My eyes widened, and I sat back against the headboard, my knees raised. “Now?” I mouthed.

He smiled. “Right now. Unless, you know, you want to get your ass to class.”

I shook my head.

“But tomorrow, you will, right?”

Another head shake.

He sighed as he folded The List and placed it carefully back on my desk. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gentle as it settled on my arm. He gave me that look. The one that showed he had no idea what to do or what to say because he was in way over his head.

“Okay,” I mouthed, and he smiled.

“Okay.” Dad rubbed his hands together and said, “Lemonade, sweetheart.”

My dad loves phrases, but would always say them wrong. He’d say things like, “I’m not here to give you the fifth degree,” or “You’re climbing up the wrong branch.” So, “Lemonade, sweetheart,” was his way of saying, “When life gives you lemons…” you know the rest.

So I turned the stupid lemons into lemonade.

I huff out a frustrated breath and pick at a worn spot on the kitchen table, the fear of what we’re doing suddenly hitting me.

“You okay, kid?” Dad asks.

I nod—a lie.

Selling my work is the only item on The List that had nothing to do with my mother (or Josh). In fact, it has everything to do with me. I had planned my future based on my photography, yet I’d been too afraid to show the world what I could do. Besides teachers, some students, family (and Josh), no one had seen it. And the idea of throwing it out there for the world to judge was absolutely petrifying.

Dad shuts his laptop, pushes it to the side, and leans forward on his elbows. “It’s overwhelming, huh?”

I shrug.

“Well, let’s start with the first step. Have you thought of a name?”

I drop my head, another sigh leaving me. Then I pick up a notepad and pen, scribble down the name I’d chosen a year ago and slowly slide it toward him. His smile is instant. “Views Of Emeralds.” He glances up at me with the eyes I’d inherited. “It’s perfect, Becca.”

*     *     *

I spend the next month going to classes, going to therapy with Dawn, and going to voice therapy. I don’t go to group. I’m not ready, and Dad—he understands that and he leaves it alone, for now, but not forever. Dad and I work together to create an Instagram account to hopefully sell the images through there. Last week, I asked Pete, the editor at the school paper, if he could run a tiny story without giving away my identity. He agreed, and now I have forty-nine followers on Instagram and absolutely no interest from anyone wanting to buy the photographs. But like my dad keeps reminding me, it wasn’t the prospect of money, or lack of, that had me wanting it on The List. It was purely getting it out there. Now, I had done that. And without even realizing, I slowly start picking up the pieces of my once not-so-broken life.

My phone sounds with an alert, and a smile begins to spread when I hear my dad’s footsteps get louder until his huge frame crashes against my door. He knocks. Waits. And then enters the room. “Did you see it?” he shouts over the commentary of whatever game he’s watching on the television.

I nod once, his excitement forcing the grin out of me.

“Fifty followers, Becs! That’s amazing!” He throws his hands in the air. “We should celebrate.”

I quirk an eyebrow.

“After group therapy.”

My shoulders drop.

“Let’s go. You don’t want to be late.”

*     *     *

Aaron’s here. I assumed he would be, but still, watching him approach—his hands in his pockets while he chews his bottom lip—is so terrifying, I should’ve added it to The List.

“I was wondering if you’d ever come back,” he says.

“I’m not here willingly,” I sign.

He smiles. “Your dad?”

I’m about to nod, but the session starts and a minute later, we’re sitting next to each other in a large circle. In the month I’ve been gone, a few people have left, replaced with newer, sadder faces. They release their hurt, some release their tears. The stories are the same, but different. The words are heavy, and the pain we share even heavier.

Aaron passes when it comes time for him to talk, which surprises me because he’s always had something to say. It dawns on me now that he’s been silent the entire time, his knee bouncing—something he does when he’s nervous.