In February, the house received an offer. The buyer was a young teacher who loved the old porch and wanted a yard for a dog. Paige called to tell me, speaking with the excitement of someone who understood that a transaction could also be a relief. I listened to the numbers, asked for the inspection schedule, and thanked her. Then I drove to the house and stood in the living room while the late-afternoon sun fell across the floorboards. I remembered the first night Nolan and I slept there on an air mattress, eating pizza from the box while the heat sputtered and the refrigerator made alarming noises. The house had never promised we would be happy. We had filled it with a life, and then we had stopped protecting that life.
I moved into the apartment above the bakery in early March. It had narrow stairs, uneven floors, and windows that looked toward a street lined with small shops. In the morning the air carried the smell of rising bread, and delivery trucks rattled past before sunrise. I bought an ordinary kitchen table, two mismatched chairs, and a yellow lamp that looked nothing like the furniture Nolan and I had chosen. On the first night, I ate soup from a bowl while sitting on the floor, then assembled a shelf without calling anyone for help. The shelf leaned slightly to the left. I laughed, found the uneven screw, and tried again.
I brought the jar of adventures with me but placed it in a drawer rather than on display. A few weeks later I opened it and read the notes, then bought a fresh notebook and began a different list. It held no instructions to become glamorous or irresistible, no fantasies about Julian, and no plans designed to make Nolan regret leaving. I wrote things that frightened me because they required steady effort: save an emergency fund, ask for help before a work project falls behind, learn to cook for one without resenting the empty chair, apologize without demanding comfort, call friends when I have nothing entertaining to report. At the bottom of the page I wrote, Tell the truth early. I underlined it twice.
In April, Tessa married Ben in a garden ceremony on a sunny Saturday afternoon. She had worried for months about whether the event would feel awkward, so she decided to be plain with everyone. She invited Nolan because he had been part of her life for years and told him she would understand if attending was too difficult. She didn't ask me to approve the invitation, and I was proud of her for that. Nolan came with Daniel, stayed toward the back during the ceremony, and applauded when the newlyweds kissed. Seeing him there made my chest ache, but I did not treat his presence as an opening I was owed.