My eyes widened, and I sat back against the headboard, my knees raised. “Now?” I mouthed.
He smiled. “Right now. Unless, you know, you want to get your ass to class.”
I shook my head.
“But tomorrow, you will, right?”
Another head shake.
He sighed as he folded The List and placed it carefully back on my desk. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gentle as it settled on my arm. He gave me that look. The one that showed he had no idea what to do or what to say because he was in way over his head.
“Okay,” I mouthed, and he smiled.
“Okay.” Dad rubbed his hands together and said, “Lemonade, sweetheart.”
My dad loves phrases, but would always say them wrong. He’d say things like, “I’m not here to give you the fifth degree,” or “You’re climbing up the wrong branch.” So, “Lemonade, sweetheart,” was his way of saying, “When life gives you lemons…” you know the rest.
So I turned the stupid lemons into lemonade.
I huff out a frustrated breath and pick at a worn spot on the kitchen table, the fear of what we’re doing suddenly hitting me. “You okay, kid?” Dad asks.
I nod—a lie.
Selling my work is the only item on The List that had nothing to do with my mother (or Josh). In fact, it has everything to do with me. I had planned my future based on my photography, yet I’d been too afraid to show the world what I could do. Besides teachers, some students, family (and Josh), no one had seen it. And the idea of throwing it out there for the world to judge was absolutely petrifying.
Dad shuts his laptop, pushes it to the side, and leans forward on his elbows. “It’s overwhelming, huh?”
I shrug.
“Well, let’s start with the first step. Have you thought of a name?”
I drop my head, another sigh leaving me. Then I pick up a notepad and pen, scribble down the name I’d chosen a year ago and slowly slide it toward him. His smile is instant. “Views Of Emeralds.” He glances up at me with the eyes I’d inherited. “It’s perfect, Becca.”
* * *
I spend the next month going to classes, going to therapy with Dawn, and going to voice therapy. I don’t go to group. I’m not ready, and Dad—he understands that and he leaves it alone, for now, but not forever. Dad and I work together to create an Instagram account to hopefully sell the images through there. Last week, I asked Pete, the editor at the school paper, if he could run a tiny story without giving away my identity. He agreed, and now I have forty-nine followers on Instagram and absolutely no interest from anyone wanting to buy the photographs. But like my dad keeps reminding me, it wasn’t the prospect of money, or lack of, that had me wanting it on The List. It was purely getting it out there. Now, I had done that. And without even realizing, I slowly start picking up the pieces of my once not-so-broken life.
My phone sounds with an alert, and a smile begins to spread when I hear my dad’s footsteps get louder until his huge frame crashes against my door. He knocks. Waits. And then enters the room. “Did you see it?” he shouts over the commentary of whatever game he’s watching on the television.
I nod once, his excitement forcing the grin out of me.
“Fifty followers, Becs! That’s amazing!” He throws his hands in the air. “We should celebrate.”
I quirk an eyebrow.
“After group therapy.”
My shoulders drop.
“Let’s go. You don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Aaron’s here. I assumed he would be, but still, watching him approach—his hands in his pockets while he chews his bottom lip—is so terrifying, I should’ve added it to The List.
“I was wondering if you’d ever come back,” he says.
“I’m not here willingly,” I sign.
He smiles. “Your dad?”
I’m about to nod, but the session starts and a minute later, we’re sitting next to each other in a large circle. In the month I’ve been gone, a few people have left, replaced with newer, sadder faces. They release their hurt, some release their tears. The stories are the same, but different. The words are heavy, and the pain we share even heavier.
Aaron passes when it comes time for him to talk, which surprises me because he’s always had something to say. It dawns on me now that he’s been silent the entire time, his knee bouncing—something he does when he’s nervous.
“Becca. Your turn,” Cliff, the group leader, says.
I keep my eyes narrowed at Aaron, who’s avoiding my gaze, and reach into my bag for my iPad. I pull up the speech I’d prepared last night, take a deep breath, and hit speak. My eyes lose focus the second Cordy starts to speak.
