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The man knew he’d shaken her. Slowly, he removed a card from his wallet and slid it across the table so that it fit perfectly in the corner. It read: HARRY ORLETT - JOURNALIST, with his phone number and email address listed beneath it. “I’d really like to talk to you about what you were up to during high school,” he said. “We shouldn’t talk now, of course. I can see you’re busy. But sometime soon, when we have a bit more privacy.”

Rose flared her nostrils. She was grateful that in their booth, Maxine and Minnie were howling with laughter and couldn’t hear what Harry had said.

“I don’t have anything to say about high school.”

Harry stood and headed for the door, leaving his cookie behind. “I think you might have a lot to say about high school, Rose. If you ever want to walk down memory lane, I’m a very good listener. Oh, and maybe this is crass to say. But if you’re feeling open about what went on, then there’s a lot of money in it for you, too.” He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, then stepped into the drizzle, leaving Rose shaking beside his vacated booth.

Rose had half a mind to chase him and tell him that he hadn’t paid for his cookie, but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Minnie and Maxine. She didn’t want them to think that she’d lost control.

“Mom!” Maxine yanked her out of her tireless, circling anxiety, and Rose turned, went over to her daughter’s booth, and slid in beside her. Rose smiled so hard her cheeks ached.

“Who was that?” Maxine asked. There was a little cookie crumb on her upper lip that Rose was too brokenhearted to remove.

“He was a journalist, passing through town,” Rose said.

“Oh! My mom’s a journalist,” Minnie said. “Maybe they know each other?”

“Maybe.” Rose nodded and reached for a piece of blondie, nibbling it slowly and letting it melt across her tongue. She could feel the girls’ curious smiles and the ache behind their eyes. They knew something had just transpired between Rose and Harry Orlett, but they couldn’t make sense of it.

She needed to divert their attention, and stat.

“It’s time for you two to tell me all about school.” She clapped her hands. “How’s junior year different from sophomore year? What are your teachers like? I want every detail.”

And although they were initially reluctant, Maxine and Minnie eventually fell into a funny back-and-forth about their classes, how they’d met—in gym class, of all places—and their expectations for a beautiful junior year together.

Friendship was what got you through the dark, alienating nature of high school. Rose knew it best because, back then, she’d felt like she had no one.

2

Boston, Massachusetts

In Boston, the rain wasn’t as torrential as it was on the nearby islands, but dark clouds billowed over the old-world buildings and scooped Willow Cay into the office building on the corner. Once in the lobby, she shivered, shook out her rain-damp hair, then steeled herself and approached the secretary at the front desk. After a couple of years working as a professional music therapist, she felt she should have been better at speaking to strangers. As it was, her voice nearly always shook.

“Hi! I’m Willow Cay. I’m here for a meeting with Greta Byron,” she said.

The secretary peered over her reading glasses at Willow as if she didn’t approve of who she was or why she was there. “She’s waiting for you,” the secretary said. “Greta likes to begin all of her meetings five minutes early.”

Willow fought to keep herself from rolling her eyes. But of course, it did her career no good to show anyone how she really felt. “Sorry I’m late, then,” she said, before tracing the path the secretary told her, all the way up and back to the corner office on the second floor. Greta Byron’s door was open, revealing the woman herself: forty-something, Pilates-sculpted, and incredibly stern. Willow didn’t like to think it, but there really was no wonder why Greta’s daughter Addison was so debilitatingly anxious. With a mother like that, it seemed inevitable.

When Greta spotted Willow, she waved her in, unsmiling. She didn't bother to ask how Willow was before saying, “We’d like to extend your work with Addison.”

It was all business and no small talk.

Willow filled her lungs with relief. She’d thought Greta had called this meeting to dismiss Willow’s music therapy work with her daughter. She’d thought Greta had decided music therapy was, as she’d initially called it, “a hoax, or at the very least, a waste of time.”

“Perhaps it comes as no surprise to you,” Greta continued, “but we’re inspired by Addison’s work in this sector and the improvements she’s made. We don’t know of a single anxiety attack in two weeks, and she was able to take all of her school tests this week without a helper.” Greta rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I can’t imagine how a bit of music-making does that. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect? Perhaps something about you makes her feel better?”

Willow clenched her jaw. “Sometimes things like talk therapy don’t hit at these deeper neurological and emotional areas of the brain. Making music does.”

“Huh.” Greta raised her shoulders. “Well, count us in for another two months of therapy.” She stuck out her hand for Willow to shake. Willow wanted to ask why this meeting couldn’t have been an email or a phone call, but she reasoned that Greta Byron did things her own way. Maybe Greta had lost her ability to question her own tactics. Perhaps she was just that self-assured.

As Willow left the office, she spotted a television hanging in the corner of a waiting room. On it, the newscaster spoke about the upcoming mayoral election here in Boston. Aaron Darwin, Nathaniel Hawkins, and Peter Miller were the three candidates running. Willow hovered for a moment, listening as the white-toothed man on screen outlined the different platforms represented by the candidates. Although Willow didn’t get super involved with politics, she couldn’t help but think that Nathaniel Hawkins stood for something that mattered to her. He’d spoken at length about therapy, about the need for more people to have access to it as a means of handling everything from the city’s drug problems to the city’s homeless problems to the city’s childcare problems. Because Willow was a therapist herself, she had an ever-growing soft spot for him. For once, she knew exactly who she would vote for.

Now, the newscaster explained that Peter Miller, one of Nathaniel’s rivals, had suggested using taxpayer money to build an enormous luxury resort along the water on the outskirts of Boston. He’d also suggested defunding the schools, which felt insane.

“Many citizens of Boston are outraged at the idea that our city’s very real problems will be ignored in favor of something like this, a monstrosity of a hotel,” the newscaster ranted.

Willow groaned. Something like a luxury hotel was the last thing the city needed. What about the in-between people? What about the downtrodden people who needed help?