The Summer of Yes

by Courtney Walsh

“Waiting for a man to let you do anything is pointless.”

“Success comes with a price,”

After a beat, she says, “I wish I’d said yes more.” She looks at me. “To the fun things of life, you know? I always chose

work over everything. It suited me. But it cost me too. Nothing comes without a cost, young lady, and only you can decide if you’re willing to pay it.”

“I have . . . people,” I protest lamely. “I just didn’t want to bother them.” She muses. “Mm-hmm. Then you don’t have the right kind of people.”

“And I think people should know what you know. I think”—I lean in slightly—“that there is a whole generation you could fix with a single sentence.” She leans in as well, and half whispers, “Yes, but that generation doesn’t read books.” I hold up a finger. “That is not true.”

Maybe he’s my future husband, put directly in my path by God himself so I don’t miss him?

I slowly move one pretzel toward my mouth, open wide, and take a huge bite, eating it like I’m in one of those Godiva chocolate commercials. With a chewy, bready maw, I manage the words, “Mmmmm . . . this is so good . . .” She frowns and whips out a hand, palm up.

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as caring too much,” I say. “Only not caring enough. And I’ll never apologize for that.”

One might think Daniel and I are perfect candidates for an enemies-to-lovers kind of story, but rest assured, we are not.

Afraid of not being in control.

It’s not work that’s kept me from living my life. It’s fear. Work was just my excuse.

“If you’re sweet to me, I’ll bring you back an ‘I heart NYC’ T-shirt. What’s your size?” I give him a once-over, as if trying to determine it for myself.

She walks like a true New Yorker—with a purpose. Not looking around.

I kiss three fingers on my right hand and hold them up. “Scout’s honor.” He pauses. “That’s the Mockingjay salute.”

But early the next morning when I’m hooked up to the blasted dialysis machine, I hear the knock on the door followed by her much-too-chipper morning voice. If Kelsey had a theme song, it would be “Walking on Sunshine,” which I loathe.

I don’t know why I do that. Like I’m protecting some truth about myself because if people found out I’m just like them, I’d be diminished in their eyes or something.

So that’s why I say yes to Kelsey’s proposed adventure. Because being human feels good, even though it simultaneously feels bad. Because it feels necessary. Because a part of me wants to carve my name in a giant, sturdy oak tree as if to say: Georgina was here.

Whoever said words are powerful wasn’t kidding. Words had the power to change the course of my life. Six little words, in fact. “You don’t have what it takes.” Words like that, when you believe them, change everything.

Georgina wraps a scarf around her hair. Her big, round, black sunglasses remind me of a 1960s movie star. Her driving reminds me of a very nervous fifteen-year-old working on her permit with her mom in the passenger seat. And I am the mom.

Once, when I was twelve, Ravi and I went to a fall carnival where we made the stupid mistake of wandering into a haunted corn maze. The people dressed as scarecrows and zombies and serial killers jumping out and terrifying me stuck with me for years. One guy followed me around,

crawling on all fours, making low-pitched groaning sounds, and I’m pretty sure I actually died for a few seconds that night. If I thought about it long enough right now, I would wet my pants.

“Listen,” she says. “I think you have to find the things that fulfill you. Energize you. No matter what life you make for yourself, find some margin for those kinds of things.”

Without looking back at me, she says, “And who told you that you were no good?”

Wow, she just read my mind. I don’t answer. “Was it someone important to you? A teacher—someone in a position of authority?” she asks. I hesitate, but decide that Georgina just might understand, even if it’s hard to imagine anyone ever criticizing her. “My favorite professor,” I admit. “He was sort of my mentor all through college.” “So you quit, just like that, because someone told you you should.” “I didn’t quit,” I say. “I just . . . pivoted.” “You quit.” Georgina turns her iPad back on, as if to dismiss me. “You’ll never be happy if you listen to what everyone else says about you, Kelsey. It’s what you say about you that matters.” “My parents would say it’s what God says about you.” Her eyes flick to mine. “What does God say about you? That you should quit?” “Doesn’t sound like God, no.”

When the pressures from work or the rigors of life disappear, there are still plenty of other things rushing in to try to fill that void. Normally, for me, it’s worry. When did that happen? How did that happen? It’s almost as if I tilted my childhood creativity away from discovery and cleverness and inspiration and focused

it directly on adult what-ifs and anxiety and fear.

Part of this Summer of Yes is saying yes to not worrying so much.

There’s always a moment in every new friendship or relationship where you, pun not intended, “test the waters” by gently insulting the other person. It’s good-hearted ribbing, but if you move on this too soon, you’re in danger of seeming like you can’t take the joke.

