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  I sorted out a couple dried-up corsages from high school dances, feeling silly for keeping the long-dead carnations.

  Sandy flipped through my high school graduation pictures. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why didn’t it work? As girls go, you pretty much rock. What else did he want?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, do you think I would be so emotionally stunted?” I asked. Sandy shook her head and almost sent her ringing phone to voicemail for the third time when I stopped her. “I’ll be okay. The ice cream’s working. Go see what your mom wants.” She hesitated, scowling at her phone. “It’s fine, I promise,” I reassured her, waving the nearly empty ice cream carton as proof. She sighed but grabbed her phone and headed for her room.

  “I’ll listen as fast as I can,” she called over her shoulder.

  I picked up the graduation pictures she left behind. It felt like seventy years, not seven, since I had smiled so hopefully into the camera, sure I knew what would come next. I had always had a clear direction for my life, even as a kid. My sisters teased me about what they called “the plan,” as if it loomed in front of me in capital letters. Because of my dad’s teaching position at the nearby university in our town, all of us got half tuition, so I would earn a scholarship for the rest. I’d graduate without debt, get married, and pursue a career until I had kids.

  As our relationship evolved, my plan became our plan, and I followed it exactly. I got the scholarship, sent Jason off on his mission to Italy, and studied hard while I waited. We wrote every week. At first. But somewhere along the line, his letters grew farther apart, and so did we. He explained that he was immersed in the work and apologized for not writing more. But the letters, previously full of the challenges and rewards of missionary life, grew terse as the months passed.

  I stuck it out, sure it would all fall into place when he got back. It didn’t. There was nothing in “the plan” about the Jason who stepped off the plane. He seemed the same at first. We hung out with the same people again, did all our old favorite things, spent time with each other’s families. Secretly though, in my stomach, where I couldn’t ignore it, a black pit yawned wider by the week, and I couldn’t pinpoint the problem. I kept a good face on it, but the perfect future I’d envisioned for four years slowly crumbled, and I scrambled to pick up the falling pieces by myself. Jason acted like his old self in groups but doggedly avoided time alone with me. Our conversations stayed superficial, and he subtly changed topics whenever the future came up.

  I knew missionaries sometimes had a hard time adjusting after returning home, and I tried to give him the time he needed. But when he finally shook himself out of his funk, he shook me to the core in the process.

  Digging through the box, I found the smooth rock I wanted. Our last conversation replayed with painful clarity. We were hanging out at an institute bonfire on the beach when Jason surprised me by suggesting a walk along the water. It wasn’t at all like him anymore to try to get me alone. We headed down the shoreline, away from the chatter and laughter of the activity. The silence weighed on me so I broke it. “The sunset’s pretty.”

  “It’s always pretty.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  He shrugged. “What could be bad about a pretty sunset?”

  I stopped and turned to face him full on. “I don’t know, Jason. Why don’t you tell me because something about it isn’t sitting right with you.”

  “It’s the same sunset it always is, Jess. What do you want me to say about it?” He stared off into the distance as if he could see past the horizon.

  I watched him for a few moments. “What’s wrong with you? I thought best friends told each other everything. You haven’t really talked to me since you got home.”

  His face tightened, and his shoulders tensed. I would scream if he shrugged again. But he stopped himself and drew a deep breath, studying the sand for a few nerve-wracking seconds and then looking up to meet my eyes. My breath caught at the misery in his. “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Instead, he stooped down and picked up a stone from the edge of the wet sand, took my palm, and placed the rock in it. It was a pretty cream color, worn smooth, and glowing with a faint gold tinge from the sunset. “What do you see?” he asked me.

  This was an old game. Since we were kids, he’d always made a big production of searching the sand and proclaiming he had found the prettiest rock or shell and then presenting it to me. “It’s a rock,” I said. He looked at me searchingly, and my smile faltered. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. “It’s pretty. I . . . like the color.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair and turned back to the horizon. The sun dipped low now, and a deep purple crept in, signaling nightfall. “I’ve changed, Jessie. It started on my mission, but I didn’t realize how much until I came home.” He took the stone back and turned it over and over. “Before I left, I would have thought this was a pretty rock too. But now all I see is that it’s part of something bigger that’s been worn down. And it’s because it stays in one place and lets the sea move all around it.”

  “What are you trying to say?” I asked, fearing I already knew.

  “I never really thought about what I wanted before. Go on a mission, finish school, work for my dad, get married, have kids. It all sounded good. You and I, the perfect fit. Why not?”

  “Wow. Even for a backhanded compliment, that stinks,” I said.

  Jason finally turned to look at me again. “I do love you, Jessie. You’ve been a part of my whole life, but . . .”

  My stomach dropped. “But what?”

  “But this is not what I want. I’m so sorry,” he finished. Misery spilled into his voice.

  I stiffened. “You’re sorry?” He glanced away again. I studied him, trying to find some clue, some reason for this change written on his face. “So what do you want? You say you know it’s not this. What is it, then?”

