Page 25 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“Back to California,” I confirm.
“I had fun with you in London.”
“Me too.” I pause. But then I take two steps back so he doesn’t try to kiss me again. His kisses do nothing but confuse me. “See you around.”
“See you around.” He smirks, shaking his head.
Later that evening, I begin typing a new blog post for my website, just like I do every week. I write about notable women in history and the things they achieved that at the time seemed somewhat inconsequential. The idea being that one person can make a monumental difference. It’s a subtle way to encourage others to donate their talents and resources, no matter how minimal they believe their contribution would be.
Florence Nightingale, born in 1820, is revered as the founder of modern nursing.
In the face of opposition, she organized care for wounded soldiers at Constantinople. At the time people thought her efforts would be wasted. Nicknamed “the lady with the lamp,” she visited her patients’ bedsides with a candle to complete her rounds. She significantly reduced death rates by improving hygiene and living standards.
She didn’t believe she was doing anything to change the world when she instituted handwashing at the hospital where she worked, but the death rate dropped from 45% to just 2%.
Unbeknownst to her, she laid the foundation for modern nursing. International Nurses Day is still celebrated on her birthday around the world.
What would you begin today if you knew you could not fail?
I delete the last sentence and try again. I enjoy writing my blog and the hours of research that come with it, but it’s always tricky ending these things. I try to strike a balance of asking for donations without being obnoxious.
Deciding to leave the post in my drafts, I make a mental note to run it past Joslyn in the morning, see if she has a suggestion for me.
When I crawl into bed that night, my phone chimes with a text.
It’s Sean, just now replying to my message wondering how Murphy was doing.
Sean:About the same, but he’s eating a little better.
Some positive news, at least.
Sean:But ... I got the test results back. It’s cancer.
An ache in my chest grows. Poor Murphy.
Alessia:Send me a picture.
A moment later, a photo appears. It’s a picture of a very happy and muddy Murphy playing at the dog park near where we used to live. I smile, and tears spring to my eyes. Man, I love that crazy beast.
Another text comes through, but it’s not Sean.
Hart:When will I see you again?
Chapter Seven
Never Underestimate the Power of Friendship
San Jose, California
My condo is exactly as I remember it, except for two small details. There’s a weird smell—like stale air permeating the space—and the water pressure leaves a lot to be desired. After showering off the grime of the long intercontinental flight, I open several windows, hoping to air the place out.
Maybe I’ll book a massage while I’m here. In the last few days alone, I flew nine hours from Nairobi to London, and then eleven hours from London to San Francisco. I’m tired and cranky, and there’s absolutely not one thing in my refrigerator. Okay, that’s a lie. There’re actually three things—one bottle of mustard, a questionable jar of pickles, and a bottle of water.
I toss a dead potted cactus into the trash in the kitchen. “Sorry, buddy.”
I don’t know why I bought the thing. I guess I figured a cactus was safe. Nope, not with my schedule.
I grab my phone and scroll through several texts—from Scarlet, Joslyn, and both my parents—all of whom I texted on the Uber ride from the airport to let them know I’d touched down.
