Among Wildflowers (Among Wilds #1)

Chapter 1

Ali

Ihad officially tasted the cherry on the fiasco parfait that had become my life.

I left behind the neon chaos of the Chicago Loop and stepped off a Greyhound bus into Nowheresville, Wisconsin.

Lakeside was a quaint suburb of a suburb of a suburb. Barely noticeable on a map, with a six-mile, sandy-bottom, freshwater lake that at one time was an attraction for city dwellers seeking refuge “up north” during the summer.

And here I was—after almost a decade since my last visit—breathing in Lakeside.

The air was sweet. Crisp. Familiar hints of cedar and lake water, even from here in a crumbling parking lot where neither could be seen.

I used to come here as a child to visit my late grandmother, Libby Bennet—Gibby to me. It’d been a long time, though.

In fact, I hadn’t expected to ever come back here.

But at twenty-eight, I was on my own for the first time. Not by choice. I was escaping here because I had nowhere else to go.

I had been fired—publicly and painfully.

Exiled by all who knew me.

Cheated on by my boyfriend of two years with my best friend.

And the final blow: cut off from the financial support of my wealthy father.

Which had all hit like an avalanche of social destruction within forty-eight hours.

Lucky for me, Gibby had left me her place in her will. From what I remembered, it was a stretch of property along the east-facing bank of the lake with a quaint two-bedroom cabin. Simple. And forgotten. Out of sight and mind. Just like I needed to be.

Up until this recent turn of events, I hadn’t thought about Gibby’s cabin in a very long time.

I didn’t have to. I hadn’t even officially taken ownership.

It sat here vacant. After she died, Dad had set it up so Gibby’s estate—if we can call it that—was managed on autopilot.

Taxes. Utilities. Maintenance. I never had to think about it. And so I didn’t.

I looked across the street at a faded, chipped mural peeling off the side of a cream-colored brick building. It must have once welcomed visitors. Now, only every third letter was legible, the message reduced to nonsense—oddly, the most fitting greeting for my arrival.

As I whipped on my oversized sunglasses, a gust of wind picked up my hair away from my face. A gentle whisper: Fresh air. Fresh start.

Out of habit, I fumbled in my bag for my phone. Time to stage an Instagram moment—something that screamed happiness and abundance instead of catastrophe. Instead of, You’ve fallen from grace and landed in a zip code time forgot.

Maybe I could make the side of this bus look like a private jet. That was something so Molly—the influencer formerly known as my best friend. Now mostly known for stealing boyfriends and lying to my face. She could find the perfect angle for anything, make even the most basic reality look enviable.

Enviable. Not real. Not honest.

An unsteady woman struggling down the bus steps stumbled off the last stair and careened into my side, knocking me back to reality.

“Ope, let me just get past ya, eh?” she said in a heavy Midwestern accent so common in Wisconsin. I remembered that “ope” was the regional colloquialism for “apologies,” “excuse me,” and “get out of my way.” This woman could have been using it for all three.

I smiled politely and abandoned my photo plans as I helped her down the last step instead.

The idling engine of the bus continued to rumble as passengers disembarked into the town’s bus depot. A crumbling parking lot with a lone cinderblock building in the center.

The bus driver started pulling pieces of luggage from the underbelly of the bus. There was a lot of slamming and grunting.

I’d made sure my bags—a beautifully crafted, matching leather set embossed with my initials on one side, ATB: Alison Taylor Bennet—were last in, which meant they were first out.

The matching set was easy to spot among all the duffel bags, small rolling suitcases, and overstuffed reusable shopping bags.

The first bag was hauled out and carefully placed down with a gentle shove. It rolled out of the way and stood poised to be matched with its partners. The aesthetics—the optics—those were still mine to command.

“Thank you!” I beamed at the driver as he looked up. He didn’t return the enthusiasm before ducking to pull out more bags.

He got rougher with every hoist. Each bag hit the pavement with more force.

The “Ali charm”—my own brand of magnetism, my superpower—was completely ineffective against the level of grump of this driver.

Eye rolls and tsks of frustration murmured from the other passengers waiting for the driver to finally get their bags from beneath mine.

“I may have overpacked a bit,” I said to no one in particular with a weak laugh. My mountain continued to grow.

These bags, and everything stuffed in them, were all I had left from my old life. But no one here knew that.

“I do plan to have an extended stay,” I said, even though no one cared.

