My ego wants to do a crazy victory dance around the laundry room as I enter the house. But it’s wise not to get ahead of myself. Rune isn’t confirmed yet. Anything could happen between now and Saturday night.

I’d also like to send angry emojis in response to the images Jack keeps texting me. But it’s not smart to make an enemy of him; we still might have to work together. It is, however, beyond annoying that he’s asking me my opinion on the best shots from his trip to Amy’s dad’s island mansion and the stunning scenery around it. No, I don’t want to give him my thoughts on which would be best for his social media and website. Good grief.

Frankly my heart, or maybe it’s my ego, has cooled a bit on the idea of Jack and I ever having a future together. Do I want to be the sort of person who longs for someone who’d do what he’s doing? On some level I get it. It’s a fantastic opportunity for him, but I hate the way he handled it.

And though I’m happy there’s a good chance that Rune’s coming with me on Saturday, but I’m still mad at him. I think that’s wise. If he hadn’t already been such a jerk at Sundance, I wouldn’t be forewarned now. My newly broken heart and bruised ego would be seriously tempted to follow my body’s lead into revisiting an old crush.

So, I’ll take another page from Howl’s Moving Castle. I’ll think of Rune as a necessary evil to help me accomplish my own goals. This is exactly what Sophie did when she became a housekeeper for Wizard Howl. She felt confident in the fact that being an old woman would keep him from eating her heart. At that point of the story, she has no idea that the Wizard’s reputation is all based on metaphor, that like Rune, and probably Jack, he’s a serial heartbreaker. I’m not an old woman, but I think my scarred heart can act as a good shield.

I set my phone alarm for an hour from now to check in Rune’s hard head. I know he doesn’t think he’s got a concussion, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

I decide there’s no time like the present to start the process of creating my Howl’s fanart coloring page. I open a new Pinterest folder to organize my visual inspiration and search YouTube for some Howl music. The animated movie version of Howl’s has a beautiful theme song. The catchy waltz is called The Merry Go Round of Life. There are dozens of renditions to choose from. I pick one with the image I like the best and push play. The music of the lyrically romantic tune with a touch of haunting middle European flair fills the office.

Tapping my toes along with the music, I start daydreaming again about twenty-something to mid-thirty-something fair-haired British actors who could play Howl well - and - who would be fun to draw.

Aren’t you forgetting Rune? Theo pipes up in my head.

Rune says he’s no longer acting, so I don’t think he’d approve of me drawing him, I think back primly.

Don’t be silly, Theo chides, he’d adore your drawing him as this Howl character.

Hmmm. This is only ideating, right, so why not? It’s not 100% necessary for Howl to be played by a man from the British Isles. In the English dubbed version of the movie, British actor Christian Bale voiced Howl with an American accent, but the actresses who voiced young and old Sophie both had British ones.

Rune does accents well. Howl is actually from Wales in the book (his real name is Howell Jenkins). Could he pull it off? He used to keep me in stitches, mimicking our favorite TV and movie characters. When he played Julia Endo’s on-again, off-again love interest in her TV series, he played a wealthy young techie transplant from Austin, complete with a southern drawl.

I look up 'Asher Dillion with long hair.' I’m given dozens of choices. Many of the photos are with Julia. Wow. They were photographed everywhere together. I choose the close ups of Rune's face with expressions that I think would work well for Howl and add them to the pinned images of the other actors I’ve selected.

Next, I organize my four favorite actors into a post for Instagram with a big question mark. Let’s see who my followers think I should draw as Wizard Howl.

I hate to admit it, but on one thing Jack does have a point. I’ve dragged my feet long enough about doing selfie videos. It doesn’t have to be an elaborate production; it can just be fun. If I hate it, I don’t have to post it. I can talk for a minute or two about why I love Howl’s Moving Castle, what it meant to me, and how I’m looking forward to drawing this new coloring page.

My phone chimes. It’s already been an hour since I smacked into Rune. I send him a quick text and then head upstairs to fix my makeup and change back into that nice vintage sweater. My phone beeps again as I’m putting my overly long hair back into a messy topknot.

Rune: No, there’s no concussion. Yes, I’m your date for Saturday night. I have one more prerequisite.

Me: Thank you!??

Rune: I need you to return the favor next month for another event.

Me: Okay. But I don’t have fancy clothes up here with me except Theo’s collection.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Rune: I’ll have you covered.

Me: Thumbs-up emoji

I set my phone for another hour and go back to grimacing at my reflection. Is he going to buy me something appropriate if and when the time comes? Or does he know someone I could borrow something from? I hoped that by telling him I had nothing to wear, he’d give up and find someone else. And anyway, what are the chances I’ll need to go? He’s sure to find someone as a real date by then.

My bangs are in that awkward am-I-growing-them-out-or-cutting-them-again stage, so I use my curling iron to give them some shape. I don’t usually wear this much makeup, but I was attempting to be more of an “it” girl this morning for the publishing house meeting. I use a Q-tip to clean up where the eyeshadow and mascara under my eyes have smudged, and I apply a little powder to my nose to get rid of the shine.

**

The video turned out better than I thought it would. At the last minute, it occurred to me to tell the story of how Astrid introduced my summertime bestie and me to the YA classic one rainy summer day when we complained of being bored. I also share that Astrid passed far too young and what a magical person she was.

