Returning to Pine Ridge (Pine Ridge Prequel)

Chapter 1

ATLAS

I’m not fine, but I’ve gotten very good at pretending I am.

Sitting in my car with the engine off, watching fairy lights blink across the door to the Pine Ridge Community Center like something out of a wedding catalog, I wonder how much longer I can pull this off.

My phone sits dark on the passenger seat. Three missed calls and a string of unread texts. Probably from my best friend and mother hen, Jordan. I don’t look at either list.

I dressed carefully this morning—dark jeans, a button-down shirt in slate blue that I ironed twice, and boots that look casual but cost more than I should have spent two years ago when I bought them. I look like someone who has his shit together.

The suitcase in my trunk is packed like I’m coming on a weekend trip, not like I’m fleeing a life that has collapsed.

“Atlas!”

My mom’s voice by the door to the building snaps me out of my pity party-slash-panic, and I get out of the car.

“Mom. Hi.”

She reaches me and pulls me into a hug that smells like her perfume and the lavender soap she’s used for as long as I can remember.

“You’re here,” she says into my shoulder. Then she pulls back, her hands on my arms, and looks at me. Really looks at me. Her smile falters. “You look thin. Are you eating?”

There it is. Five seconds and she’s already seeing through me.

“Mom, I’m fine. Just busy with—”

“Atlas.” My dad’s voice, steady and warm. He appears beside Mom, and his hand lands on my shoulder with the kind of weight that says I’m glad you’re here, I’ve missed you, I love you.

I turn and hug him. It’s brief but solid, and when he pulls back, his eyes—the same dark brown as mine—scan my face with the same concern Mom’s did.

“Good to see you, son.”

“Yeah. You too.” My voice sounds almost normal. Almost. “Congratulations. Forty years. That’s incredible.”

Mom waves a hand like it’s nothing, but she’s still looking at me with that expression I can’t quite decipher. “We’re just happy you could make it to the party. I know how busy you are in Denver.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“How’s work?”

I dig my nails into the palms of my hands.

“Busy. Really busy. We just um … well, you know how it is.” I don’t look at either of them directly. I focus on the banner behind them that says Happy 40th Teresa and Emilio, the fairy lights, anything but their faces.

Mom squeezes my arm. “You work too hard. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” I pivot, gesture toward the community center. “Let’s go inside and join your party, yeah? Even the weather has come out for you.”

They exchange a smile as they talk about the unseasonably warm weather for late May this year.

More people arrive, cars pulling into the lot behind us. I recognize most faces, neighbors from childhood, family friends, distant relatives. They’ll all want to talk to me. They’ll all want to know how I’m doing, what I’m working on, when I’m going to settle down.

I’ll lie to every single one of them.

Mom is still talking, gesturing toward the food tables. Dad gets pulled into a conversation with Uncle Joe. I’m left standing there with Mom, her hand still on my arm, her eyes still searching my face.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks quietly. “You seem… I don’t know. Stressed.”

I smile, making it reach my eyes this time and channel every ounce of the person I used to be—the competent, successful, together version of Atlas Navarro who moved to Denver and made it in one of the biggest tech companies in the country.

“Just tired from the drive. Long week at work. But I’m really happy to be here, Mom. Seriously. This is beautiful. You and Dad deserve this.”

She studies me for another second, then leans in to whisper. “The party is great, but trust me, the thing to look forward to is the cake. We got it from the Sunrise Bakery. Maria really outdid herself this time.”

“I love you and all, Mom, but the real reason I’m here is for the food.”

She laughs and then kisses my cheek before being pulled away by Aunt Patricia’s arrival.

Forty years. My parents built forty years of honest, steady love.

And I can’t even be honest for forty seconds.

I’m halfway to the beverage table when Sarah, one of the owners of Harvest & Root, grabs my arm. “Atlas! How are you?”

“Great, really good,” I say automatically.

“Don’t you look handsome today,” she says, running her hand down my shirt sleeve. “Are you seeing anyone? A cutie like you must have all the guys lining up.”

My laugh is hollow, but I don’t think she notices. “No time for dating. Work keeps me busy.”

