Chapter 4
Penelope
What a joke. I’m running late for my flight, stressed to the max, all because I wasted precious time on positivity exercises.
It’s supposed to flip my shitty thoughts into shiny, happy ones in an easy three-step process.
First, I write down all my garbage feelings. Then, cross them out: “Exorcise those demons!” Nina, my therapist, says.
Then I get to replace them with opposite feelings—basically brainwash myself with newer, sexier, improved thoughts. It sounds so simple and transformative.
It means that I’m not a complete failure at relationships. No—I’m just…learning to be better at opening up to people.
And I’m not useless at keeping my business on track. No—I’m just…not so great at delegating because I’m kind of a nit-picking perfectionist. But surely striving for perfection is a good thing, isn’t it? Shit. I’m so confused.
What about the bone-deep dread I feel about inching closer to Blue Mountain Lake, my mom’s house, my past? Nope. I’ve swapped that out for hopefulness .
Yeah, I’m hopeful, all right. Hopeful there’s tequila on this flight.
But first, I have to do battle with my luggage. I’ve never been one to pack light—no capsule wardrobes for me. I like to have options.
And besides—what do you take on a trip to your tragic past? Hazmat suit, crash helmet, and Valium? That’s the bare minimum to fend off the memories I’d rather keep buried.
Back to an empty house, where my mother won’t be waiting to critique my choices or lament how she never got to live the life she wanted after having me too young. And all my accomplishments since leaving Blue Mountain Lake? They’ll evaporate the second I cross that threshold, leaving me right back as the insecure girl who never fit in.
I’m snapped out of my usual downward spiral as the final boarding call blares—right as I hit the bathroom. Perfect.
Resigned, I awkwardly sidestep my bags into the tiny cubicle, wrestling with the inward-swinging door and feeling every second slip away. By the time I make it to the gate, I’m frazzled and anxious, not surprised to find I’m practically the last person to board.
I hustle. Lugging bags, with my biodegradable Danish sunglasses almost slipping off the top of my head as I squeeze down the aisle, scanning for my row.
Of course, the plane is packed.
Then…my heart skips. No way .
I tilt my head in surprise—and quickly rescue my sunglasses from toppling again.
“What are the odds?”
“Of being seated next to the best-looking guy onboard?” Tuck grins, leaning back like he owns the entire regional airline. “Pretty high, apparently.”
Before I can respond, he’s up, grabbing my bulky carry-on and sliding it into the overhead compartment with practiced ease.
“Window seat’s yours,” he offers, all charm.
“Nope,” I say, thumbing him back to his seat. “I don’t need to stare at the void and be reminded.”
“Reminded of what?”
“That there’s no escape from this trip. I’ll take the view on the way back.”
He chuckles, brushing past me to fold his tall frame into the cramped seat.
It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Tuck’s mom must have shared the screenshot of my flight info—seat number and all. But still, I can’t believe he’s here, sitting beside me on this hellish journey.
My chest is swirling with conflicting emotions so that I can barely extract how I feel about it. But one thing I do know—he’s acting way too upbeat for my liking. This is going to be a long flight.
Before I even manage to click my seatbelt, Tuck pulls out a plethora of colorful confectionery.
“What do you feel like?” He shuffles through the packets. “I got raspberry licorice, Peanut Butter cups, salt toffee…those chocolate-coated almonds you like.”
“What are you doing?” I meet the eagerness of his blue eyes—vibrant flecks of green evident in the angled light, like serene tropical waters under glistening sunshine.
“Offering you premium snacks to break up the flight?” he waves the licorice toward me like this whole situation is the most natural thing.
“ And the window seat, and the fact that you’re even here, Tuck! Why are you here ?” I demand.
He meets my eyes, unperturbed. “You’re trying to do the hardest thing in the world alone. You shouldn’t have to, Pen.” His voice is soft, gentle. “I’m here because you need someone. I’m that someone.”
I take that in for a beat. My long-term frenemy-with-benefits wants to suddenly play it sentimental?
“So my mother died, and now you’re devoting yourself to my every whim?” I fold my arms. “Do I get a foot massage too? Maybe dinner out? You know, I’ve always loved that Koak artwork in your living room. Can I have that?”
Tuck scratches his temple.
“Do you think it works on everyone?” I continue, struggling to rein in my sarcasm. “If I cry and mention my mother died, will they offer us free booze or an upgrade to the exit row?”
