19. Mila
MILA
The first box I pack contains my design books—the heavy hardcovers I've collected since college, all those glossy pages full of color theory and typography that used to make me feel inspired.
Now they just feel like evidence of a life I thought I'd have.
I stack them carefully, spine to spine, creating order where everything inside me feels chaotic.
My apartment looks exactly like it did months ago when I first moved in, before I started sleeping at Luke's cabin most nights. Before I left half my wardrobe in his closet and my toothbrush in his bathroom and pieces of myself scattered through his space like I belonged there.
Temporary. It was always supposed to be temporary.
I shove another stack of books into the box, not bothering to arrange them neatly this time. My hands are steady even though my chest feels like it's caving in, like someone's carved out everything vital and left me hollow.
He told me to go.
Not just encouraged me to take the job—he actively told me to leave. Don't think about anything here. This is your career, your future. Like I was some obligation he'd been carrying, some responsibility he could finally set down now that I had somewhere else to be.
Maybe I was.
The thought makes my throat tight but I push through it, taping the box shut with more force than necessary.
I've spent months convincing myself this place was temporary, that I was just taking a break from real life, that eventually I'd go back to the world I understood.
Apparently Luke believed me. Believed it so thoroughly he couldn't wait to send me back.
I move to the kitchen, pulling mugs from cabinets I barely use anymore.
Most of my kitchen stuff has migrated to Luke's cabin over the months—my favorite spatula, the good cutting board, the French press I brought from the city that makes better coffee than his ancient drip machine.
I'll have to get all that back before I leave.
Before I leave.
The words feel surreal even though I'm literally packing boxes right now, creating physical evidence of departure.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Harper's name lights up the screen.
Harper: haven't seen you in days!! coffee tomorrow?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to respond. How to tell her I'm leaving without having to explain why, without having to admit that Luke looked at me last night like I was a problem finally solved.
Mila: can't tomorrow. packing. rain check?
The three dots appear immediately.
Harper: PACKING?? for what??
I set the phone down without answering, wrapping coffee mugs in newspaper that I definitely don't remember buying.
I never should have unpacked but somewhere between my job at the ranch and my nights with Luke, I had wanted to make this place home.
My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from the last time I packed up my life in Helena, fleeing a scandal I didn't cause and a relationship that never quite fit.
History repeating itself, apparently.
Except this time it's worse because Helena never felt like home. My apartment there was just a place I slept between work projects and social obligations that drained me. My relationship with my ex was comfortable but never consuming, never the kind of thing that made me forget to be careful.
Luke made me forget to be careful.
I let myself believe this could be permanent.
That the ranch and the mountains and the impossibly quiet mornings could be my life instead of just an interlude.
I stopped calling it temporary in my head even though I kept saying the words out loud, like if I didn't admit I wanted to stay then it wouldn't hurt when I had to leave.
Too late for that now.
Another box filled, this one with kitchen stuff I haven't touched in months. I'm creating an entire apartment's worth of belongings from things I forgot I owned, assembling evidence that I was never really settled here in the first place.
My phone buzzes again. Then again. Harper's not giving up, which means she's probably already texted Sadie, which means I'm going to have to face both of them eventually and explain why I'm running away from the best thing that's happened to me in years.
Or maybe not the best thing, since apparently I was just a convenient arrangement for Luke until something better came along. Until he could send me off to Helena with his blessing and go back to his carefully controlled life without chaos cluttering up his cabin.
I told myself I was too much for him. Too messy, too intense, too everything that makes people tired after a while. Looks like I was right.
The apartment's radiator clangs, startling me out of thoughts that are spiraling darker. I check my phone—it's past two already, hours lost to packing and not-thinking-about-Luke that's really just thinking-about-Luke-constantly.
Mila: happy hour tonight? I have news
I send it to both Harper and Sadie before I can reconsider, because if I'm doing this—if I'm actually leaving—then I need to start saying it out loud. Making it real instead of this terrible hypothetical that's crushing my chest.
