Page 110 of Up in Smoke

My eyes quickly scan the first few paragraphs, which offer details about how our passion project evolved into a popular community resource. All three of us, the original creators, are credited alongside the investment company that purchased it. I catch a sentence or two about when the update is set to launch and how families or teachers can access it with no purchase necessary by following an included link.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it? It’s all over social media right now,” Hazel says proudly.

The fanfare is entirely unnecessary for me. The impact of the work I’ve done is enough fulfillment. Still, it’s nice to experience the recognition.

“Yes! Wow. It’s—” I swallow down a squeal. Instead of shedding more tears than I already have today, I laugh in a mix of disbelief and pure joy. “Beyond incredible.”

Hazel joins in on my excited laughter. “After all we’ve been through to make this happen, I’m about to take a six-month cruise around the world. And I’m not even going to purchase the Wi-Fi package. No computers allowed.”

“Please do,” I giggle. “Send beachy postcards.”

The line goes silent for a while as the delight finally dies down. Hazel clears her throat.

“What’s next for you?”

I close the computer, promising myself I’ll sit down with a cup of tea and read the article more thoroughly later. Thinking about her question as I make my way back to the kitchen, a clear answer doesn’t hit me immediately.

I brace a hand on the counter and look out the curtain-framed window above my sink. A bumble bee hovers over my flower box. The sun filters through the trees, streaking my entire backyard with patches of light. The quiet wraps around me like an heirloom quilt.

I’m tempted to say that what’s next for me is to just . . . be here.

Is that too ordinary of me? I spend another minute wondering if tackling new and even more ambitious goals would be more impressive.

“I think I’m going to…” I start, but my sentence trails off.

“Just say yes to what feels good, and no to what doesn’t?” Hazel offers, sensing my lack of confidence.

“Exactly,” I agree with a smile. “I already chased my dream. Whatever comes next, I’m not going to look for it. It will find me.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hazel responds. “Never change, sweet girl.”

Once the conversation comes to a natural end and I set my phone down, I pick up the old wine glass in the sink. I turn it over beneath a stream of warm water, washing away the evidence of time that coats every bit of its exposed surface.

Screw having it all figured out and organizing each detailed step in a binder labeled “five-year plan,” I think to myself.

I still admire that approach. But I’ve been devoted to a strenuous grind for over a decade. I’ll pick up my next career adventure when it’s time, and I think for now, my heart prefers to be present and unrushed.

The faint rumbling of Tripp’s Bronco pulling into my driveway hits my ears. As usual, he’s off work early on Fridays. It’s something he started doing after Gage and Blythe’s wedding weekend over a month ago.

I can’t put into words the way it made me feel when I realized he’d made a routine out of it so that we’d have more time together. As if we don’t already have plenty of it.

But no amount of time with him is ever enough for either of us, it seems.

I quickly set the glass down and dry my hands. He’s no sooner turned off his truck when I’m out the front door.

There’s sweat on his brow as he steps out, lifts his hat, and brushes a hand over his forehead. His jeans sit low on his hips, and his old t-shirt is frayed around the neckline.

Tiny rocks prick the soles of my feet as I walk toward him. As soon as we reach each other, he smirks at me and slowly bends just enough so that I can loop both arms around his neck.

He doesn’t speak yet, and neither do I. It’s a quiet rhythm between us—tired bodies on a hot afternoon, content breaths, hearts beating in tandem.

I shiver when he kisses under my ear and then lifts me off the ground to carry me toward the house. Once we’re inside, I let out a relieved sigh as the air conditioner hits my skin again.

Tripp removes his boots, takes my hand, and leads us toward the bathroom. The thing about dating a cowboy that I’ll never complain about is how many showers they have to take. Andmycowboy seems to think taking one alone is never any fun.

I look down at our hands, fingers intertwined like part of a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together so flawlessly with any other pieces.

The new ring on my thumb catches the light. Time slows to a stop while my chest fills with emotion.

---