I unpack the crate of Scott’s Dairy goods, or as Curtis loves to call it: “That shit I could easily go out and buy myself like a normal person.”

He’s not wrong.

What dear husband doesn’t seem to understand is that healing takes time. I may never become one-hundred-percent of who I used to be. Correction: I will never be. I might not be in physical pain anymore but I can still hear the crack of bones if I let my mind wander for too long.

But I’m trying. I would like nothing more than to be her again but I need him to meet me halfway.

Is it really too much to ask that my husband meet me halfway?

I think not.

I open the refrigerator and I realize I forgot to set my empties out again but I’ll do that next time. Mr. Scott always forgives me. No big deal, he always says.

Or said.

That’s the last thing he said to me, now that I think about it. I bite my lip, feeling a sudden rush of grief in my stomach. I’ve known that man since I was a child and now he’s gone. I’ve known his son since our first day of kindergarten.

Nate Scott. Can’t say I ever thought twice about him, outside of the silly high school rumor-mill, naturally. I hope he’s doing okay. He seemed all right.

I put the groceries away. As the cool, refrigerated air touches my face, I notice the soft upward curl on my lips. I’m smiling. Feels good.

I pause and wonder where it came from.

You’ve got style.

I’ve never shown anyone my paintings before, not even Curtis — though, that’s not for lack of trying in his case. To be honest, I think they’re shit. I don’t paint for art’s sake, after all. I do it to try and train my hands again. Not everyone remembers what it was like to learn how to hold a pencil or a brush and even fewer know what it’s like to learn it with only two working fingers on your dominant hand.

But alas, I smile.

Because a cute boy told me I’ve got style.

Maybe Curtis is right. I am pathetic.

I wander across the house, letting light feet guide me toward the library just left of the stairs. It wasn’t always a library. It was going to be a nursery but the accident put those plans on hold. I couldn’t use the stairs for several months afterward, so Curtis set this room up for me. A single bed so I could sleep alone without Curtis accidentally moving around too much and hurting me, a big chair for me to lounge in, and a large bookshelf packed tightly with dozens upon dozens of books. Reading was all I wanted to do when I finally came home from the hospital. TV screens, computer monitors, and even smartphones hurt my eyes and give me headaches nowadays, but I can read. So, that’s what I do now.

I read and I paint. Alone.

That last bit is all my fault, though. Friends reached out. Family overstayed their welcome. In the end, I couldn’t stand the way they looked at me anymore. I stopped returning calls. I ignored texts and emails. Eventually, they gave up and stopped coming around at all. It made me happy, for a while. I had Curtis.

For a while.

I walk to the bookshelf in the library and bend down, reaching for the thin hardcover book in the bottom corner. Clover High School yearbook. Reach for the Stars!, it says on the cover.

I sit down, flip open the front cover, and there I am. I think I might be on every single page of this thing. Cheerleading squad practice. Football games. Student government. Prom and Homecoming court. Just flashing a smile for any random camera raised at me in the hallway. Strike a pose, girl.

She was a horrible person. Don’t let the bright, bubbly persona fool you. She was ugly and cold on the inside. She had no idea what real pain was or what real life was like. What I wouldn’t give to reach into these pictures and smack her across the face.

She got what she deserved, I suppose.

I turn a page and find a few familiar faces. Three teens standing in front of bright red lockers. My neighbors, Will Myers and Jovie Ross, and the new milkman himself, Nathaniel Scott. If I recall, Will and Jovie were always as inseparable as this photo suggests with their arms locked around each other and her pink lips pressed against his cheek.

And Nate… he stands there with his arms crossed over his chest and a deep smirk on his mouth. A bit awkward, a little dorky, but handsome in his own way.

And there’s that smile again.

I lick my lips as they stretch along my cheeks but it’s not long before I hear Curtis’ voice in my head again.

Am I really sitting here, smiling over nothing more than thirty seconds of a male’s attention?

Pathetic.

The thick pages flop to the back cover and I scan across the sea of signatures. Some names I recognize, some vaguer than others. An inside joke here. A crude illustration there.

I look at the right corner and pause at the inscription along the bottom.

I hope you get everything your heart desires. -N.S.

Did Nate write that? How many N.S.s did our class have?

I don’t remember asking him to sign it. Then again, our class was pretty small and these books got passed around in just about every class on the last day of school. I signed dozens without really knowing whose it was.

Have a great summer! -Kimber K.

I wrote it in my own yearbook without even realizing it. I just loved what it was like to sign an autograph.

Nate’s reads more personal than my boring platitude. Or maybe that’s what he wrote in everybody’s book. Maybe he really did want everyone to get what their hearts desired.

But alas, I smile.