Page 49 of The Comeback Summer

As I eat the cookie (salted chocolate chip pecan), my minddrifts back to all the ways that Libby came through for me after the horrible breakup with Josh. She flew down to Florida and stayed for three weeks, cooking me meals, reminding me to shower and change my clothes and go outside at least once a day. She listened when I needed to talk and never once made me feel silly for crying. She’s the one who made my appointment with student health; from there I got connected with the doctor and therapist who helped me stay on track after she returned to Chicago.

My eyes fill with tears, but this time, they’re tears of gratitude. For my big sister and her beautiful heart. And all the countless ways she’s shown up for me over the years.

“I need to tell you something,” Libby says in a careful voice, her fingers stalling in my hair. “You’re turning into Sir Flakes-a-Lot again.”

“Rude!” I huff. That’s what she called me in junior high when my dandruff acted up.

“You should start using your medicated shampoo.”

“Okay, I will,” I say, sighing in exasperation. If anything encapsulates the experience of being the little sister, it’s this moment, swinging from gratitude to annoyance at being bossed around. “But don’t stop playing with my hair.”

She doesn’t, and we stay like this for the next hour: Libby’s fingers running through my hair, both of us eating cookies as we watch Julia Roberts tell Hugh Grant that she’s just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.

I feel safe and peaceful, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that sounds a lot like Lou, warning me that I’ve hopped right back into my comfort zone. Quiet, afraid, and small.

At this rate, I’ll never get out of it.

Nineteen

LIBBY

The next Saturday morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to write in my journal. At yesterday’s virtual check-in, Lou reminded us that she’ll be reviewing our daily entries when she comes in next. I’m trying to figure out how to answer a prompt from last week—write about a romantic relationship in your early years and how it contributed to your comfort zone—when Hannah comes out, looking sporty chic in her running shorts and tank top.

I’m grateful for the distraction, because every positive romantic experience I can think of isn’t mine—it’s from the life of a fictional character in a book I’ve read. If I were to write about my own life, it would be how my bad experiences convinced me that it’s better, safer, to stay snug inside my comfort zone, vicariously living through moments in my favorite books.

“Where are you off to?” I ask Hannah.

“Just for a run.”

It’s supposed to be our rest day, but my sister doesn’tbelieve in rest. I’m grateful for the day off—our training schedule keeps getting more and more intense, doing more reps and going longer distances.

“Well, you look cute,” I tell her.

“This?” Hannah says, looking down at her outfit. “Nothing special.”

Hmm. I set down my sparkly blue gel pen and look back up at my sister. She’s right—there’s nothing special about her outfit. But there’s something different...

She turns to head toward the kitchen, her ponytail swishing behind her, and it hits me: my sisterneverwears a ponytail when she’s running alone. Either shewantsto get kidnapped today, or more likely, she isn’t running alone.

Josh.

I lean forward and shift my torso, just enough to make sure the muscle burn is really gone.

Turns out Hannah was right. While the exercises are still really freaking hard, I’m able to do a little more each time. Yesterday I made it fifteen seconds on the deadhang, and I survived eight reps of the push-ups, planks, and jump rope. I even did two falling stars—which is kind of like a reverse pull-up.

And as much as I was looking forward to this well-earned day off, I’ve read enough second-chance romance novels to know that it just takes one romantic moment (ew) to fall back in love (double ew).

“You know what?” I say, standing up. “I think I’ll go with you.”

Mr.Darcy gives me a dirty look for disrupting his slumber before curling up on the couch like a cinnamon roll.

“Wait, what?” Hannah says. Her eyes go wide, and I narrowmine, trying to discern the true meaning of her surprise—if she’s impressed that I want to join, or if she’s annoyed that I’ll be interrupting her Josh time.

“I’ll be ready in three minutes,” I call over my shoulder as I head to my room, leaving my sister stumped. And Josh cockblocked.

Libby, 1. Josh, 0.

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