Page 114 of What Remains of Grace

“It scares me,” Jenna admitted. “It makes it feel real, seeing it like this. Not just in legal language, but in . . . big fonts and blue paper and an event time.” She swallowed. “But I don’t hate it.”

Relief moved through Emmie’s shoulders like a wave.

“Good,” she said. “Because the Tarpon Avenue page already shared it, and Mrs. Cartwright has sworn vengeance on anyone who backs out.”

A strangled laugh escaped Jenna. “Of course she has.”

Emmie grinned. “She’s a one-woman task force. Give her a task, and she’ll mobilize half the county.”

“I should’ve known you’d recruit the army without being asked,” Jenna said.

“You’re welcome,” Emmie replied, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

Jenna looked at the flyer again. At the words, keep it hers.

“It’s a lot,” she said one more time, because the weight of it still pressed on her ribs.

“I know,” Emmie said. “But so is losing everything and pretending we didn’t go down without a fight. Great-Grandma Hart always said cypress trees survive storms because their roots wind around each other underwater. Mom said it all the time. That’s all I’m doing, intertwining our roots and helping you stay upright or whatever. Just let me.”

Jenna let that sit.

Then she sighed. “When’s the rally?”

“Friday.” Emmie’s mouth curved. “And before you ask, the answer is yes—you have to come.”

“Wow, thanks,” Jenna said. “I thought maybe I’d just stay home and watch a movie while everyone rallies around my life.”

“We’ll stream it for you,” Emmie said sweetly. “No. You’re coming. You’re speaking.”

“I am what?”

“You’re not getting out of this,” Emmie said. “They need to see your face. Hear your voice. You’re the one who did the work. You and Mom. I can yell, but you can make them believe.”

Jenna’s stomach rolled. “Em—”

“I’ll help,” Emmie said quickly. “We’ll write something together. It doesn’t have to be long. Two minutes. Three, tops. If you talk longer than that, Mr. Delaney will start telling stories about railroad zoning, and we’ll lose the crowd.”

Jenna let her head tap lightly against the doorframe. “You’re impossible,” she said.

“I’m effective,” Emmie countered. “There’s a difference.”

There was a beat of silence. “Friday,” Jenna repeated, more to herself than anything.

“Friday,” Emmie confirmed.

“And what, I’m just supposed to, what, show up in jeans and a t-shirt?”

“Ew, no. You’re the face of the resistance. You need a dress.”

Jenna blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A dress,” Emmie said, as if explaining gravity. “Something that says ‘approachable but formidable.’ ‘Soft but unshakable.’ ‘Will absolutely take your donation and also your soul if you cross her.’”

“I own exactly zero of those dresses.”

“Which is why,” Emmie said, smug now, “We’re going shopping, because every time you pick your own outfits for Important Life Moments, you dress like a tax auditor. I love you, but you do.”

Jenna sputtered. “I do not dress like a tax auditor.”