Georgina is so unmovable, she might as well be a grand piano.

“You can take Kelsey,” Georgina says. “She can’t stop staring at you, so you might as well give her a reason to do so.” I gasp. “Georgina!” Hayden laughs a shy, boyish, “I’m embarrassed for you but flattered at the same time” laugh,

The mosquitoes are out in force, and apparently, I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet. I smack myself in the neck, and the noise pulls Hayden’s attention. He turns and looks at me. I give him a chagrined smile. “You hate this,” Hayden says. “Mosquitoes really like me.”

“What are they doing here?” He seems to be marveling at them. “Living their lives.” “Wild horses?” I never even knew there was such a thing in this country. I take a step, but he pulls me back. “Yes, so you have to keep your distance.”

“How did they get here?” I ask, watching as another five horses run across the beach in the distance. “One theory is that they swam here after a Spanish shipwreck in the 1500s,” he says. “They’re called Banker horses.”

“And somehow you still look cute. I mean, for an orc.”

He could give my coworker Daniel a lesson in how to properly apply cologne or aftershave or whatever it is I’m smelling.

Sometimes I wish I could’ve started my life with the wisdom and knowledge I have now that I’m nearing the end. I would’ve done so many things differently.

A multicolored dog is curled up in an armchair. She glances up at me, then lays her head back down, disinterested.

This alone is enough for a mental hiccup, but when I see she’s standing next to an attractive older version of Hayden, I’m sure I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.

Facing these things head-on seems to take the mystery out of them. It’s like seeing a dark, scary shape on the wall of your childhood bedroom and then turning on the light—only to find out it was your sweatshirt on a hook.

“We’re all dying, Georgie,” he says. “And however many days I have left, I want to spend them with you.”

We drive toward my apartment, and I glance over at Hayden, who’s watching out the window with the same wonder I imagine anyone who doesn’t live here might have.

“What made you decide to pull the trigger? Did your family finally wear you down?” He gives me a trademark crooked smile. “You, actually.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Me?” “Your Summer of Yes.” “Shut. Up.” I inspired this? “It made me realize I’ve also been holding back because I was afraid,” he says. “And when I started thinking about it, I realized that was a dumb reason not to propose to the love of my life.”

I make my way back through the city and over to the very familiar building where I spend most of my time. I get in the elevator, get off on the floor where I work, and instantly smell Daniel, so I know he’s nearby. It’s a weird feeling. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been here, but it has the same feeling as when you revisit your elementary school as an adult. It all feels a bit smaller.

“What have I missed?” Tess begins to unload all the latest office gossip, and it seems like a lot, even in the short time I’ve been gone. Who’s dating who, which clients Daniel’s been after, all the drama with Chase Donovan . . . and as she talks, I find myself drifting from paying attention. I’m thinking about the boardwalk. The

saltwater taffy. The boat. My night swim. Ravi’s engagement. Putting on plays in my parents’ backyard. Furiously writing. Hayden. Georgina. Driftwood. And I realize I don’t really care about what I’ve missed. What I’ve found seems so much more interesting.

“You’re coming home?” I nod. He kisses me again, and the man behind the counter clears his throat. “Pizza’s ready.”

“Hey, buddy,” Dylan says to him without taking his eyes off me. “I’m kissing my wife here. I’ll be right with you.” I laugh softly, mortified, and he kisses me again. I love it as much as the pizza guy doesn’t.

“I hoped you’d have learned by now that one person’s opinion of you shouldn’t hold that much weight.” “It’s not just anyone’s opinion, though, Georgina. This man is my boss. He’s one of the best in the business.” “So what?” “So . . . he knows what he’s talking about.” “Kelsey, there are hundreds of men running companies who don’t know what they’re talking about.” I laugh. She’s probably not wrong.

“The world is going to tell you all kinds of things about yourself. You’re not good enough or smart enough or strong enough or thin enough or rich enough or talented enough. They’ll come up with a million reasons you can’t do the thing you want to do. The thing you were born to do.” She takes a sip of water and looks at me. “They’ll tell you, ‘No, Kelsey.’ Or ‘Not at this time, Kelsey.’ Or my favorite, ‘Not good enough, Kelsey.’” I’m tearing up thinking that I’m not doing the thing I was born to do. I’m tearing up at all the no’s. I’m tearing up because I know Georgina is right. “So what do I do?” She sets her glass back down on the tray, picks up the warm, wet cloth, and wipes off her hands. And then, very pointedly, she looks at me. “You look them in the eye and tell them yes.”