“You’ve always been a hard worker,” she says. “You must stop by the restaurant before you leave town. Jess will love to see you. She drew the short straw this evening.”

“I’ll come in if you save me a slice of your apple pie.”

“Consider it done.”

I might be struggling with being home right now, but Sarah and Jess were great to me when I worked at their farm-to-table restaurant before I left for college. It’ll be nice to catch up. Who knows, if I can’t get a job soon, I might have to come back and ask for my old job back.

More people gather. My parents’ neighbor Mr. Bottisham, the Garcias, someone’s cousin. They form a loose circle around me—or at least that’s how it feels.

“How’s Denver?” Mr. Bottisham asks. “We don’t see you much.”

“Vibrant. Great culture. I love it.” The lies come easily now. “Just busy with work.”

“When are you visiting next?”

“Do you miss Pine Ridge?”

“Your mom worries about you.”

The questions pile up. I answer each one perfectly—the right words, the right tone, the right smile. But inside, my heart hammers as the panic builds while I try to keep it off my face.

“Little bro!”

My sister’s voice cuts through. I excuse myself and move toward Sofia. She pulls me into a hug that feels different—tighter, more knowing.

“You okay?” she asks. “You seem off.”

I force a smile. “Just tired.” I can’t breathe. I can’t do this anymore. “Where are my niblings?”

She looks around and then shrugs. “Probably trying to get to the cake.”

“Sounds like their favorite uncle needs to join in on that action.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek but don’t wait for a response. I just walk away, and when I see her walk toward my brother-in-law, I take the door to the gardens. Away from the fairy lights and the faces and the suffocating weight of all that misplaced pride.

The garden area behind the community center is darker, quieter. Fewer fairy lights reach back here, just the spillover glow from the pavilion and the distant orange of streetlamps.

I find a bench under a large pine tree and sit down hard, my legs suddenly unreliable. I press my hands against my thighs and try to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

My heart is still racing. My chest feels like someone’s standing on it. The cool evening air helps somewhat, the smell of pine sharp and clean, cutting through the panic a little.

I don’t know how long I sit there before I hear footsteps on the gravel path.

“Dude, I say this in the most brotherly way possible: You don’t look okay.”

I don’t look up as my younger brother approaches. I just keep staring at my hands.

“Hey, Marco.”

He sits on the bench beside me, his weight making the wood creak. For a minute he doesn’t say anything, just sits there in his flannel shirt and work boots, smelling like sawdust and holding a beer bottle.

I try to smile but it fails completely. My face won’t cooperate, won’t manufacture the expression, won’t perform.

“I’m just—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. You’re not fine. I’ve known you my whole life, Atlas. I can tell when you’re not fine.”

My throat closes up. I look away toward the pine tree’s dark branches.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Marco leans forward, elbows on his knees, not looking at me directly. “Like, I’m not going to push. But if you need to tell someone, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge.”

For a wild second I almost do it. Almost say I lost my job, I’m drowning in debt, I’m sleeping on Jordan’s couch in Denver when I’m not sleeping in my parents’ guest room under false pretenses. Almost let it all spill out.

But the words stick. I can’t. Not here, not now, not when the party’s still going and everyone thinks I’m successful and fine and exactly who I’m supposed to be.

“I know,” I manage. “I’m just … processing being home. It’s been a while.”

He doesn’t call me on the obvious deflection. “Yeah. I get that.”

We sit in silence for another moment. The music from the pavilion shifts to a song I recognize from my parents’ old records. Someone laughs, bright and happy.

“Hey, by the way.” Marco straightens up.

“There’s this cool thing the library’s doing.

They set up an Airstream booth in the garden over there—” He gestures vaguely toward the far corner, where fairy lights strung above the door show the entrance.

“You can record messages for Mom and Dad’s archive or whatever.

Pretty cool, right? Some guy named Kai is running it.

Seems nice. Very … organized. I heard he’s into oral history and preservation and stuff I don’t totally understand but sounds important. ”

I nod, barely processing the information.

