My first day in the office, I’m greeted with a surprise welcome breakfast, complete with a WE MISSED YOU banner, delicious pastries from Fresh Flours, and plastic champagne flutes for mimosas.

There’s a gorgeous, glossy-leaved plant sitting on my desk when I get to it, and I frown, plucking the heavy cardstock from a metal card holder stuck in the soil.

As I read the card, my heart picks up speed:

I thought about sending flowers, but a plant will last longer for you. Keep in mind I know nothing about plants, so if this one is terrible, pretend to be impressed, okay?

Good luck this week and every week after, Peach. You’re going to do amazing. You already are.

Love,

E

It takes a significant number of slow breaths to unwind the knot in my throat. I focus on each individual word, on that love written in someone else’s handwriting but dictated by Eli. I hear his voice from that night at Blue Yonder, his I love you followed by the still that echoes in my mind when I have a hard time remembering that this is what’s best.

And it is what’s best. The fact that he’s sending this from LA instead of New York is a testament to that. The fact that he’s sending it at all is a testament to that.

I hold the card up in front of the plant and snap a picture, then text: Brave of you to get me a plant when you know my track record with them.

It’s not until I glance at my photo that I notice a number written in the bottom right corner of the card: 212. It’s probably just the way they keep track of deliveries or something, but it’s a surprising oversight for an otherwise meticulously written card.

Eli’s response pops up: I have faith in you.

Biting back a smile, I type, I’ll take good care of it, I promise. You didn’t have to do this but it’s the best part of my day so far (coming from the girl who had a mimosa at 9 AM on a Monday).

My brain applies the brakes after that, but my heart keeps my thumbs moving. Only thing is it’ll probably make me miss you every time I look at it. With a squeak of panic, I add, As a friend.

Maybe that was my master plan, he writes back immediately.

Oh god. I’ll be sure to get you a massive ficus or something for YOUR first day as payback.

“Ooh,” my coworker, Minh, says, popping up over the divider that separates our cubicles, her eyes locked on my plant.

I set my phone on the desk. “Are you having plant envy?”

“Um, yes. That’s from this fancy place I’ve been dropping the most obvious hints to my wife about. No dice, though.” She tilts her head, her long pink hair slipping over her shoulder. “What a gorgeous anthurium. Do you see how its leaves are heart-shaped?”

“Sure do,” I say, running a thumb over the curve of one. “So lovely,” she sighs. “Is it from your partner?”

“No.” I blink away, my chest aching. “It’s from one of my best friends.”

Saying it out loud makes me feel like I’m not just duping Minh, but myself. And when I check my phone a few minutes later and see Eli’s response, that feeling doubles.

You don’t need to send me anything to make me miss you, Georgia. I already do.

 

 

A pattern emerges over the next few weeks, and slowly but surely, my new life simply becomes my life.

I fall into a rhythm of the job I love, supplementing nights and weekends with outings with friends from work. I even pick up running again as a questionable homage to my high school cross-country days, and text Adam a picture of me mid-run along Lake Union one evening, looking more like mid-death. He immediately FaceTimes me, silent with laughter for a solid thirty seconds, but stays on the phone for twenty minutes after that, cycling between roasting and encouragement.

I buy a calendar for my fridge and write out everything I have to look forward to over the next few months, including a visit from my dad, who’s coming up the weekend after my birthday at the end of October. Even writing it out feels wildly improbable, but I watched him purchase the ticket the day I went over to tell him I was moving. He vacillated between pride

—“Of course they gave you a promotion, kiddo, you’re a star”—and concern—“You’ll be careful up there right? Let me order you some pepper spray”—before landing on the logistics of having a daughter outside of arm’s reach—“Will you be home for the holidays? Christmas, at least? I’ll have to work through Thanksgiving.”

Later, we unboxed the take-out Vietnamese I’d picked up. I watched while he strode around his kitchen, grabbing plates and utensils. My dad is tall and barrel-chested and looks a handful of years older than he is. But we’ve got the same dark brown hair and blue eyes, the same arch to our brows and our laughter has the same melody. I’d never paid much attention to our resemblance, but in that moment I was grateful for it. It reminded me that he’s a person I belong to, too.

Maybe that’s why I blurted out, “Do you want to come visit me?”

He stared at me, chopsticks suspended in his hand; at first I thought it was because he couldn’t imagine taking time off. But when he circled the

counter and pulled me into a hug, he said, “I’m sorry you have to ask like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know I’m going to say no.”

That single moment won’t turn our relationship into some picture- perfect postcard, but it’s the seed of a realization planted: I can ask for things I need and allow the answer to surprise me.

I also get back in touch with my therapist.

“What made you decide to get started again?” she asks during our first appointment.