By “extended stay,” I meant until the end of summer. That was the only acceptable option. Figure out how to get back to my old life before the end of summer.

Blank stares and annoyance glared back at me. This was a tough crowd. I pushed my hair off my face and plastered a smile—albeit forced—back on my face.

I felt . . . embarrassed.

Embarrassment was new for me. I wasn’t outwardly insecure.

Oh sure, I felt the usual mix of overthinking and self-doubt.

But this was different. I’d been shoved out of my old life so hard that it felt like my soul was discombobulated.

Turned inside out. Empty. Leaving room for feelings like embarrassment, insecurity, and desperation to creep in.

My last bag, a sturdy weekender with beautiful brown leather handles, landed at my feet.

“Thank you.” It came out behind my tight, still bright smile. My cheeks ached with the effort. My eyes stung. And by the way my vision was beginning to blur, my tough exterior was on the brink of cracking. No. No. Nope!

I refused to cry.

I’d held back while leaving my gorgeous high-rise apartment.

I’d been the Sahara when I discovered Ryan and Molly were hooking up behind my back.

I’d been the Hoover Dam even while being stripped of all credibility and dignity by the head of the largest corporate real estate developer this side of Asia.

Here? Now? This guy? The thud of my reliable hand-dyed ostrich leather bag on the broken parking lot gravel? This was not the thing to break me. I would not be sent into a puddle of despair over the mishandling of my luggage.

Deep breath. Shoulders back. Hair tossed off my shoulders.

“Do you take Venmo? I’d love to give you a tip. I don’t seem to have any cash on me.” I had my phone at the ready. Time to send Mr. Grumpy Pants the kind of appreciation everyone loved—money.

Although. Damn, it was hard to part with even a small amount of what little I had left. My teeny-tiny nest egg that existed outside of my trust fund was now meant to float me through the next few months.

The driver replied with a hostile grunt and moved on to unloading the other passengers’ bags. I took that as a no on the Venmo and shrank back. At least the burning in my eyes had passed.

The hysterics of all this—my life crumbling around me—wouldn’t be so dramatic if Dad hadn’t cut me off completely.

He’d said something about how he’d failed me by spoiling me my whole life and thought the best thing to do was force me to figure it out on my own.

No more safety net. I was locked out of my trust fund.

Credit cards were canceled. He broke my apartment lease, because I certainly didn’t have a way to pay penthouse-level rent.

No more car service. No more shopping allowance. Nothing.

I opened my rideshare app on my phone, trying to remember Gibby’s address. I couldn’t wait to get settled in the cabin. My back was in knots from that bumpy five-hour ride.

The progress bar to locate a driver flashed.

In all the times I had visited Gibby, I’d never arrived quite like this. Alone. Lost. Smelling of diesel fuel, recycled oxygen, and . . . was that microwaved burrito?

But really not since Gibby’s mind . . .

Not since the memory care facility took over her care.

And she’d made me swear not to visit her. She’d made me promise I wouldn’t witness her fade away. And absolutely not to attend the funeral.

Remember me, Ali. The real me. The happy times. The staying away was easy. The remembering? That was getting harder as each year passed.

All the passengers off the bus were dispersing now. They all had people to greet them. People to get them to their next stop. People to depend on. People. I had . . . baggage. Lots and lots of baggage.

My rideshare app finally refreshed: Uber unavailable in your area.

“What? No.”

Lakeside was a remote town, but Uber was a thing everywhere, right?

I opened a different app: Lyft is not operating here yet.

This was a vacation town—okay, maybe a month or two before the season kicked off. But these apps were widely utilized across the globe. I once got a rideshare in the middle of the Asian jungle, for Christ’s sake. But not here?

Mr. Grumpy Pants was closing the haul door. “Excuse me. Hi. Again.” Toothy grin in place. I added a nose scrunch for extra cuteness. Who can resist the nose scrunch?

“I need to hire a car to take me to my cabin. Do you know who I can call?”

He looked at me like I had two heads. “A cab company maybe?”

He started to walk away as he shook his head.

“Look, I am stranded here if I don’t get a car to take me to my cabin. Can you help a girl out? Please? Sir?” My voice elevated an octave or two. I was unraveling.

He paused. Sighed and turned back toward me like it took a ton of effort.

“You’ll need to go ask someone in town. There’s a general store across the street.” Then he hopped back onto the bus and closed the door abruptly.