“I’ve been a little down lately which I guess is the reason why I haven’t been coming to these sessions. It’s probably counterproductive considering this is therapy, and we should be using it the most during those times. The truth is, I lost someone from my life who I loved dearly. Maybe not in the way I should’ve loved him, but still, I did. I think the part that hurt me the most is that I didn’t show him that, and in turn, that hurt me. And it’s that thought that had me spiraling down. I know what you’re all thinking… Becca had her heart broken by a guy, boo-hoo. But the truth is, he wasn’t just a guy. He was a guy who helped me through some of the toughest times of my life. He helped me heal, and he taught me that my biggest physical flaw was not at all an emotional one. And that it shouldn’t stop me from at least attempting to reach my life goals.
“I guess it’s because of him I chose to start showing more people my photography—my life goal. My dad encouraged me to set up an Instagram account and we have about fifty followers. No bites for sales yet, but that’s not really the point. I know it may seem like a small step for most, but it’s a giant leap for me. I think that regardless of common advice, sometimes it’s important to fall and stay down for a while to appreciate why it’s so important to get back up. I’m grateful to Aaron for helping me realize that. And I just want to thank him, even if he disappears from my life forever. I want him to know that he means so much more to me than I let on. And sometimes, the fear of losing someone important makes you push them away. And for that, I’m sorry.”
Silence fills the room seconds after the last word, and I keep my eyes lowered, afraid of people’s judgments. When I find the courage to glance up, no one’s looking at me, they’re all looking at Aaron—who’s smiling. “What’s your Instagram account?”
* * *
“Where’s your car?” I sign to Aaron, using his body to shield me from the sun.
He rubs his jaw, his eyes shifting to the side. “Yeah… I kind of wanted to talk to you about something, but then the group started and well…” he trails off.
I grasp his arm and wait until he’s looking at me before signing, “What’s going on?”
He waits a beat, his cheeks darkening. “I kind of met someone…”
An emotion hits me. I’m not sure what yet, but I sign, “Is that what you were going to talk about in there? Because you could’ve.”
Aaron shrugs. “I know. It just didn’t seem appropriate. And then you started talking—”
He smiled. “Right now. Unless, you know, you want to get your ass to class.”
I shook my head.
“But tomorrow, you will, right?”
Another head shake.
He sighed as he folded The List and placed it carefully back on my desk. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gentle as it settled on my arm. He gave me that look. The one that showed he had no idea what to do or what to say because he was in way over his head.
“Okay,” I mouthed, and he smiled.
“Okay.” Dad rubbed his hands together and said, “Lemonade, sweetheart.”
My dad loves phrases, but would always say them wrong. He’d say things like, “I’m not here to give you the fifth degree,” or “You’re climbing up the wrong branch.” So, “Lemonade, sweetheart,” was his way of saying, “When life gives you lemons…” you know the rest.
So I turned the stupid lemons into lemonade.
I huff out a frustrated breath and pick at a worn spot on the kitchen table, the fear of what we’re doing suddenly hitting me. “You okay, kid?” Dad asks.
I nod—a lie.
Selling my work is the only item on The List that had nothing to do with my mother (or Josh). In fact, it has everything to do with me. I had planned my future based on my photography, yet I’d been too afraid to show the world what I could do. Besides teachers, some students, family (and Josh), no one had seen it. And the idea of throwing it out there for the world to judge was absolutely petrifying.
Dad shuts his laptop, pushes it to the side, and leans forward on his elbows. “It’s overwhelming, huh?”
I shrug.
“Well, let’s start with the first step. Have you thought of a name?”
I drop my head, another sigh leaving me. Then I pick up a notepad and pen, scribble down the name I’d chosen a year ago and slowly slide it toward him. His smile is instant. “Views Of Emeralds.” He glances up at me with the eyes I’d inherited. “It’s perfect, Becca.”