  “I know I don’t want you to hate me, and I don’t know how to give you an answer that won’t make you do that.” His eyes pleaded with me to understand something he couldn’t explain.

  “Try. You owe me that.”

  “I do want marriage and family and all of those things. Soon.” He paused. “But with someone else.”

  My breath stopped. Maybe even time stopped before I strangled out a question. “Who?”

  “Jessie . . .”

  “Who?” I almost shouted.

  “I never meant for this to happen . . . I’m not sure it even will happen,” he said.

  “This is . . .” I had no words. I couldn’t even think. I turned around and walked back up the beach, trying to leave him behind. He ran to catch up and blocked my path.

  “Jessie, I want you to know I haven’t done anything yet.” He lifted my chin. I slapped his hand away and stepped around him. He blocked me again, this time holding me in place with his hands on my shoulders. “I’m about to take the biggest risk of my life by letting you walk away. But I have to.”

  I looked at him, stone-faced.

  “A sister serving in the mission with me. I never crossed a line or broke any rules, but I started having feelings for her. I tried to stop it. I requested a transfer, but it didn’t get her out of my mind. We e-mailed after I got home. I told myself it was so I could keep track of the mission, but . . .” He stopped again and swallowed. The pain on his face forced me to brace for the worst. “She got home two months ago. When I told her about you, it tore her up. She shut me out, and I realized how bad I had it for her. I have to make it right with her, convince her to give me a chance. I have to know where it’s going to go.”

  I stared at him, trying to see in his face the Jason I had grown up with, had loved for four years. But this new Jason wasn’t anyone I knew. Stepping away from him for the last time, I took the stone from him and tossed it up once before catching it and sliding it into my pocket. I walked away again.

  “Jessie!” he called after me. But I didn’t turn around. There w
as nothing left to say.

  “Come in, Jessie. Over.”

  I snapped out of the painful memory to find Sandy waving a hand in front of my face. “There you are, good buddy,” she said.

  “Are you speaking trucker?” I asked.

  “Ten-four. I want a trucker hat.”

  “You can’t have one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m saving you from a trend Ashton Kutcher killed five years ago.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “What’s this? It looks personal.”

  “It’s all personal. You have boundaries now?” I asked, but I took the card from her hand, flipping it open to see Jason’s handwriting. More than anything else in the box, the familiar slants and angles of his cursive conjured him like he was almost there in the room. “He sent this to me about six months after we broke up.” I scanned the familiar lines, but I didn’t need to. I remembered them. He’d apologized again for handling everything so poorly and told me about his recent engagement to his sister missionary. He’d said some nice things to me and told me he knew I’d soon find the person I was truly meant to be with.

  Four years later, it turned out he was wrong. But the bitterness I’d read that card with hundreds of times in the first few months after I got it . . . failed to materialize.

  I picked up the rock from that awful night on the beach and turned it over and over in my hand. It wasn’t as pretty as I remembered it. And the dried-up carnation was just an old, dead flower. And the dozens of scraps of paper? Clutter. Worse, it was emotional clutter.

  “I want to show you something. It’s arts and crafts night,” I said.

  Sandy snorted. We both hate crafts. Not doing them together is another way we’ve bonded. I waved the rock at her.

  “What are we doing with it?” she asked. “Stoning Jason’s pictures with it? Let the healing begin.”

  “No. I told you it’s craft time. I need a Sharpie.”

  She jumped up and grabbed one from the junk drawer in the kitchen. “Make it quick, sister. You know my craft allergy drove me from Relief Society,” she said as she handed it to me.

  “No, I didn’t realize that. I thought it was existential angst.”

  “And that.”

  I took the marker and carefully printed across the top of the stone. When I finished, Sandy read it and smiled. “Perfect,” she announced. She walked to the fireplace and set it on top of the mantle. “It looks good right here.”

  “You should start a fire while you’re up,” I said, pointing to the pile of papers she had made on the sofa. “I’ve got the kindling.”

  She whooped. “She’s back!”

  I smiled, but I could only hope she was right. I’d hung on to that box for a long time. I wasn’t so sure it was as easy to banish those memories as sending them all up in smoke.

  Chapter 4

  SO FAR, MONDAY STANK—BAD. An overturned trash can, courtesy of a neighborhood dog, made me almost twenty minutes late to work after I cleaned it up. Being late meant I had no prep time for my weekly managers’ meeting. After listening to Craig, another project manager, drone on about his team’s progress, I had nothing interesting to contribute when he asked, “What about your team?” except to answer, “Our spreadsheets are almost done.” I sat back in my chair and doodled, hoping it looked like I was taking notes on the riveting discussion about the recent change in office supply vendors Craig had initiated. Mmm, office supplies. Heady stuff.

