Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
I can’t wait to see him.
Really, I can’t wait to see his face when I tell everyone I’m staying in Hartsville. He’s going to be so, so happy. I wonder if he’ll ask me to move in with him.
I wonder how Mom is going to react to Dad’s reaction. She’s been nothing but supportive of my relationship with Wyatt, but I also know she’s so proud of my education and the future I had lined up for myself. Then again, she did encourage me to follow my heart when I we talked that afternoon in the kitchen. Surely, she’ll be happy for me—for us—right?
I put on an apron to protect Mollie’s dress. My hands shake as I stuff them into a pair of potholders and take the gigantic eighteen-pound turkey out of the oven. Reheating it has made the kitchen smell insanely delicious, like hickory smoke and the caramelized onions I made. My stomach grumbles, despite the nerves that have taken up residence there.
“Wow, that smells good.”
I nearly drop the turkey at the sound of the voice behind me. Setting the roasting pan on top of the range, I turn and see Dad step into the kitchen.
He’s carrying two reusable grocery bags. I know without asking what’s in them—Mom’s pecan pie, some kind of Thanksgiving-themed gift for Ella, and the linen napkins Mom pressed for me that match the china.
My heart twists when I see how tired he looks, the rings around his eyes deep purple. For half a heartbeat, my resolve wavers. Last thing I want to do is stress Dad out more than he already is. He works so damn hard and worries so much.
But I can’t take that on as my problem anymore. It’s not my job to fix that, just like it’s not his job to live my life for me.
“I’m glad Mom invested in the Big Green Egg,” I say, referencing the egg-shaped smoker we used for the turkey. “I think this is gonna be delicious. How are you?”
He sets down the bags. “I’m all right. Long day, but that’s nothing new. Your mom wanted me to drop these things off while she was in the shower back home. I’ve been looking forward to your Friendsgiving all week.”
“I have too.” Reaching behind me, I untie the apron and pull it over my head. “I think this could be a fun tradition, you know? A little more casual than Thanksgiving, but you still get the good food and the good wine. Plus, you get to choose your guests. Kind of the best of both worlds.”
That’s when I realize Dad is staring at me. Specifically, he’s staring at my red dress, a hard expression coming over his face.
“Awfully dressed up for a casual dinner,” he says.
My stomach drops a hundred stories. “It’s still a special occasion.”
“Only other time I’ve seen you get this dolled up was when you went to the potluck with Wyatt—you know, when you swore up and down that the two of you were just friends.”
Oh Lord. Dad is onto me, because of course he is. He knows me better than almost anyone.
“What’s going on, Sally?” He flattens his palms on the island countertop. “Please don’t lie to me this time.”
I meet his eyes. The saliva in my mouth thickens. “Tonight is the celebration of a new beginning. I’m”—just keep breathing—“not taking the job at Ithaca University.”
Silence.
Terrible, awful silence that rings with dad’s judgment. His disapproval.
My face burns. I can’t go back now though. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Hear me out?” I ask.
A muscle in Dad’s jaw tics. “Okay.”
“I’ve realized something since coming back to Hartsville. I always felt there was a piece missing from my life in Ithaca, but I could never really put my finger on it. I loved my work, but there was this…I guess this sense of loneliness I felt? Isolation? Our professors put so much pressure on us to do more surgeries, do more research, really push ourselves to be the best. But for what? It was always about the bottom line there. The grants we could get, the press, the accolades. I felt like it wasn’t about the animals or even the people, you know? And while Ithaca University was a good fit for my residency, I don’t think it’s a good fit for the rest of my life. I want to take what I learned there and bring it here—”
“You have a higher calling than that.”
A flare of anger ignites in my gut. “What higher calling could there be than to serve my community? Than to feed my soul by doing work that’s meaningful, alongside people I love?”
“Trust me when I say you don’t want this life—”
“Trust me when I say that just because we live in the same place doesn’t mean we’re going to have the same life.”