* * *
I spend the next month going to classes, going to therapy with Dawn, and going to voice therapy. I don’t go to group. I’m not ready, and Dad—he understands that and he leaves it alone, for now, but not forever. Dad and I work together to create an Instagram account to hopefully sell the images through there. Last week, I asked Pete, the editor at the school paper, if he could run a tiny story without giving away my identity. He agreed, and now I have forty-nine followers on Instagram and absolutely no interest from anyone wanting to buy the photographs. But like my dad keeps reminding me, it wasn’t the prospect of money, or lack of, that had me wanting it on The List. It was purely getting it out there. Now, I had done that. And without even realizing, I slowly start picking up the pieces of my once not-so-broken life.
My phone sounds with an alert, and a smile begins to spread when I hear my dad’s footsteps get louder until his huge frame crashes against my door. He knocks. Waits. And then enters the room. “Did you see it?” he shouts over the commentary of whatever game he’s watching on the television.
I nod once, his excitement forcing the grin out of me.
“Fifty followers, Becs! That’s amazing!” He throws his hands in the air. “We should celebrate.”
I quirk an eyebrow.
“After group therapy.”
My shoulders drop.
“Let’s go. You don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Aaron’s here. I assumed he would be, but still, watching him approach—his hands in his pockets while he chews his bottom lip—is so terrifying, I should’ve added it to The List.
“I was wondering if you’d ever come back,” he says.
“I’m not here willingly,” I sign.
He smiles. “Your dad?”
I’m about to nod, but the session starts and a minute later, we’re sitting next to each other in a large circle. In the month I’ve been gone, a few people have left, replaced with newer, sadder faces. They release their hurt, some release their tears. The stories are the same, but different. The words are heavy, and the pain we share even heavier.
Aaron passes when it comes time for him to talk, which surprises me because he’s always had something to say. It dawns on me now that he’s been silent the entire time, his knee bouncing—something he does when he’s nervous.
“Becca. Your turn,” Cliff, the group leader, says.
I keep my eyes narrowed at Aaron, who’s avoiding my gaze, and reach into my bag for my iPad. I pull up the speech I’d prepared last night, take a deep breath, and hit speak. My eyes lose focus the second Cordy starts to speak.
“I’ve been a little down lately which I guess is the reason why I haven’t been coming to these sessions. It’s probably counterproductive considering this is therapy, and we should be using it the most during those times. The truth is, I lost someone from my life who I loved dearly. Maybe not in the way I should’ve loved him, but still, I did. I think the part that hurt me the most is that I didn’t show him that, and in turn, that hurt me. And it’s that thought that had me spiraling down. I know what you’re all thinking… Becca had her heart broken by a guy, boo-hoo. But the truth is, he wasn’t just a guy. He was a guy who helped me through some of the toughest times of my life. He helped me heal, and he taught me that my biggest physical flaw was not at all an emotional one. And that it shouldn’t stop me from at least attempting to reach my life goals.
“I guess it’s because of him I chose to start showing more people my photography—my life goal. My dad encouraged me to set up an Instagram account and we have about fifty followers. No bites for sales yet, but that’s not really the point. I know it may seem like a small step for most, but it’s a giant leap for me. I think that regardless of common advice, sometimes it’s important to fall and stay down for a while to appreciate why it’s so important to get back up. I’m grateful to Aaron for helping me realize that. And I just want to thank him, even if he disappears from my life forever. I want him to know that he means so much more to me than I let on. And sometimes, the fear of losing someone important makes you push them away. And for that, I’m sorry.”
Silence fills the room seconds after the last word, and I keep my eyes lowered, afraid of people’s judgments. When I find the courage to glance up, no one’s looking at me, they’re all looking at Aaron—who’s smiling. “What’s your Instagram account?”
* * *
“Where’s your car?” I sign to Aaron, using his body to shield me from the sun.
He rubs his jaw, his eyes shifting to the side. “Yeah… I kind of wanted to talk to you about something, but then the group started and well…” he trails off.
I grasp his arm and wait until he’s looking at me before signing, “What’s going on?”
He waits a beat, his cheeks darkening. “I kind of met someone…”
An emotion hits me. I’m not sure what yet, but I sign, “Is that what you were going to talk about in there? Because you could’ve.”
Aaron shrugs. “I know. It just didn’t seem appropriate. And then you started talking—”