  Bettina Langley tapped my notepad and mouthed, “Gotcha.” I had drawn a mini-Craig with a giant head. Since I’m no artist, only the oversized Starbucks mug in my cartoon’s hand could have given me away. I never saw him without it. He probably had pure coffee coursing through his veins. He sent his assistant to the corner kiosk at least four times a day for some drink with several words I didn’t even know in the title. No big deal, except I’m pretty sure he expended the extra caffeinated energy on plots to embarrass me. He’d taken his bump to being only the second youngest person on the management team with a noticeable lack of grace.

  “His head’s not that big,” Bettina whispered.

  “Well, not literally,” I whispered back.

  Craig smiled, all toothy and friendly. “Care to share with the rest of us?”

  “Yes, I would, Craig. I was telling Bettina how much I enjoy our new graph paper—so much more than the old stuff,” I said, referring to the fruits of his recent office supply cost-saving measures. “Thank you for taking the time to make it happen.”

  It was Bettina’s turn to cough.

  Craig looked like he doubted my sincerity. “That one small change is saving more than three hundred dollars a year. We should all be looking for these kinds of cost-cutting measures,” he said.

  “Mmm, you are so right. I wonder, how long did it take to find that particular shortcut? And how much did we pay hourly for your assistant to compare the hundreds of supplies we use?” I asked. I saw Dennis Court, the department head, suppress a smile.

  Craig flushed. “It’s a long-term savings strategy. These things add up.”

  “So does paying an assistant to shop around every time the prices change,” Dennis interjected. “Payroll eats into the profits. Miss Taylor, don’t you have a contact in human resources?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you have your team transition to an internal payroll audit when you complete your current project? See if you can find some additional cost saving opportunities.”

  “Sure. We’ll get right on it.” I smiled at my boss. Could my day be turning around?

  After the meeting, I went back to my office and checked my e-mail to find a message waiting for me from Lookup. Ben again. The subject line read “Membership Offer, Limited Time Only,” causing my eyebrow to creep up in confusion. Was he spamming me?

  To: JKT

  From: HC

  Good Morning. I’m starting a new club. I’m going to be the president, and you can be the vice president. It’s called the League Against Monday E*******, or LAME for short. I don’t know what the E stands for yet, but I need it or I won’t have an acronym. Clubs need their initials to spell a word, or they’re not legitimate. The membership requirements are strict though. If you don’t like Mondays, you’re in. What do you say?

  I hit reply.

  To: HC

  From: JKT

  Too bad you didn’t catch me an hour ago when I thought I hated Mondays too. Maybe you could call your club the League Against Monday (Except when it’s good), and then I can join. And you’ll have your E all taken care of too. Having a bad day?

  To: JKT

  From: HC

  I’ve had better. It’s no big deal, just a case of everything going wrong. I’ve learned it can’t go on forever. That’s an actual law of physics.

  To: HC

  From: JKT

  No one likes a frowny face. Change it for a smile. Make the world a better place by smiling all the while. I think Gandhi said that. Him or Einstein. They said all the cool stuff.

  To: JKT

  From: HC

  Thanks, Sister Taylor. So . . . to be totally honest, I just experienced a long, awkward pause. Uh . . . how would you feel about exchanging actual e-mail addresses? Also being honest, that should be read with me sounding smooth and suave because that’s how I wrote it.

  I thought about it for a minute. Why not? I wasn’t getting a psycho vibe from him, but granted, it was e-mail. I’ve been sensitive to that ever since one of my BYU dates showed up dressed in a full Harry Potter costume for a midnight screening he invited me to. Kind of funny when you’re sixteen, sad when you’re twenty-four.

  To: HC

  From: JKT

  Sure. But now I have to go. I’m smiling, so I think Craig the Snitch figured out this isn’t work. We don’t smile about spreadsheets here at Macrosystems. I’m glaring at my computer now to throw Big Brother off the scent. But I’m on the company dime so I guess I better do company stuff.

  I type
d out my e-mail address, sent the message, and logged out. Craig eyed me suspiciously through the window, so I waved and smiled at him. He retreated down the hall. I sighed and hit the desk intercom. “Katie,” I called to my assistant. “Can you get Lauren and Mike in here? And tell them to bring their laptops. It’s going to be a long morning.”

  * * *

  The day ended up stretching way past five again, and I collapsed on the sofa when I got home. I had worked through dinner, and hunger was making me stupid. In a stupor, I watched Sandy do a yoga DVD. After a particularly bizarre contortion, I asked, “What’s this one called? Drunken fish? Cranky panda?”

  She assumed a serene cross-legged pose and answered, “You are a big, ugly rock in my emotional river, and I’m going to flow around you. And I’m also not going to help you with your payroll stuff now because you’re mean.”

  “What? I’m showing a sincere interest in your meditation mumbo jumbo.”

  “Yeah, calling it mumbo jumbo really makes your point.”

  “Fine. I have stuff to do anyway,” I said and bounced off of the sofa, a sudden spurt of energy speeding me toward my laptop.

  Sandy cocked her head. “What do you have to do that could possibly be more fun than getting on my nerves?”

  “Oh, answering some e-mails and stuff. And eating.”