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sent it to voicemail.
    I picked up a photo from a barbecue with my family and the Stewarts, Jason’s family, sending waves of memories washing over me. My parents had moved into our ward on the California central coast before I was born, and the Stewarts had immediately befriended them. Jason had always been one of my buddies growing up—until somewhere along the line he’d decided he wanted to date me and made me realize I liked the idea.
    I sorted out a couple dried-up corsages from high school dances, feeling silly for keeping the long-dead carnations.
    Sandy flipped through my high school graduation pictures. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why didn’t it work? As girls go, you pretty much rock. What else did he want?”
    “If I knew the answer to that, do you think I would be so emotionally stunted?” I asked. Sandy shook her head and almost sent her ringing phone to voicemail for the third time when I stopped her. “I’ll be okay. The ice cream’s working. Go see what your mom wants.” She hesitated, scowling at her phone. “It’s fine, I promise,” I reassured her, waving the nearly empty ice cream carton as proof. She sighed but grabbed her phone and headed for her room.
    “I’ll listen as fast as I can,” she called over her shoulder.
    I picked up the graduation pictures she left behind. It felt like seventy years, not seven, since I had smiled so hopefully into the camera, sure I knew what would come next. I had always had a clear direction for my life, even as a kid. My sisters teased me about what they called “the plan,” as if it loomed in front of me in capital letters. Because of my dad’s teaching position at the nearby university in our town, all of us got half tuition, so I would earn a scholarship for the rest. I’d graduate without debt, get married, and pursue a career until I had kids.
    As our relationship evolved, my plan became our plan, and I followed it exactly. I got the scholarship, sent Jason off on his mission to Italy, and studied hard while I waited. We wrote every week. At first. But somewhere along the line, his letters grew farther apart, and so did we. He explained that he was immersed in the work and apologized for not writing more. But the letters, previously full of the challenges and rewards of missionary life, grew terse as the months passed.
    I stuck it out, sure it would all fall into place when he got back. It didn’t. There was nothing in “the plan” about the Jason who stepped off the plane. He seemed the same at first. We hung out with the same people again, did all our old favorite things, spent time with each other’s families. Secretly though, in my stomach, where I couldn’t ignore it, a black pit yawned wider by the week, and I couldn’t pinpoint the problem. I kept a good face on it, but the perfect future I’d envisioned for four years slowly crumbled, and I scrambled to pick up the falling pieces by myself. Jason acted like his old self in groups but doggedly avoided time alone with me. Our conversations stayed superficial, and he subtly changed topics whenever the future came up.
    I knew missionaries sometimes had a hard time adjusting after returning home, and I tried to give him the time he needed. But when he finally shook himself out of his funk, he shook me to the core in the process.
    Digging through the box, I found the smooth rock I wanted. Our last conversation replayed with painful clarity. We were hanging out at an institute bonfire on the beach when Jason surprised me by suggesting a walk along the water. It wasn’t at all like him anymore to try to get me alone. We headed down the shoreline, away from the chatter and laughter of the activity. The silence weighed on me so I broke it. “The sunset’s pretty.”
    “It’s always pretty.”
    “Is that a bad thing?”
    He shrugged. “What could be bad about a pretty sunset?”
    I stopped and turned to face him full on. “I don’t know, Jason. Why don’t you tell me