Chapter 1
ONE
OVER IT
VAL
Olivia hits a high note.
Mom’s arm suddenly swings across the center console of our ancient olive-green Volvo, the same one she drove in high school. The same one I drove to college. The same one I drove home . . . two weeks ago.
She yanks an earbud out. “Have you heard anything I’ve said, Valerie?”
A frustrated sigh slips out before I can stop it. I stare straight ahead, letting my loose red hair fall like a curtain between us. “Does it matter? It’s the same speech you’ve given every day since I got home.”
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. She blows a stray red hair from her face—a carbon-copy of the one clinging to mine. A flush creeps up her neck and into the claw clip holding her hair. Great. She’s mad now.
“Valerie, I don’t understand what happened. You were all set for sophomore year, and then out of nowhere, you drop out a month in. You come home—with a nose ring, mind you—and refuse to tell me anything.”
My fingers slide to the thin ring without thinking. The memory of getting it sparks a tiny smile. My first act of rebellion. My first act of choosing myself. A silver badge of freedom.
Mom’s voice steamrolls the thought. “I’ve tried to give you space, but you sit there with those headphones on, pretending you don’t have problems.”
“I’m not pretending,” I say, the words sharper than I meant. “I’m figuring things out. That takes more than two weeks, Ma.”
Is she angrier that I left . . . or that I won’t explain it?
I turn back to the window. Corn stretches forever, rows of green fading into the beige of late summer. They sway like they’re whispering secrets I’m not ready to hear. Their slow death feels familiar. Too familiar.
“You wouldn’t get it,” I say.
Her voice softens. “Try me.”
My chest knots like someone pulled a rope tight around it. How do I explain any of this? How do I tell her the future she pictured for me felt like a cage? That one morning I woke up and realized every choice I’d made—every class, club, perfect grade—belonged to her more than me?
She isn’t a bad mom. She’s the opposite. My anchor. My push. My reminder that we’ve always been “us against the world.” And everything I’ve done has been to make her proud. Even the doctor plan. Money, stability, success—all the things people said she never had.
But where did that leave me?
I’ve never had fun. Not real fun. I studied, planned, organized, excelled . . . all for the sake of proving to others I wouldn’t be like her. The girl who got pregnant at sixteen and dropped out of high school. The one people whispered about. The one who fought her way back anyway.
But what’s so wrong with her life?
She got her GED. She found work as a receptionist. She’s studying to be a dental hygienist now. She raised me alone, and she did it with grit I could only dream of. She’s badass. And I want to be a badass in my own way. Not the way everyone else thinks I should be.
Somewhere along the line, I let people convince me I had something to “prove.” That being different made me better. That chasing their idea of success made me special.
Well, fuck that. And fuck their opinions.
I’m done living a life scripted by everyone else.
The problem?
Now that I’ve torn the script apart, I don’t know what comes next.
Didn’t think that far ahead, did I?
Sure, Mom. Let’s have this heart-to-heart in the middle of nowhere. Perfect timing.
Maybe I can take another route?
“Statistically, around twenty-three percent of students don’t return for their second year, and thirty percent change their major within the first three.”
“You and your stats,” she grumbles and shakes her head. “Okay, but why not keep going until you figure it out?”
“I’m not going to school just to ‘figure it out.’ I’m not sitting in limbo while I try to untangle my whole life.”
“You already knew what you wanted.”
“No. You knew what I wanted. Not me.” Why is that so hard for her to see?
“So you’re going to, what, do random things until you ‘figure it out’?” She throws up air quotes like they personally offend her. “Like signing up to volunteer at Farmer Fred’s? You hated that festival growing up.”
She’s not wrong. Back then, it was just another thing I saw as a distraction from my studies. Plus, it was lame. All it had was a corn maze and baked goods. No real entertainment. But, maybe it can be better?
Farmer Fred’s Annual Pumpkin Spice Festival tanked years ago. I barely remembered it existed until I saw that sad little poster taped to a phone pole downtown. Volunteers needed. Revival event. One weekend only.
It felt easy. Low stakes. Something for me for once.
“I thought it’d be nice to do something for the community.” And get twelve blessed hours away from you.
She huffs. “Probably just to get away from me.”
“I mean . . . it’s a bonus.” I smirk.
She snorts. A real one. Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. Her breath leaves her in a long exhale, warm and heavy in the small space between us.
For a second, she stops being The Person I’m Letting Down and becomes my mom again.
We slip into silence. The car hums along until an old sign rises out of the fog like something from a bad horror flick.
FARMER FRED’S FANTASTIC FARM — FIVE MILES AHEAD
The letters peel and curl like they’ve tried to flee the wood and failed. A scarecrow slumps beside it, one arm torn halfway off, straw guts leaking like it’s been chewed on.
Fantastic feels generous. I can think of other F words for his farm.
Mom clears her throat. “You could still re-enroll next semester. Talk to your advisor—”
“Mom,” I groan, rubbing slow circles into my temples, “please.” A headache blooms right behind my eyes. Just swell.
“Then take this time to think about what you want to do with the rest of your life.”
Yeah, sure. I’ll figure out my entire future while hauling hay and scraping pumpkin guts off folding tables.
Jeepers, Farmer Fred. This hay bale unlocked my destiny. Ever thought about pivoting to a wellness retreat? The global retreat market’s projected to exceed 360 billion by 2032.
Maybe I should go into marketing?
Or business?
Nope. Hard pass.
Mom softens. “I just want the best for you, Valerie.”
So do I. “Shouldn’t the best thing for me also make me happy?”
She doesn’t answer. The car fills with the scents of pumpkin-spice coffee and disappointment. They go together weirdly well.
I shove my earbud back in and let the music swallow the tension in the air. The cornfields become my only company, mile after mile of rustling stalks and yellowing leaves.
My thoughts loop with every passing row.
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
WHAT. AM. I. GOING. TO. DO?