“Perhaps.” Tuck shoves his array of snacks into our seat pockets. “But considering we’ve still got an hour’s drive ahead of us after we land—and you’re going to want to be the one driving—I think we’ll have to hold off on the drinks until we get to Blue Mountain Lake.”
“And then we can get smashed?” I muse. “Well, why not? I’m sure Mom’s still got a bottle of good whiskey stashed in Grandma’s old vase on top of the kitchen cabinet. Though, honestly, why she hid it when she never had visitors is beyond me.”
Tuck eyes me carefully.
And I know it’s amazingly kind of him to be here. He’s a busy guy and undoubtedly cancelled business trips and meetings galore to make that happen.
But instead of feeling grateful, my heart feels like an empty, cold shell. Or more like a discarded exoskeleton because the warmth and life that should be there fled for a more hospitable climate.
I sigh. If I can’t summon lightness and hope, I can at least appreciate the ease of being with him. With Tuck, there’s no need to put on a giant facade or pretend to be someone better than I am. He’s familiar with plenty of my flaws—and somehow still accepts me. Maybe it’s because I do the same for him. Or maybe it’s because I’ve kept the deepest fractures hidden. The kind no one ever really gets to see. The stuff I try to keep hidden even from myself.
Honestly, if we hadn’t known each other all this time, we probably wouldn’t have ever connected. I’ve always had a thing for tortured creative types, while Tuck radiates clean-cut corporate ambition.
He’s all polished edges and focused goals. But he’s also much more than that. He’s generous, curious, and thoughtful in ways I can’t claim to be. Where I keep people at arm’s length, he dives right in, finding value in everyone. And somehow, that includes me, cracks and all.
Even the fact that he knows I’ll have to be the driver today is kind of comforting. Tuck understands if I’m in a car, I need to be in control, thanks to my childhood.
Before we settled in Blue Mountain Lake, my life was a blur of buses, cars, and train trips I had no say about. Long-haul journeys to the next big thing after my dad blew up whatever life we’d just attempted—communes, trailer parks, fruit-picking communities, even couch surfing a few times when we were seriously down and out.
Then came the day Mom finally left him for good. At the time, they worked at a ranch in South Dakota. Mom cleaned, and Dad was a groundskeeper. Somehow, Mom managed to squirrel away enough money to buy a little blue Daihatsu that got us all the way to Blue Mountain Lake.
We ate and slept in that car for days. And even though it was a relief to have an end to their ugly arguments, I cried my heart out for my dad.
One bright morning, Mom woke me to say, “We’re here.” Then, as a stern-looking woman stepped out of a neat brick house with a concrete path and raised flower beds, “Come meet your grandmother.”
And that was the end of our drifter lifestyle.
We moved in with Grandma, and Mom never moved again.
But she sure as hell made sure I did. She told me enough times that it burned into my brain. To get educated and have a skill. To earn my own money no matter what. And to make a life in the city, well away from Blue Mountain Lake.
“If you’re educated and skilled, you always have choices,” she told me. “Know this—people will screw you over. You have to protect yourself. Men might well use you and dump you, or get you pregnant and never provide a decent life —but it’s the women who will never let you live it down.”
I guess that’s what she felt, coming back to her small hometown—judged at every turn.
A literal homecoming queen at Blue Mountain High, Mom returned dejected and desperate after finally ditching her homecoming king—my loser dad. High school sweethearts who got swept into the romance of running away together to seek adventure. Until she got pregnant with me and any dreams of a wanderlust life were dashed away.
I glance at Tuck as I reach for the chocolate-coated almonds.
“It’s strange how easily you assume the future, isn’t it?” I consider. “Somehow I thought Mom would go the way Grandma did—live into her eighties, have a fall or something, and just…fade away. Not die in a car crash on the way home from work. Do you know how many times she drove that route to Newcombe?”
Tuck nods, scanning my face. “Mom said the police think she swerved to avoid an animal—a deer maybe? Near the bend after Alder Creek.”
“That seems the most likely scenario.” I shake the almond packet toward him.
He takes a handful but doesn’t eat right away, seemingly distracted while the nuts lie scattered in his broad palm. After a while, he slips one into his mouth.
My eyes linger on the trace of dark chocolate left on his skin.
“It must be an awful shock, Pen,” he murmurs.
I bite my lip, suddenly hyper-aware of Tuck’s arm against mine. The strong male energy emanating from him.
It feels so… protective . When I feel so untethered, my mind murky and hazy. Like stepping in and out of a dream.