“Sofia recorded a message earlier,” Marco continues. “So did a bunch of the aunts and uncles. I think I’m supposed to do one too, but I’m terrible at that stuff. Talking into a microphone feels weird.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You should check it out though. Might be cool to record something for them.” He stands, stretches. “I’m going to head back before Mom sends a search party. You coming?”

“In a minute. Cover for me?”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push. “Okay. But seriously, Atlas. If you need anything—”

“I know. Thanks.”

He walks away, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. I watch him go, his silhouette disappearing around the corner of the building, back toward the light and the music and the celebration.

I could go back too. Should go back. Find Sofia and make nice with more relatives and keep performing for however many more hours this party lasts.

But then I hear voices approaching. Someone laughing. A female voice saying, “Did you see Atlas? I haven’t talked to him yet—”

No.

I stand up fast, looking around for another exit, another escape. My eyes catch on the shape of the vintage trailer, curved and metallic, parked on the grass.

The Airstream.

I step inside and close the door behind me, and the sounds of the party muffle instantly. The small space wraps around me like a protective shell, quiet and dim and blessedly empty.

The Airstream’s interior is smaller than I expected, but not cramped.

A small table against one wall is set with two microphones—professional-looking with pop filters and stands.

Headphones rest on a small hook, and a lamp with a warm bulb provides the only light, casting everything in amber and shadows.

It smells like cedar and pencil shavings.

A placard sits on the table beside the microphones. The text is handwritten in careful print:

NEIGHBOR STORIES—SHARE YOUR MEMORY

PRESS THE BUTTON TO BEGIN RECORDING. PRESS AGAIN TO STOP. YOUR STORY WILL BE PRESERVED IN OUR COMMUNITY ARCHIVE.

THANK YOU FOR CONTRIBUTING TO OUR COLLECTIVE MEMORY.

A prominent red button next to the placard is attached to what I’m guessing is the recording device.

I move to the table and sit in the single chair positioned in front of the microphones. The cushion is worn but comfortable. The microphones are angled toward the seat, waiting. The red button sits between them, unlit, patient.

The lamp’s warm light makes everything feel distant, as if I’m disconnected from the world outside. In here, it’s just me and the microphones and the quiet. No one watching. No one expecting anything. No audience to perform for.

What would I even say? Where would I start?

I put the headphones on and reach for the button. My finger hovers over it, not quite touching.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I press the button.

The red light comes on with a soft beep. The recording device hums steadily, almost imperceptibly. The microphones wait.

I take a breath. Let it out.

“Hi, Mom and Dad. It’s Atlas.”

My voice sounds strange coming back at me through the headphones. Hollow and close at the same time. I clear my throat and start again.

“I wanted to record a message for your anniversary. Forty years is incredible. I mean, really incredible. You two have built a life so solid, so real. And I’ve always … I’ve always admired that.”

The words come easier than I expected. Maybe because I can’t see their faces. Maybe because the microphone just listens, doesn’t react, doesn’t judge.

“I’m really proud of you both. And I’m sorry I don’t say that enough. I’m sorry I don’t come home more often.”

The pause stretches out. I can hear my own breathing in the headphones. The party is still happening outside, but in here it’s just me and my voice and the truth I’m trying to find.

“I just … there’s so much happening in Denver, and I’ve been so focused on … on proving myself, I guess. On building this career and making you proud.”

My throat tightens. My eyes burn. I blink hard, twice, pushing back against the tears that want to come.

“I moved to Denver because I wanted to be someone. Someone important. Someone successful. I wanted to prove that leaving Pine Ridge was the right choice, that I could build a successful career and make you proud. And for a while, I thought I did. I thought I’d made it.

Good job, good salary, working on interesting projects.

I thought I was exactly who I was supposed to be. ”

I run my thumb over my fingers. One breath. Two breaths.

“But I think … I think maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. Because the thing is—”

My voice cracks. I stop. Start again.

“The thing is, I lost my job. I lost my job, my home, and while trying to hold on to the life I had, I’ve … um … I’ve been too ashamed to tell you because I don’t know how to fix it.”

I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t make my voice work through the tears and the tightness in my chest and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally saying it out loud.

“Fuck.”