Right Kind of Ruin (Ruin Ridge Rebels #1)

Chapter 1

Juniper

Rain claws at the glass, each drop a cold reminder of everything I’ve tried and failed to outrun.

Today I’m going back to Ruin Ridge. Not by choice, though.

I’d sooner burn the place to ash than call it home.

But I’ve exhausted every option. The money’s gone, the fight’s gone, and whatever scraps of hope I clung to have rotted in my hands.

All that’s left is the hollow ache in my chest and the bitter knowledge that the town I hate will see me crawl back just like they said I would.

My hand finds the worn strap of my bag, and I sling it over my shoulder.

It’s lighter than it should be with a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush, but it might as well be a sack of bricks.

I don’t want to do this. God, I’d give anything not to.

Every cell in me wants to dig in my heels, to stay in this cramped, musty motel room another night just so I don’t have to face what’s waiting for me.

But I can’t. Not when the desk clerk will slap another night onto my bill, and I already owe more than I can cover.

At this point my bank account is a graveyard of overdrafts.

I tell myself I’m leaving because I have no choice, but the truth is uglier. I’m leaving because I failed to make it out there in the real world, failed to be someone worth more than the town’s gossip, and, worst of all, failed to prove I could live without that place clinging to me like a curse.

Closing the door behind me, I step out into the rain, the cold hitting me like a slap.

It doesn’t matter. Let it soak through my clothes, clinging to my skin.

I deserve worse. By the time I reach my car, I’m drenched to the bone, hair dripping, shoes squelching against the floorboard.

I slide into the driver’s seat with a hollow kind of detachment, moving like a machine.

My fingers tremble as I turn the key, whispering a prayer I stopped believing in long ago.

The engine sputters, coughs and then roars to life.

I don’t know if I should be thankful or curse my car.

I put it in gear and drive. The miles stretch out in front of me carved with memories I thought I’d buried deep enough to forget.

But they claw their way back the closer I get.

That rusted gas station sign where I first kissed Caleb Slade.

The gravel shoulder where I cried after cheer tryouts sophomore year.

That weather-beaten billboard welcoming me back to the town I swore I’d never see again.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and recoil.

Jesus. I used to be the girl everyone envied.

The golden girl. Ruin Ridge’s crown jewel.

Smiles in yearbook photos, sashes, tiaras, prom queen, rodeo princess, all of it.

My reflection used to sparkle. Bright blue eyes, silky blonde hair, and a smile that could melt tension on sight.

Boys tripped over themselves to get my attention.

Girls wanted to be me. And I drank it in like honey.

Now I barely recognize myself.

My once slender frame has thickened in places that used to be taut. I try not to care, but I do. God, I do. I’ve starved myself. Punished myself. Spent too much money on meal plans and detox teas and pills that made me jittery and numb. Nothing works. Nothing fixes this. Nothing fixes me.

The last doctor blamed my depression. Said the weight was a symptom, not the problem.

But maybe I’m the problem. Maybe this is just what happens when the light goes out and doesn’t come back on.

My eyes are dull. My hair hangs lifeless no matter how hard I tease it.

I used to know how to pose for a photo, how to walk into a room and make it mine.

Now I shrink back like a ghost hoping not to be seen.

There’s no beauty left in this body, no crown polished enough to distract from the cracks underneath.

I hate what I see. Hate how far I’ve fallen. Hate that I still care.

I know they’ll see it too. The weight. The wear. The shame etched into every inch of me. And I know they’ll talk. Whispers behind manicured hands. Pity behind painted-on smiles. But more than that, I know they’ll attack.

They always do.

Tears blur my vision as I pass the old church, its steeple slicing the sky like a knife.

I can still hear the hymns, feel the scratch of my Sunday dress, smell the cheap perfume of women who told me I was blessed while sharpening their gossip like daggers.

The sight of it is a final twist of the blade.

One last reminder of the girl who was crucified.

The rest of the drive is a slow, bitter bleed.

Thirty minutes of open land and dying memories.

