One year after Caleb’s sentencing, Emily invited me to lunch.
We met at a little café downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and good coffee.
Emily looked different.
Her hair was shorter. Her shoulders were straighter. Her smile came easier.
She looked like herself again.
“I have something to tell you,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I’ve been talking to a publisher.”
I blinked. “A publisher?”
“Yeah. About a book.”
“A book about what?”
She looked down at her coffee.
“About what happened. About surviving. About what it’s like to rebuild your life after someone tries to destroy it.”
I reached across the table and took her hand.
“Emily.”
“I don’t know if it’ll help anyone,” she said quickly. “But I thought—maybe if someone’s in the same situation I was, maybe if they read it and realize they’re not alone—”
“It will help,” I said firmly. “It will help so many people.”
Her eyes filled.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I’m calling it The Fork on the Floor.”
I smiled.
“Perfect.”
We finished lunch and walked through the park afterward, talking about nothing and everything.
And at one point, Emily stopped walking and just looked around.
At the sky. At the trees. At the people passing by, living their ordinary, beautiful lives.
“I forgot what this felt like,” she said.
“What?”
“Peace.”