Sadie responds first.
Sadie: NEWS??? yes absolutely. 5pm at Red's?
Harper: I'll be there!! are you okay??
Mila: I'm fine. see you at 5
I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. But I've gotten very good at pretending over the years, at smiling through things that hurt and acting like I'm not falling apart inside.
This should be easy.
Red's is quiet when I arrive at five, the after-work crowd still trickling in.
The bar sits on Main Street in a building that was probably something else fifty years ago—feed store maybe, or general goods.
Now it's all dark wood and neon beer signs and the faint smell of fryer grease that somehow feels comforting.
I claim a corner booth and order a beer I don't really want, just to have something to do with my hands.
Harper arrives first, sliding into the booth with her usual energy but her eyes sharp with concern. She's wearing one of Caleb's old ranch jackets that swallows her frame, hair pulled back in a messy bun, looking more Montana than Chicago these days.
"Okay, spill. What's going on? Why are you packing?"
Before I can answer, Sadie appears, dropping into the seat beside Harper. Her blonde hair is windblown, cheeks pink from cold, dressed in work clothes that suggest she came straight from whatever project she's managing this week.
"Someone better start talking because Harper's been texting me panicked messages for the past three hours."
The server comes by and they both order—whiskey for Sadie, wine for Harper—and then they're both staring at me expectantly, waiting for whatever news I've built up in their heads.
I take a long pull of my beer, buying time I don't actually need because I've been rehearsing this all afternoon. Making it sound good, making it sound like a choice instead of an escape.
"I got a job offer." The words come out steadier than I expected. "Creative director position in Helena. Really good firm, people I used to work with who left Patterson after everything blew up. It's exactly the kind of opportunity I lost when the scandal happened."
Silence. Harper and Sadie exchange a look I can't quite read, some wordless communication that comes from years of friendship.
"That's..." Harper starts, then stops. "That's amazing, Mila. Creative director—that's huge."
Her tone doesn't match the words. She sounds confused, cautious, like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Helena?" Sadie's expression is carefully neutral. "Two hours away."
"Right. Close enough to visit, far enough for a fresh start." I'm parroting Luke's words from last night without meaning to, the phrases that felt like knives when he said them. "Good city. I'd like it there."
Another look passes between them, sharper this time.
"I thought things were going well," Sadie says slowly. "With you and Luke. With you here generally."
The beer suddenly tastes bitter. I set it down, focusing on the condensation ring it leaves on the wooden table.
"They were. Are. It's just—this is a really good opportunity. Career-wise, I mean. The kind of position I've been working toward for years."
"But you're happy here." Harper's voice is gentle, probing. "You love working at the ranch. You and Luke?—"
"Luke thinks I should take it." The words come out too fast, too defensive.
I force myself to slow down, to smile like this doesn't feel like my heart being ripped out.
"He's right. This was always supposed to be temporary, you know?
This town was just a break from real life.
Time to figure things out. And now I have, so it makes sense to go back. "
"Go back." Sadie's tone is flat. "To what, exactly?"
"To my career. To the life I had before everything fell apart.
" I'm gripping my beer bottle too hard, knuckles white.
"I can't just—I can't stay here forever doing administrative work that was supposed to be a few weeks of help.
I have actual skills, actual ambitions. This is what I've been working toward. "
It sounds logical when I say it like that. Rational. Like accepting the job is the mature decision instead of running away from feelings that got too big too fast.
Except I haven't actually accepted it yet. Haven't called Vanessa back, haven't signed anything, haven't committed to the future that supposedly makes so much sense.
Harper's watching me with those expressive eyes that see too much. "Did Luke actually say you should go?"
"Yes." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "He said I should do what's best for me. That I deserve a real career, not just?—"
I stop, throat closing around words I can't quite say. Not just killing time with him. Not just playing house in his cabin. Not just pretending I belonged there when we both knew I was always leaving.
"Not just what?" Sadie presses.