Page 4 of This Changes Everything

He turned back around from the bottom of the stairs to see me silhouetted by the scary super-city filled with bad people behind me. I fiddled nervously with my delicate rose gold bracelet. I didn’t have words, but it didn’t matter. My dad nodded, holding in his tears, and gave his fist a pump.

“Give ’em hell, Ellie.”

I watched my dad disappear beneath the city, then read my mom’s letter.

My Ellie-Bee,

I am so, so, so proud of you. Remember these four rules:

Zip up your purse.

Have big feelings. Make big choices.

Stop what you’re doing and recognize what you’re doing.

No licky-dicky.

Vancouver will always be home, but it’s not your life. Live your life and don’t look back. I love you.

Mama

“No licky-dicky?” My snort turned into a full-blown, tears-spilling-down-my-face laugh. I sucked in a shaky inhale and pocketed the letter.

No licky-dicky. Christ . . .

I shook my head with another chuckle. It took five seconds for my smile to fade. To my parents, New York was Gotham City. To me, it was something hugely different. I knew when I turned around and walked onto the streets, toward those suffocating skyscrapers and blinding lights, I was letting go of my “everything before” and heading directly into my “everything after.”

I closed my eyes and dragged in a slow, shuddering breath.

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him . . . Don’t look back.

I looked up one last time, and before I stepped into the unknown, I quietly said, “Goodbye, me. I’ll miss you.”

Chapter 2

VANCOUVER 12 years old

THE FIRST TIME I SAW RORY CAMPBELL, I HAD WHAT MANY PEOPLE horrifyingly refer to as “buds”—rubbery, disc-shaped nipples that popped out of my twelve-year-old chest like a dropped soda can that failed to explode on impact. What was supposed to be my second day wearing a training bra became the chilly November day I spent walking around Juniper Golf Club having forgotten my jacket and holding my youth-size golf bag over my front to save the embarrassment of my sudden nips poking out like two mismatched pushpins.

My dad took me to Juniper’s two-storied, covered driving range for the first time, and it was so much fancier than all the other ranges my sister and I had been going to since I was six. A range picker plowed through an enormous field littered with white, yellow, and the occasional orange balls. The first level had about twenty or so stalls with wooden dividers separating each person, and the entire range was enclosed by mile-high Douglas firs and Japanese maples lining hidden fences and nets.

It started to rain. I breathed in deeply and could feel my body cleanse. I tucked away the scent of sap mixed with damp grass into my memory bank. In the not-too-distant background, there was a churning rumble of balls from the ball dispenser and a popping sound as balls dropped from the machine into the bucket. This was followed by the click-clacking of golf spikes making their way down the path toward the range.

My dad was in the stall behind me, hitting balls while simultaneously chirping away about my foot placement, my grip, my distribution of weight, you name it. Every now and then, I would swing and really smack the ball a good distance, but my aim was always horrendous. I wasn’t consistent in the slightest, but when magic struck, I could really hit the crap out of a golf ball. I was competitive and determined, and that determination rocketed through most aspects of my life, including my swing.

THWACK!

“That’s it, Ellie! What are you hitting?” my dad asked.

The sound of spikes on the cement softened as footsteps grew closer. Clearly, the golfers closing in didn’t want to distract us.

“Is that a six iron?” my dad prodded.

I picked up the club, flipped it around to have another look, though I already knew the answer. “Nine iron,” I said casually, feigning modesty.

My dad’s eyes brightened. He nodded. That was all he was going to give, but it was enough for me to puff out my braless chest.

“Not bad, right, boys?” My dad turned to the golfers who were slowly walking toward us.