“I was inspired by a friend,” I say, thinking of Eli. Always thinking of him. I turn my attention from the dusky evening sky out my window to my living room, now fully furnished. “And like I mentioned, I just moved to Seattle this week. It’s a pretty massive life change and I could use some guidance processing it all.”

My sessions are weekly, partly because my health insurance actually covers it—a the-bar-is-in-hell American miracle—but also because I’ve spent months holding so much in. It feels good to let go. It’s one of my first realizations after a few sessions.

I’ve spent so long hiding emotions away, but my confessions to Adam and Jamie, to Eli, even being vulnerable with my dad, has challenged the urge to. I’m seeing examples of the way my life improves when I deviate from my lists, when I ask for things that aren’t easy, when I’m messy and people accept it.

When I mention this to my therapist, she’s thoroughly impressed.

“I love this discovery for you, Georgia.” The people pleaser in me sings. No amount of therapy will fully release the chokehold praise has on me. “I want to encourage you to keep pushing yourself. Keep doing it in small ways, because it’s incredibly important to build that emotional muscle, but be open to it in higher-stakes situations as well. You did such a wonderful job of that with your dad, knowing that the risk of not getting the answer you needed was high. So keep at it, okay? And recognize how much easier you can breathe each time you do.”

“I will,” I say. “But holy shit it’s scary, even afterward.” “Ah, but that’s how you learn to trust yourself.”

Her words are so similar to what Eli told me our last night at Blue Yonder when I admitted I was scared to go to Seattle: sometimes I think it means more when you’re scared. You know the risks, but trusting yourself ranks above all that. It almost feels like looking back on a premonition, and looking ahead to a promise I need to make sure I see through. I dedicate myself to the work.

Sometimes when I get home, I don’t turn on all the lights and flip on the TV before I take out my earbuds, because I’m too busy catching up with Jamie or Adam or I’ve got friends with me, or simply because the quiet doesn’t bother me. Other times I have my music blasting even after I’ve fired up every sign of life in my apartment. There are times when I shut the box on my emotions, but often I can talk myself into believing it’s okay to feel them, even if it means I end up crying. I usually go for a cleansing run after.

Sometimes I feel lonely. There are nights when I stare at the ceiling, watching the reflection of headlights crisscross my ceiling, when New Girl is my nighttime companion and the only way I can get to sleep. I remind myself that it’s not a regression. That it’s normal and okay. I start to believe it. Sometimes in those moments I call Jamie. Sometimes I text Eli, and our easy back-and-forth brings me back down to earth. Sometimes I handle it alone.

And sometimes I’m happy in a fully uncomplicated way. There are moments when I feel like I was meant to be exactly where I am right now— running along Lake Union with the running club I found or exploring the city on my own or having adventures with Minh and my other friends. Building a space that’s mine, rather than fitting myself into the pockets where people have room for me. I can feel myself stretching, a necessary, beautiful pain.

And in those times, at my happiest, is when I miss Eli the most. There were times in another new city where I was happy, too.

I never wanted to think about the hard times with Eli in New York, but I stuffed the good moments even further down, because they hurt more. Now those memories come to me in pieces until they’re a wave.

I think about those first few weeks before we started our jobs and the couple months after, when we carved out ways to make the city more ours. I think about our meandering walks in Riverside Park. The cheap drinks we’d grab at our neighborhood bar, inexplicably named Jake’s Dilemma. The puzzle-movie hybrid nights. The early-morning bagels and coffee Eli would pick up on the weekend. He’d crawl into bed, kiss up my neck, along my cheeks until it roused me enough to roll out of bed.

I think of the way he’d pull me into his arms when our neighbor would play the guitar; the music would waft from his living room window to ours, mingling with the sound of traffic four floors below us. It was the perfect soundtrack to dance to, to be in love to.

I remember the everyday things we did together—Eli teasing me about how bad my chopping skills were while we made dinner, watching reality dating shows and arguing over which contestants were the most unhinged. Figuring out the little, beautiful annoyances of merging our habits. Even folding laundry together is a memory that warms me, maybe because it was often interrupted by Eli throwing me on the bed and stripping me out of my clothes.

“Bad news, these need to be washed right away,” he’d say, his eyes lit with humor and heat.

“Wow, you’re so diligent about laundry,” I’d reply, feigning solemnity. “Could not be more serious about it.”

“Better get busy, then,” I’d say, nodding to the pile on the floor. I’d get a wide, wicked grin for that. “I’m planning on it.”

“With laundry. Since it’s so serious.”

“Sorry, Peach,” he’d whisper, crawling over me. “There’s one thing I’m even more serious about.”

“What’s that?” I’d ask, already knowing the answer. He’d shown me. But he’d say it still, his smile brushing my mouth. “You.”

