made everything in me feel small in the best way, listening to church bells echo down Austria’s cobblestone streets until even my thoughts began to quiet, lingering in tucked-away bookshops in the UK where stories felt like old friends—and quiet moments in worn, candlelit churches where I’d sit with my hands folded, not always knowing what to pray, just letting the stillness remind me that God hasn’t been waiting for me to have everything figured out to meet me here.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to keep up with who I was supposed to be and started paying attention to who I actually am.
And I really like who I am. Sadie Summers is someone I enjoy spending time with.
Later that afternoon, I find myself standing in a crowded room inside the Louvre. Everyone is packed together shoulder to shoulder, phones raised high in the air.
The Mona Lisa.
It’s the most famous painting in the world. I read once that Leonardo da Vinci carried her around for fourteen years, adding layer upon layer, emotion upon emotion until he was finally satisfied.
I lean forward between two tourists and finally catch a glimpse of her.
And then I blink.
Because she’s . . . small.
Smaller than I imagined. Smaller than the stories built around her.
I had this expectation that she should be more, and don’t get me wrong—she’s beautiful. Even from this distance I can see the care da Vinci put into every brushstroke. She just looks . . . so alone on that big wall, surrounded by a secure case meant to keep her safe.
I step back, letting someone else move forward for their turn. The room buzzes with excitement, but I turn around instead, and that’s when I see it.
Stretching across the wall behind me—massive and impossible to ignore—is a painting filled with people gathered around a table.
The Wedding Feast at Cana.
It’s enormous. Larger than life. Faces turned toward one another, hands reaching, laughter frozen in paint as if the celebration might continue the moment you look away.
It’s a feast. A table full of people. Life happening together.
And suddenly something in my chest blossoms with a warmth that reaches my cheeks—the wedding. The one Milo and I crashed. When he leaned in and whispered, “It’s beautiful to choose a life together.”
These last three months have been everything I hoped they would be. I’ve walked streets older than my country, tasted food I can’t pronounce, and watched sunsets spill over cities I once only read about in books.
I’ve cried and remembered. Laughed and discovered. I feel freer than I ever have.
I came to Europe to prove I could choose myself—that I could live a bigger life than what I was living in Dusty Hollow.
But standing here in front of a painting full of people sharing a table that’s displayed across from what many might say is the “most successful” painting in art history, I realize something more.
Choosing myself doesn’t mean I have to be by myself.
Every day I’ve seen couples walking together, flirting over wine and bread. I’ve seen older men pressing kisses into the fluffy white hair of their wives.
And every time, my hand has ached to be held. My forehead has longed for that familiar gentle kiss.
My mind drifts to a wide grin, steady hands, and a man who believed in the woman I could become long before I did.
Milo Carter.
And suddenly the answer feels so obvious I laugh, drawing attention from a few people crowded around me.
The world is wide and wonderful. There is so much to see, so much to explore—but some things aren’t meant to be experienced alone. Some things are meant to be lived together.
And I’m ready to go home.