17. Mila
MILA
I'm curled up on my couch at my apartment, which I rarely go to now, laptop balanced on my knees, pretending to work on a branding proposal for a client in Bozeman.
Really, I'm staring at the screen thinking about how Luke's been acting lately—distant in ways so subtle I might be imagining them.
Little hesitations before he speaks. The way he watches me like he's memorizing details.
My phone buzzes. Unknown Helena number.
I almost don't answer, but muscle memory from years of client work makes me pick up.
"Hello?"
"Mila Torres?" The voice is familiar but takes me a second to place. "This is Vanessa Chen. We worked together at Patterson & Associates?"
My stomach drops. Vanessa. Senior designer, sharp as hell, one of the few people who didn't completely ghost me after the scandal.
"Vanessa. Hi." I sit up straighter, laptop sliding off my lap. "Wow, I haven't heard from you in?—"
"Almost a year, I know. I'm sorry about that." She sounds genuine. "Things were messy after everything went down. But listen, I'm calling with an actual opportunity, not just to catch up."
My heart starts beating faster. "Okay?"
"So you heard Patterson imploded, right? Like, spectacularly. Turns out the whole scandal thing went way deeper than anyone thought—the whole operation was basically a house of cards."
I didn't know. Haven't been following the city design news because looking backward felt too much like drowning.
"I didn't realize it was that bad."
"Complete meltdown. But the silver lining is a bunch of us who got out early—the ones who weren't involved in the shady shit—we've started something new.
Smaller firm, Helena-based, focused on ethical practices and transparency.
Revolutionary concepts, apparently." Her laugh is dry.
"Anyway, we're expanding faster than expected and we need a creative director. "
The words don't land right. Creative director. The position I was climbing toward before everything fell apart.
"That's... great," I manage. "Congratulations on the new firm."
"Mila, I'm offering you the job."
The apartment goes very still. Outside, I can hear traffic on Main Street, someone's dog barking, the normal sounds of a Wednesday afternoon. But inside my skull, everything's suddenly too loud.
"What?"
"Creative director position. Your own team, full benefits, salary that's honestly probably more than you were making at Patterson once you factor in cost of living differences.
We need someone with your vision and skill set, and frankly, you got completely screwed over last time.
You deserved better than being made into a scapegoat. "
My throat feels tight. "Vanessa, I?—"
"Before you say no, just hear me out. We've already got three major clients lined up—sustainable brands, local businesses looking to rebrand, couple of nonprofits. Exactly the kind of meaningful work you always said you wanted to be doing."
Work I wanted back in Helena. Two hours from here. Close enough that everything wouldn't disappear entirely, but far enough that everything would change.
"This is really unexpected," I say, because my brain has apparently forgotten how to form coherent thoughts.
"I know I'm springing it on you. But we're hoping to fill the position by the end of April, so I wanted to reach out now and give you time to think.
" She pauses. "Look, I know you've been doing freelance work.
And that's great, build your own thing, very entrepreneurial.
But this is a chance to prove everyone at Patterson wrong. Show them you didn't fail—they did."
Prove them wrong. Career redemption. Everything I thought I wanted when I first ran from the city with a bruised ego and a breaking heart.
So why does the thought make me want to throw up?
"Can I think about it?" My voice sounds strange, distant.
"Of course. I'll send you an email with all the details—salary breakdown, job description, our current client roster. Take a week or two, talk it over with whoever you need to talk to. Just let me know by the end of the month?"
"Yeah. Okay. End of the month."
"Great. Really hoping you'll consider this, Mila. You're exactly what we need."
We say goodbye, professional and warm, and I set my phone down on the coffee table very carefully. Like it might explode if I'm not gentle enough.
Then I just sit there.
Staring at my laptop screen, at the half-finished branding proposal, at the apartment that's somehow become comfortable over the past months despite every intention to keep it temporary.
Creative director. My own team. Salary and benefits and stability. The career path I was supposed to be on before the scandal blew up my entire life.
This is good news. This is great news. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I should be jumping at—vindication after being blamed for someone else's crimes, proof I didn't fail even though that's what it felt like for months.
So why do I feel sick?
My phone screen lights up with an email notification. Vanessa, already sending details like she's worried I'll disappear if she doesn't move fast.
I don't open it.
Instead, I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, making myself small on this secondhand couch in this quirky apartment above a feed store in a tiny Montana town I never planned to stay in.
Because now I have something to lose.
Before, when I first came here, I had nothing.
Broken engagement, dead career, relationship with my parents strained because they'd never understood why I chose design over something "practical.
" This place was supposed to be a reset button—hide out with Sadie, lick my wounds, figure out what came next.
Except I stopped hiding somewhere along the way.
I built something here. Not just the freelance work, though that's been surprisingly fulfilling—local businesses who actually appreciate creativity, projects that matter to real people instead of corporate machines.
But more than that. I built friendships.
Harper and Sadie dragging me to girls' nights where we drink too much wine and laugh until we can't breathe.
Sunday dinners at the ranch where Caleb pretends to be grumpy but always makes sure I have seconds.
Dean's rodeo stories and Wyatt's terrible jokes and Luke's quiet steadiness that somehow became the thing I look forward to most.
Luke.
My chest aches just thinking his name.
Luke, who's been acting strange lately. Watching me with this intensity that makes me feel seen and terrified all at once. Luke, who holds me at night like he's afraid I'll disappear. Luke, who never asks me to stay but looks at me sometimes like he's memorizing my face for when I'm gone.
Because he thinks I'm leaving. Has always thought I'm leaving.
And I've never corrected him.
All those comments about this town being a bubble, about real life being somewhere else, about this being temporary—I meant them when I said them. Or thought I did. They were protective armor, reminding myself not to get too attached to something that wasn't supposed to last.
Except I got attached anyway.
To this town, this life, these people. To waking up in Luke's cabin with morning light streaming through windows that overlook mountains.
To bringing him coffee and watching him slowly remember how to relax.
To feeling necessary and wanted and like maybe I'm not actually the disaster I convinced myself I was.
I got attached to belonging somewhere.
And now I have to decide if I'm willing to give that up for career redemption.
My laptop has gone dark, screen saver showing some generic mountain landscape I downloaded months ago. I should open Vanessa's email. Read the details. Make a pros and cons list like a rational adult instead of sitting here having what feels suspiciously like a panic attack.
Instead, I grab my phone and text Sadie.
Are you home? I need to talk.
The response comes within seconds.
Always. Come over. Bringing wine.
I should say no, should sit with this alone and think it through logically. But logic isn't working right now, and I need my best friend to tell me I'm not insane for feeling trapped by an opportunity most people would kill for.
I grab my coat—Luke's flannel that I've permanently stolen, soft and worn and smelling faintly of him—and my keys. The email from Vanessa sits unopened on my phone, marked with a little red flag like it's urgent.
End of the month, she'd said. A week or two to decide.
A week or two to figure out if the life I've accidentally built here is real, or just another temporary stop before I go back to chasing the career I thought defined me.
The April wind hits my face when I step outside, still cold but with an edge of spring trying to break through.
Main Street is quiet this time of day—a few trucks parked outside the hardware store, someone sweeping the sidewalk in front of the diner, normal small-town rhythms I've learned without meaning to.
I walk to my car, unlock it, slide behind the wheel.
And sit there for a long moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
Because this should be exciting. This should feel like winning.
Instead, it feels like being asked to choose between two versions of myself—the one I thought I was supposed to be, and the one I've accidentally become.
And I have absolutely no idea which one I want to keep.