Heath gives me one more kiss before Dad jerks me through security with him.
As I'm stripping off my shoes and stuffing my carry-on into the bin for x-raying, I glance back at my cheerleaders. They're standing by the coffee shop, just outside the roped-off security section, waving like nutjobs.
I wave back.
For once, I don't feel tired and scared. I don't feel like I've lost before I ever start the fight.
Maybe thafs honesty at work. Maybe It's good friends.
Maybe It's Heath, or being more aware of my choices.
Maybe It's all of those things.
I don't know, because believe it or not, universe, I don't know everything—but I'm choosing to be okay with that today.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I don't know what I'd do without Debbie Federici, my champion critique partner, who reads every word just after It's written and bugs me to finish what I start. Without you, my words would fall flat. Thanks also to Christine Taylor-Butler and Tara Donn, who gave me honest initial opinions—fast.
My agent, Erin Murphy, deserves points for patience and perseverance, especially when I suddenly write unexpected books.
Endless appreciation to my editor Victoria Wells-Arms, who tackled this piece in record time, with big fat enthusiasm that helped every big fat minute. I appreciate her and everyone at Bloomsbury more than I can say.