The fence posts lean like they're tired of standing. The fields are overgrown, unloved. Everything feels like it’s decaying just like me.

When I finally turn onto the gravel road that leads to the ranch, the ache in my chest is a constant pulse.

But I’ve already cried. I’m already broken.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to put myself back together just enough to survive.

By the time I park in front of the house, my face is dry, my hands steady. I have to be. Whatever they’re saying in town is nothing compared to what’s waiting for me inside these walls. Honestly, I’m surprised they let me come home.

I get out of the car and grab my bag, coming to a stop in front of the door.

It’s just a door, but it feels like a gate to something colder than anything the outside world could throw at me.

My hand shakes when I ring the doorbell and wait, bracing for impact.

I’d never just walk in. We’re not that kind of family.

We never were. Because in this house, love was always a conditional thing.

And I’ve already failed every condition.

The door creaks open after a long pause, longer than it should take, like whoever’s inside had to debate whether I was even worth answering for.

And then there she is.

My mother.

Still dressed like she’s expecting company that never comes with her pressed slacks, a crisp blouse, and hair pinned back like time never touched her.

But it has. The lines on her face are deeper, her mouth thinner, more bitter.

Her eyes sweep over me in one sharp glance, and just like that, I’m eighteen again, standing on this porch after that night, praying she’ll just let me in.

She doesn’t smile. Instead, she steps back just enough to let me cross the threshold, like she’s doing me a favor. Like grace has an expiration date and mine is nearly up.

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” she says flatly.

No hug. No welcome home. Just an observation lined with judgment.

“I left early.” My voice comes out quieter than I meant.

I clear my throat and step inside. The air smells the same.

Lemon cleaner and cold judgment. She shuts the door behind me with a soft click that still manages to sound like a lock snapping into place.

Dad doesn’t come to greet me. He never does.

He’ll wait, probably in his chair, pretending not to care that I’m back, then blindside me later with something that cuts to the bone.

My bag feels ridiculous in my hand, especially when she glances at it like I’ve brought trash into her home.

“You can take the guest room,” she says. “You’ll have to make the bed yourself.”

Not my room. That’s gone. Painted over. Repurposed. Erased. Now it’s a guest room. Part of me hoped she would say I needed to stay in the loft above the barn, but that might draw attention if anyone in town stops by.

I nod and move down the hall, footsteps heavy, heart heavier.

Every picture on the wall is the same as I left it, except none of them include me after I fell from grace.

My old room—the now guest room— is cold and impersonal.

Just a bed, a dresser, curtains that don’t quite close right.

I wonder what they did with all my tiaras, sashes, and trophies from the beauty pageants they used to make me enter?

I shut the door behind me and stand there for a moment, suitcase in hand, spine straight. Then I exhale. And fold. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I bury my face in my hands. I’m not crying. Not yet. Just unraveling quietly because I made it back and I’m still breathing.

But part of me wishes I weren’t.

I don’t get to wallow for long. There’s a sharp rap at the door. Three precise knocks and then my mother’s voice, clipped and emotionless.

“Dinner is at six.”

Six. That gives me less than thirty minutes to pull myself together, as if anything about me could be put back into presentable shape in so little time.

I shuffle to the tiny bathroom and splash cold water on my face, watching droplets trail down skin that looks foreign under fluorescent light. I swipe some mascara under my eyes, pinch my cheeks, run my fingers through my limp hair. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

By the time I reach the dining room, the table is already set with clinical perfection.

Roast, green beans, mashed potatoes, and rolls in a wire basket lined with a cloth napkin.

The same meal we always had on “important” nights.

For a moment panic courses through me. What if they invited him over tonight…

I wouldn’t put it past them.

Dad’s at the head of the table, spine straight, fork in hand, already eating.

Mom sits to his right, slicing her food into surgical little bites.

Neither of them looks up. Neither acknowledge me.

I lower myself into the seat at the far end, the one that used to belong to me.

The scrape of the chair legs against the floor is loud but no one flinches.

No one speaks. The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. It always is.