It makes me break out in a nervous sweat, but I go ahead and post the video to Instagram. Of course, I didn’t use Rune’s name. Most people have no idea that Asher Dillion is actually named Rune Borstad, but you never know. I finish my post with all kinds of hashtags and then go annoy Rune with yet another check-in text.

**

“So, Trident came through with almost as much money as I’d make as before,” I tell my neighbor Marguerite. Mid-morning on Thursday we’re working in the vegetable garden on the cucumber and tomato plants. We’re carefully attaching all of the new growth to metal stakes with twine to keep the plants stable as the flowers turn into fruit.

“Excellent,” she says briskly, “I know it sucks, but I think you’re better off without them. They sound toxic.”

“Yesterday’s call certainly was,” I agree, glad it’s done and over with, “tell me about your class this weekend in Port Townsend. How did it go?” I ask, wanting to change to a happier subject. Marguerite taught her first two-day writing retreat at Fort Worden, the base that’s been turned into an event center.

Out here in the delightful sunny warmth, I feel like a new person. I’m in a tank top and a pair of denim cutoffs for the first time this year. It’s so warm I’m even wearing my straw fedora from my hat collection to keep sunburn at bay.

I love listening to the buzz of bees and hummingbirds and being surrounded by the rich, loamy fragrance of the soil and plants. I particularly love the spicy scent of tomatoes and the strange, cool, wet feeling they give off when you brush your hands against the plant stems lightly.

“It went well. People really seemed to enjoy it,” Marguerite says, standing to mop her forehead with a bandana from the pocket of her denim coveralls, “The more I teach, the more I become aware that almost anyone can successfully tap into their creativity if they can unweave enough of their own trauma to connect with it.”

“You sound a little like my friend Vivienne,” I tell her, admiringly. I bet it was a great class. I wish I was a skilled writer.

“Your former colleague?” She asks, “The one who came up from Los Angeles for Theo’s Celebration of Life and has that powerful Oprah vibe?”

“Yes!” I laugh at the apt description as I carefully wrap a piece of twine around the final top section of the tomato plant I’m working on.

“Interesting,” Marguerite tilts her head, “Makes sense. Whether you want to be creative with art or your sensuality, I guess it all stems from the same divine life force. Chronic or acute trauma can certainly block that.”

She twists, and I hear her back pop. Not quite as tall as I am, she has square shoulders and the erect posture of a dancer and equestrian. Like me, she did both as a child, which is how she became friends with Rune’s Aunt Sally many years ago. Marguerite’s long, straight, almost black hair and high cheekbones tell of her S’Klammam blood (the Tribe from Port Gamble up the road), but her blue eyes are nearly as light as Gunnar’s. I find her fascinating. I think she’s close in age to my friend Luna, mid-forties, but it’s hard to tell. She seems ageless.

I’m about to ask her to expand on her thoughts about divine life force (and perhaps get her thoughts on whether one can really channel a dead family member) when Butterscotch barks sharply. The dog speeds across the lawn to greet Lorelei, carrying her favorite toy, a thick braided figure eight of rope almost as large as she is. The girl and the dog run in circles around each other as Lorelei tries to snatch it from her.

“Got it!” Lorelei calls triumphantly. Holding up the toy, she sprints towards Rune, who’s coming down the Borstad porch steps. Lorelei passes the rope to him. He lopes off a few yards before turning and throwing the rope back to his cousin.

All of this attention throws Butterscotch into a state of frantic zooms. She runs in ecstatic circles around the two of them before flopping down on the grass beside me, panting so hard her whole body shakes.

“Thank you both! That takes care of our afternoon walk,” I tell them, slipping off my gloves and tossing them into my wicker garden basket.

“Are you growing more of those orange cherry tomatoes?” Lorelei asks, dropping to her knees next to me to examine our progress.

“Orange cherry tomatoes?” Rune asks, “Isn’t that contradiction, Pup?” He’s quirking that mobile eyebrow of his at her, hands on his hips, a bemused expression on his lush mouth.

With his artistically messy hair and the bespoke way his jeans and dark olive V-neck t-shirt fit, he looks like an ad for Ralph Lauren. In contrast, Marguerite, Lorelei, and I all look like an ad for a passionate but slightly crunchy family-run seed catalog company.

“No.” Lorelei chides him, “They taste much better than the red ones. They’re much sweeter, you’ll see.”

“Yep, we’re only growing those and one faster-ripening larger tomato,” Marguerite tells them. “By late July, early August, we’ll have them coming out of our ears, and we’ll be eating them three times a day.”

“I can’t wait,” Lorelei says happily, “Can I help make sauce this year?”

“We’re always delighted with free labor. We’re done here,” Marguerite stands up, tucking her gloves into her overalls, “Lorelei, what do you say start laying out that quilt of yours while these two figure out what they’re going to wear to the party?”

Marguerite has volunteered her master quilt-making skills to help Lorelei make a horse-themed blanket for her bedroom this summer. They’ve already been out hunting for the perfect fabric.

“Really?” Lorelei jumps up excitedly and then stops, looking conflicted, “I do want to see what outfits you pick out for the party,” she tells Rune and me, her golden-brown eyes glancing back and forth between the two of us, “But…”

“You don’t want to stand around watching me decide?” Rune fills in.

“Exactly! You take forever to make up your mind,” Lorelei laughs.