51

Things that made Kate happy, the definitive list:

Bones. The color purple. Coffee. The color blue. Clara. Snack food. Flowers of any color. Photography. Dogs. Her career. Her therapist, ironically. And that thing her heart did, that happy little skip, whenever she got a message or email from Ben.

There were still moments upon getting a message from him when negative thoughts attempted to sink their claws into her brain, trying to convince her that Ben finally lost his rose-colored glasses.

He met someone closer to home.

He got back together with Lina.

He simply fell out of love with me.

But she was beginning to recognize those thoughts before they fully formed, and even without relying daily on anti-anxiety medication, she was capable of shoving those thoughts right back down to the void where they belonged.

Thank you, Dr. Steinmann.

Kate clicked on the notification of the email from Ben. Subject: A promise kept.

What promise had he made her?

The email had two links and nothing else. She clicked the first link.

The browser opened to a video of Ben settling onto a sofa, looking handsome in his khakis and green flannel shirt, hair tied back, and beard trimmed. At the border of the frame, set on a shelf, was a cowboy hat.

And then he laid an acoustic guitar across his lap.

He strummed the guitar, making sure it was tuned, then stammered and said, “I am keeping my promise, Kate.”

He began to play a slow, simple tune she didn’t recognize. His voice was so gentle—frightened, even—and his strumming unsure. But he felt his way along the frets, eyes closed, letting touch guide him. From the pain visible on his face as he sang, it was clear he was living the music, feeling every note, experiencing every lyric about love, tragedy, and the passage of time. Jumping up a chord, his voice was no longer timid but vibrant, powerful, singing of winding roads and rivers ever-flowing.

This was the greatest of gifts he could have given her—not only something he knew she would enjoy but because of what it meant. He’d dropped the hobby when he and Lina started having problems. Barely even hummed these last few years, he’d said. Hadn’t the occasion or desire to. But here he was, singing her this heartfelt song.

His voice cracked, but he smiled. Smiled through the pain that resonated in his voice. Then…softness.

“To be in love with you,” he sang. “To be in love at all.”

Kate was in tears by the time the video ended, with a bashful smile from the man and him leaning toward the camera. She clicked the second link, which opened to Ben’s face up close as he fumbled with the recording device, likely his phone.

He smiled, toothy and delightful, and said, “She wanted you to know she could play as well.”

He turned the camera to show Frida, wearing jeans and a vintage orange Reese’s t-shirt, curled over the same guitar. Kate gasped, and her tears welled anew.

Ben said something in Norwegian.

Frida rolled her eyes. “English, Dad.”

“Okay, okay. English. What will you be playing?”

She gave her father a playful glare. “You know what.”

“Yes, but Kate does not.”

Frida neglected to name the song. She picked out some notes, paused, then with agile plucks began a fast, lighthearted melody. Then she started singing.

She was good.

She was very good.