Chapter 3
WINNIE
After a few days on the road, something strange happens.
I start to feel like I don’t exist.
I don’t speak to anyone except for the people who work at the motels I stay at, and when I do a grocery run for snacks, I use the self-checkout.
I don’t use my burner phone, or my regular phone. I don’t look at social media or text or mindlessly scroll.
Instead, I listen to the radio, or to the audio book on CD that the last person who rented this car left in the glove compartment.
By a sheer stroke of luck, the rental company forgot to take it out.
And it’s a good book, too—The Rake’s Bride by Laura Lightfoot.
It’s a historical romance with a marriage of convenience trope, and the rake in question is a duke (obviously).
I listen to it all the way through, and then immediately start it up from the beginning again.
I enjoy the narrator’s voice and get lost in the rhythm of the words, which soon become familiar to me.
It’s the only thing that keeps me from feeling like I’ve disappeared completely.
Like I’m now no one and nothing.
I’m not Winnie Grant, Miss Alabama 2023 and social media star, anymore. I’m not Winsome Grant, daughter of Melissa and Richard Grant, either.
I’ve been waiting a long time to escape both of those things, but without them, who even am I?
That’s the thought that circles around in my head as I’m driving from Memphis to Kansas City, from Omaha to Sioux Falls. I was ten when I did my first Little Princesses pageant. I loved it. The clothes, the performance, the drama, the audience—all of it. I was immediately obsessed.
At home, I was the only child who was left to her own devices and ignored.
On stage, I had the audience’s undivided attention.
And when my mom realized that I was actually really, really good up there, I finally got her attention as well.
I finally had what I wanted, after years of hoping she’d notice me.
But I’ve never been an adult without pageants. I’ve never gotten the chance to know myself outside of the confines of the stage, and of judging myself against a hundred other beautiful, talented, practically perfect girls.
So yeah, the old Winnie Grant doesn’t exist. And I have no idea who’s going to take her place.
On the fifth day after I leave Alabama, I finally see the sign for Star Mountain Horse Rescue.
I pull into the long, unpaved driveway and say a quick prayer for the rental car’s tires.
And it’s suspension. And just about everything else.
It’s just a sedan, and definitely not made for any sort of off-roading.
Every bump in the road shakes me in my seat and has me wincing, but as the horse rescue’s barns and paddocks come into view, as I spot the two majestic trees that flank the stables like guardians welcoming me home, nothing else matters.
I forget about my exhaustion and my desire for real food that doesn’t come from a convenience store.
I made it.
Tears blur my eyes as I spot my best friend Candice standing with the man who must be her new boyfriend Nathan in front of the stables.
I press down on the accelerator and drive the rest of the way into the small dirt lot, coming to a screeching stop behind a large truck.
I don’t bother pulling into a free spot because honestly, I can barely see through the tears right now.
I fling myself out of the car, and turn to see Candice running towards me, screaming my name.
“Winnie! Win!”
We collide, arms wrapping around one another, and I feel my body start to convulse with a sob. I don’t let myself go completely, because there are other people around, but damn does it feel good to be hugging my best friend.
“When did you leave? Why didn’t you call me?” Candice asks, pulling away from me and looking me over.
“I left five days ago. I had to get rid of my regular phone and I decided to use the burner for emergencies only. I didn’t want to take any chances,” I explain. I pull off my hat and sunglasses and shake my hair out.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’re safe now,” Candice says, drawing me in for another hug.
“What the hell is going on here?” A tall, broad-shouldered man comes around from the other side of the truck that I’m parked behind, arms crossed, a scowl on his ruggedly handsome face. “I’m trying to unload here, and some ditz is blocking my truck in.”
And just like that, the mysterious, scowling handsome stranger turns out to be an asshole.
“Some ditz? Some ditz? I’m Candice’s best friend.
Who the hell are you?” I spit out, irritated by the term ditz, and too exhausted to contain myself.
It’s an insult that’s been lobbed at me countless times before, along with bimbo and blondie.
Men (and some women) assume us pageant queens are idiots.
The burly asshole takes a step forward, boxing Candice out and facing me head on. I meet the stranger’s flashing gaze with a steely one of my own.
“Impossible. I know all of Candice’s friends and you aren’t one of ‘em.”
“Um.” A nervous note fills Candice’s voice.
“You didn’t answer my question. Who even are you?” I ignore his remark about how he knows all of Candice’s friends, and jab my finger into his chest to annunciate my point.
He reaches out and catches my hand in his. But despite his thunderous expression, his touch is light, and he holds my hand as gently as one would a baby bird.
“I’m the barn’s farrier,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask, because I honestly have no clue. I’m not really a horse or cowboy person. I visited Star Mountain once a few years ago, after Candice’s grandparents passed away. While I loved the horses and the scenery, I went on one trail ride and mostly tended to Candice in her grief.
The man lets out a laugh, and doesn’t drop my hand. “What the hell is a woman who doesn’t know what a farrier is doing at a horse rescue?” he mutters, almost to himself.
I try to come up with a retort, but before I can, Candice comes over and gently pushes me and Asshole apart.
“Jonah, this is Winnie,” Candice says. “She’s my best friend and she’s going to be staying here for a while. Be nice. And Winnie, this is Jonah. He makes shoes for our horses.”
“Horses need shoes?” I ask, widening my eyes and dropping my mouth open in mock surprise. Because while I did not, in fact, know what a farrier was until a few moments ago, I do know that horses need shoes. I’m not a complete ditz.
“Jesus Christ.” Jonah sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
“Jonah!” Candice says, her voice sharp. “Treat Winnie with respect or I will find another farrier. Winnie is going to move her car closer to the house, and then we’ll be out of your hair, okay?”
I scurry back to the car and do as Candice says, wanting to get away from Jonah the asshole as soon as possible. I move the car in front of the Wilson’s ranch house, and head inside with Candice and Nathan.
It looks exactly like I remember it: pine siding and worn, cozy furniture, floral curtains that Grandma Wilson must have put up in the eighties, and the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen.
Beau is sitting in the living room and tries and fails to hide his shock at seeing me, his mouth dropping open. “Win, it’s good to see you,” he recovers. “Glad you made it here alright.”
Suddenly, exhaustion hits me like a freight train. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been on the road all week, or maybe it’s that this place is so clearly a home. Something I don’t have anymore.
“You too.” I do my best to smile at Beau. “Candice? I’m going to take a nap, if that’s okay? I’ve done nothing but drive for the last five days, and I just want to sleep.”
“Of course,” Candice says. “You’re in the last room on the left.”
I walk down the hall and open the door to the bedroom, before realizing that I left everything in the car.
I don’t have my toothbrush or pajamas. I don’t have my burner phone, which is probably good because it means I can’t use it to google my name and see what comes up.
I’m sure the reaction to my social media post declaring that I was taking an indefinite hiatus caused quite the stir.
In the days leading up to my escape, I changed all my passwords and linked them to a new email address—I made it an address my parents will never, in their wildest dreams, be able to figure out.
So, I’m fairly confident that my accounts will be fine without me.
And if it’s not?
I’m not sure I care. I’m not Winsome Grant anymore. I’m whoever the hell I want to be.
With that thought, I crawl into bed and quickly fall asleep.