I guess that’s fine.

True to her organized, punctual personality, my aunt is already waiting for me, her BMW parked right in front of the door. She leans across the car, pushing the passenger door open and giving Elizabeth a little finger wave.

“Hey, Tave. How was it?” she asks as she pulls away from the curb, her eyes scanning the road.

“It was therapy,” I say, clicking my seat belt. “It was therapeutic.” I lean my head against the passenger-side window, not wanting to talk about it. Therapy is … well, it’s personal. And even though I’m immensely grateful to Reese and my uncle, Jay, for taking in a step-niece they hardly knew, they don’t really feel like family.

Luckily, Reese takes the hint and flips the radio on as we turn out of the parking lot. She has a never-ending well of patience. For me, at least. Clients on the phone? Not so much.

As we drive, I take in the streets around me—Portsmouth, New Hampshire, is one of the United States’ oldest cities and they do a really good job of preserving colonial sites. I’m a closet history nerd, and the first couple of months I was here, I would walk for as long as my injured leg would let me, exploring the monuments and markers and museums. It feels fitting, somehow—a city mired in its past, me trapped in my own.

And the whole city is so beautiful. I love old buildings—they just don’t build them the same way anymore. There’s a grace and beauty to them that society has lost. No matter how elegant the whole deco thing is supposed to be, there’s something in the hand-carved intricacies of colonial architecture that sets off a mourning within me for what once was.

My favorites are the occasional perfectly preserved eighteenth-century houses nestled amid modern homes in a normal neighborhood. Like a treasure, hidden in the sand, just waiting to be discovered. It’s hard to find them while driving around at the breakneck speed Reese favors, because they’re usually set back from the road and often sheltered by the leafy canopy of an ancient tree. But when I walk alone, I look for them. I’d love to know the stories behind them, but I’m too nervous to go knock on some stranger’s door.

I take pictures instead and make up stories in my mind. I swear I have about a thousand photos on my phone. I wish … I wish I could sketch them, paint them.

But I haven’t been able to draw since the accident.

Still, something about these old homes soothes me; calls to me, almost. I pull out my phone and scroll through to one of the pictures of my favorite house and zoom in, trying to imagine painting the wooden slats in watercolors, the hint of sheer curtains I can see through the windows.

“I got stuck on the phone until just before I had to pick you up.” My brain slowly realizes that Reese is talking to me. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” She looks at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry, I … what?” I shove my phone in my old red backpack. I’m afraid spacing out is my specialty these days.

I didn’t used to be like this.

“Do you mind if I stop by the store for milk? We’re out,” Reese repeats, turning the radio down a little lower.

I dolefully consider the snooty, locally grown, organic food store Reese frequents. Great. “Can I wait in the car? My—my leg is sore,” I lie.

Sort-of lie. It’s been three months since I got out of the cast, but shattered is the word my doctors used to describe the breaks both above and below my right knee. Something like that takes time to bounce back from, even without taking into account my decreased gracefulness since brain surgery last year.

At least that’s what the physical therapists keep telling me when I get discouraged.

A wrinkle appears between Reese’s brows for just a second before she accepts my excuse. “Sure thing—I’ll only be a few minutes.”

She leaves the car running. As soon as she’s out of sight, I turn the heater up and lean my head against the window.

The edges of the parking lot still have a few mounds of slate-gray snow that haven’t quite melted, but it won’t be long. Green blades are poking through last year’s crinkly brown grass and tulips are popping up all over town.

At least it’s not hailing, like yesterday.

It’s that almost-spring time of year—jacket weather, not overcoat weather. But the weather has been weird all year. In February all the snow melted and the newscasters were predicting drought and heat waves. But two weeks later three feet of snow dumped on us in a single night. Once the snowplows finally dug themselves out and cleared the roads, everything more or less went back to being winter. But still, it’s been a strange few months.

I pull my jacket a little tighter around me, remembering the couple days we had below zero—not to mention the killer ice storm right before—and hold my hands out in front of the vents. Other than the hoodie, I’m not really dressed for winter. I should probably wear something other than my old tank tops and screen tees, at least until summer, but that would require going shopping and I don’t like spending money that isn’t mine. Even if Reese says her money is my money. I’m going to have to break down and buy a new pair of jeans soon, though—these ones are pretty threadbare at the knees. Because I’m tall and fairly thin, but with very long legs, I always have trouble finding jeans that aren’t too short. So when I do, I wear them to shreds, which is about where this pair is sitting now.

As my fingertips warm, I scan the slowly darkening street, letting my gaze linger on a house across the road. It’s painted a cheery red and has a whole bed of maroon and gold tulips in front of the veranda. A little girl is sitting on the porch, playing with a doll. I smile when I see she’s dressed in a cute old-fashioned dress and pinafore—not unusual, here. In towns as old as Portsmouth, there’s always some kind of reenactment going on, usually of the American Revolution. This little girl looks great. Authentic.