It’s a slow realization that comes to me as I’m sending Eli pictures of Pike Place Market, the view of the city from Kerry Park, of my day on Bainbridge Island. I’m texting, Look at this, but what I’m really saying is, Remember this? And he always responds with his own version of Yes. I remember. Those words used to hurt, and they still do, but it’s the pain of having had something special.

The day before my birthday, while I’m at Washington Park Arboretum, it clicks: I love exploring Seattle because it’s going to be mine and I want to dig my roots deep. But I also love exploring because it’s tethered to my happiness before and I crave that connection to Eli. Those older memories twine with these newer ones, making it all feel connected through time. One never-ending circle.

Maybe that’s why I end up with the Converse box in front of me on the living room floor that night. I’m turning the paper ring that Eli left on the cottage nightstand around my finger, thinking about circles and time. Forever-shaped things. Thinking about our week together at Blue Yonder as my eyes catch the flashes of neon nestled in the box. Thinking about the five years before that and how there’s nothing tangible to touch here from that time because we pushed ourselves so far away from each other. Thinking about New York and all the years—and rings—Eli gave me before that. The older ones look fragile, but they’re still there. Imperfectly shaped, some of them fraying at the seams, but solid under my fingertips.

I’m thinking about the past seven weeks and how much I want to actually see him. Touch him, remember how he feels, wallow in the sandpaper texture of his voice against my skin. Listen to him tell me he loves me.

I look at my phone. The screen is dark, and has been since Eli texted two days ago, asking what my plans were for my birthday.

Dinner with friends, but nothing too fancy since it’s on a

Monday, I wrote back.

No cupcake with a dollar-store candle in it?

I stared at his message, my heart heavy and pounding in my chest. It was an overt push into a major milestone in our history, and in my mind I heard his first I love you. I wanted to hear it again. I was so hungry for it. I can still feel the growl of it in my stomach now as I take a sip of wine.

It took me at least five minutes to write back with something that acknowledged what he said without tipping us into some dangerous space. He didn’t try to fill the silence; he just waited, letting that memory hang between us.

Finally, I wrote, Pretty sure that’s trademarked. No one else

would dare.

You’re right, I’d sue, came his message seconds later.

I wanted to tell him I missed him, no as a friend at the end of it. Just that. I missed him, because I do. Still. I hear that word in his voice and mine, another intertwining.

Instead I wrote, Wouldn’t mind one, though.

His response was immediate, like he’d been waiting for me. Is that your birthday wish?

Yes. My thumbs skimmed over the letters, not quite touching.

Can’t be a wish until the candle’s in my face, Mora, I finally replied.

Noted, is all he wrote back, and my heart hasn’t settled since.

I’ve come so far in so many ways. I can feel it. And yet I’m still scared of these feelings I have for Eli. My life here is good, my happiness more touchable than it’s been in a long time. But the way I’m missing Eli is becoming bigger alongside it. Our last night at Blue Yonder, I told him I didn’t want to miss him the way I have for the last five years. I thought this friendship would prevent me from feeling it so intensely, because at least I’d have him in some way. And I do.

But somehow, it’s still not enough. It’s a messy emotion I actually let myself feel. I just wish I knew what to do with it.

With a frustrated groan, I set my wineglass down and slip off the paper ring, placing it carefully on the floor. Then I pick up my phone, navigating

to my text thread with Eli so I can read his last message.

The next couple days are slammed, but I’ll definitely talk to you on your birthday, okay?

I knew better than to ask whether it was job related, so all I wrote back was, Of course, good luck!

But in the message bubble is an I miss you I never sent.

“I miss you,” I say to my phone, tilting it so the speaker is at my mouth. Louder, I add, “I miss you and I’m in love with you and I hate being friends with you, if we’re being honest. It fucking blows.”

It stays dark and silent and I toss it aside with a sigh, straightening my legs.

But I guess the universe decided it’s been a while since I’ve had a disaster on my hands, so in the process I kick the stem of my wineglass.

“Dammit,” I gasp, lunging for it. I catch it before it shatters everywhere, but a tsunami wave of wine sloshes over the lip—and splashes right onto the paper ring. “Oh shit, shit, shit.”

The top layer starts to turn transparent and I reach for my decorative Target throw to sop up the mess, stupidly near tears. It’s just a paper ring, but it’s the last one Eli gave me, and now I’ve probably ruined it—

A slash of black against the bright pink stops my thought in its tracks. It’s handwriting. Eli’s to be specific. The number 211 is written there, followed by a period. After that is what looks like half a word, though I can’t make it out.

It takes my sluggish brain a second, but then it hits me hard and fast.

Eli’s written something inside the paper ring he gave to me our last morning at Blue Yonder.