Page 141 of Fate, Interrupted

“I sent you a text.”

“Norah.”

“I know,” I say. “I know. I’m sorry. It happened fast, and I wasn’t sure how to explain it in a way that would make sense before I’d done it. I knew if I’d called you first, you would have talked me through all the reasons to wait, and I didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Another silence. “Was I going to talk you out of it?”

I think about that honestly. “No,” I say. “But you were going to make me think about it for longer than I had the capacity for.”

Penny makes a sound that might be a laugh and might be something else. “Fair,” she says.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” I say. “I’m sorry about the text. You deserved better than that.”

“Yes,” she says. “I did.” But the sharpness is already going out of it—Penny doesn’t hold grudges. It’s one of her best qualities, the anger moves through her fast and clean, and what’s left is just her. “Tell me about Paxton.”

So, I do.

I tell her about the pack that made a different decision, about the town that knows its wolves and has built a solid community with humans over decades. I tell her about Declan and Anya, about their guest bedroom, about the apartment we think we can rent. I tell her about the mill and how Silas is going to talk to the owner and be introduced to the pack.

It’s impossible to keep the excitement out of my voice when I tell her about the space over the hardware store with good afternoon light. The town does not have a bookstore, and it feels as though that absence was left there on purpose.

Penny listens. She’s always been good at listening—better than me, honestly, less likely to jump in with a connection or a parallel story. She’s always been a champ at letting someone fill up the space. Another one of her best qualities.

“And Silas,” she says, when I’ve run out of Paxton.

“What about him?”

“Is he good to you?”

The question is simple. It’s also the only question that matters to Penny, has always been the only question, the thing she’s been asking in various forms since I was old enough to bring someone home.

“Yes,” I say.

“Not just good to be around. Good to you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Both.”

“I would have liked to meet him before you drove off into the night with him.”

“I know,” I say. “You will. We’re coming back, Penny. This isn’t disappearing. It’s a different shape.”

“A different shape,” she says. “Okay.” And then, after a beat: “Is the bookshop on Norwood going to be okay without you?”

“Mark and Jesse have the floor,” I say. “And Abigail is filling in until a new manager can be hired. It’s covered.” I think about the three of them—Mark and Jesse, and Abby quietly holding the rest of it together.

I hear Penny exhale—the long exhale of someone releasing an anxious breath they’ve been holding. The protective sister exhale. The one that means she’s done assessing and has arrived at acceptance, because she’s decided the person in front of her has thought it through.

“Okay,” she says.

The one word, and everything underneath it—the worry, the love, the faith of a woman who has been watching her little sister make decisions for thirty-two years and has learned, somewhere along the way, to trust them.

“Okay?” I say.

“You’ve always known what you were doing,” she says. “Even when it looked like you didn’t. Even when I thought you didn’t.” A pause. “Go open your bookshop, Norah. Go build your thing. Just—call me when you get there.”

My chest opens.

“I will,” I say. “I promise.”