Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I grin. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Epilogue 2
Annabelle
Lucy was right.
I need a break.
If one more person tells me I “look tired,” I’m going to scream.
But. I do look tired. Because I am tired. Because running the Lakeside Fall Fest was basically like hosting a royal wedding, the Super Bowl, and a three-ring lumberjack circus all rolled into one, minus the helpful minions and with way more syrup emergencies.
The funny thing is—and by funny, I mean cruel—after it was all over and we’d counted the $80,000 we raised (I’m still suspicious someone added a zero), my first thought wasn’t relief.
It was I need a vacation.
A real one.
One where no one calls me at six a.m. asking if they can bring their cousin’s boyfriend’s dog to the pancake breakfast. One where I don’t have to talk to the fire marshal about whether or not axe throwing constitutes a “controlled hazard.” One where I don’t have to hear the phrase Are we out of syrup? ever again in my natural life.
But I can’t take a real one because There is no time.
I text Lucy to complain, thumbs flying across the screen like a woman possessed: I need a vacation. I need three vacations. Possibly a sabbatical. Maybe early retirement. How do I make this happen without abandoning the town or faking my own death?
I stare at the chat bubble, waiting for those three glorious dots to appear.
Nothing.
I hate how impatient I am, waiting for her to reply. I hate how envious I am that she left for Arizona without me, because Harris freaking Bennett swept her off her feet like some kind of romantic comedy hero with biceps carved from marble.
She deserves it.
Obviously she does . . .
But also?
Rude!
I’m here, running on caffeine and stress fumes, my hair in a bun that hasn’t been undone in four days, answering emails about lost and found jackets, backpacks—and whether or not we can make the lumberjacks come back for Christmas tree lighting in the square.
I tap my phone impatiently. Still nothing.
I let out a dramatic sigh, leaning my head back against the porch railing, staring at the gray sky. Even the weather is judging me.
My phone dings.
Lucy:
Omg. Stop. Come to Arizona. Get on a plane. Do it.
Come to Arizona?
I stare at the screen, wanting to reply with a resounding “Yes! Yes, you’re right! I’m on my way! Free place to stay! Sunshine!”
My thumbs hesitate over the keys.
Except . . . I can’t.
There’s a pancake-breakfast meeting on Tuesday. And the Christmas committee kickoff on Wednesday. And Lindsey Vodgs and her fiancé are coming to tour their wedding venue on Tuesday afternoon, and her parents will finally be in town.
Annabelle:
You know I would love to, but I can’t.
Lucy:
There are always going to be reasons not to do something. I shut down the studio to fly here, because I couldn’t get anyone to cover for me. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for our mental health, for example . . .
I sigh. She’s not wrong—there is always going to be a reason not to do something. Still, that doesn’t mean I can drop everything and fly out of town.
I am not like the new, carefree Lucy.
I am not spontaneous.
I don’t live on the edge.
I stare out the window, in the direction of the lake. Yes, I live in a resort town. No, my apartment isn’t anywhere near the water. Too expensive.
But that’s me in a nutshell, isn’t it? Practical. Predictable. Sensible to a fault. I make grocery lists and stick to them. I budget down to the penny. I plan vacations twelve months in advance and still double-check hotel confirmations the night before. I don’t wake up one morning and decide to book a flight somewhere on a whim. I’ve never been that girl.
I wonder what it feels like to be that girl.
To act first and figure the rest out later.
To leap without worrying if the net will appear.
Lucy:
What about a staycation? Go to the lodge and relax! Let them pamper you! Hang out with the tourists . . .
Annabelle:
The lodge is the least quiet place in town. What I need is peace and quiet and not to stare at the white walls in my apartment, day in and day out . . . UGH!
Lucy:
Okay. What about one of the cottages? I had never been in one until I was inside Harris’s and they are So Darn Cute. You would love it.
I chew on my bottom lip, staring at her message. Spontaneity? No, thank you. That’s how you end up lost, sunburned, and accidentally eating something you’re allergic to.
But . . . What if?
What if I did take a staycation?
What if I closed my laptop, threw some clothes in a bag—no, not even a bag, just . . . whatever I can grab in ten minutes.
Annabelle:
Wouldn’t that be weird?
Her reply comes in instantly.