“I’m not sure I’m in shock…” I start before abandoning my attempt to explain it. “My therapist says everyone deals differently and I should just take it moment by moment.”
“What?” Tuck splutters. “You’re finally seeing a therapist after years of saying only crazy people do that?”
“Well, I guess it took a while to admit I’m crazy!” I pop my eyes.
“So—is it working?” he wonders. “Talking things through? Your past?”
I shrug. “It’s CBT—cognitive behavioral therapy, you know? So it’s more about focusing on your present issues, not digging up crappy history.” I finger the band on my wrist. “More becoming aware of your core negative beliefs in the here and now—and consciously breaking them.”
“How long have you been working on this—the CBT?”
“Ever since I…refused Mia’s initial request to design her dress,” I say hesitantly.
His face stiffens. “You what ?” he bursts out in the middle of the safety announcement. “You said no to her? Why would you do that?”
“Why do you think?” I hiss back. “I’ve never done a wedding dress! What if I fucked it up? I would never live it down.”
He sighs.
“Tuck, my designs are not flowy and romantic! I’m known for innovation. And what avant-garde-style wedding dress ever works?” I crunch my face in disgust. “Carrie in the Sex and the City movie? Tragic. Diane Keaton in Because I Said So ? Horrific. Gwen Stefani?” I wince painfully.
“Honestly?” I slouch back in the seat. “I’ve been stressed out of my head ever since Mason convinced me to do it. So yeah, between the panic attacks and nightmares of Mia walking down the aisle looking like a Vegas showgirl or a tribute to ‘80s power ballads—I needed help.”
Tuck’s face softens as he listens.
“I started therapy and found out it’s not just the wedding dress issue.” I look down, adjusting my seatbelt. “I mean—the dress is well underway now. But the constant negative stuff in my head hasn’t dissipated.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “ Why would it ? It’s always been there. I just didn’t know my anxious thoughts are…kinda at the extreme end of the scale.”
He reaches for my hand, and the warmth of his penetrates my palm, running like a current up my arm to my chest.
And he keeps holding it. All the way through takeoff—as the plane vibrates, building to that singular moment at lift-off, which always brings a hollow, fluttering panic in my stomach.
I grip my fingers tighter through his as we launch into the air, the mass of high rises, rivers, and the huge expanse of humanity shrinking away.
We reach cruising altitude: Journey’s set. No turning back. I’m plummeting through space, through time, to a place I don’t want to be. I don’t want to confront my mother’s death, her remains, her belongings.
I feel Tuck’s silence pressing on me. He’s searching for the right words, fumbling for a path forward through the emotional minefield I’ve laid out.
But there is no path. There’s no way to fix this. My mother is gone, and nothing we say or do will change that fact. And now I have to face the truth I’ve been dodging since the call came in: that the relationship I always hoped to fix will never be mended.
The fantasy I’ve clung to for years, of reaching some magical milestone where she might finally be proud of me, died with her. I thought that if I could achieve enough, become enough, I’d win her approval. If I could prove I wasn’t the mistake she always seemed to regret, she might finally see me as more than the burden that derailed her life.
I imagined it so vividly, hitting all the right marks: financial stability, emotional balance, professional success. And then, showing her I could make a choice she once warned me against. Because she always said having a child too young could unravel your life, just like it did hers.
But in my fantasy, I’d be different. I’d be ready. And maybe, just maybe, under those circumstances, she’d have the capacity to accept it—to welcome it, even. I pictured her holding that baby—loving them in a way I had never felt loved. And in loving her grandchild, she might finally find a way to love me, too.
But that was just a dream. And now it’s gone, along with any chance to make it real.
So what’s the point in wallowing? My life is mine alone, and I’ll live it on my terms.
Tuck strokes my hand, and I surrender to the tingling pressure building under my skin. Maybe I can’t always flick away those dark thoughts to find the light, but there are other ways to find a spark.
I glance down the aisle, slip my hand from his, and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“You okay?” Tuck’s voice is low, his eyes tracking my movements as I rise and shrug off my lightweight camel jacket.
I catch the way his gaze hovers over my semi-sheer top, and my lips curve into a faint smile. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, loosening my hair as I step into the aisle.
Tuck shifts in his seat, alert. “Okay.”
I pause, glancing back over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Well? You coming ?”
The rapid click of Tuck’s seatbelt, followed by the hurried rustle of movement as he staggers into the narrow aisle, sends heat rushing between my thighs.
Maybe I’m happy he’s here after all.