26 | Stickin out
CLEMENTINE
The office feels bigger than it used to—glass walls looming over me as I pass them.
I used to love this place. The open food court in the middle, the fancy espresso machine, the think tanks with their walls plastered in inspirational artwork and half-finished brainstorms. Walking through here used to make me buzz with excitement.
Now it just feels… fast. And busy.
Phones ring, people talk, keyboards clatter. It’s like I’ve been living in a sensory deprivation tank and someone just dropped me into Times Square.
I plaster on a pleasant smile as I cross to my office, dodging my coworkers’ curious looks.
I barely make it to my desk before a voice calls my name.
“Clementine?”
I turn, forcing a polite smile as a woman in a sleek black pantsuit and heels approaches. “Allison—good to see you.”
She extends her hand, firm and polished. “You too. So sorry to make you come in during your vacation, but I didn’t want you to miss this opportunity. Come on in.”
She leads me to one of the glass conference rooms across the food court. My heels click against the tile, and I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall—subtle makeup, crisp blouse, perfect posture.
I look like I belong here, but it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
Allison gestures to a chair. “We’ve been really looking forward to this, Clementine. Your work with Harper Dunn was exceptional—everyone I’ve spoken to has sung your praises.”
I smile automatically, fingers tightening around the folder in my lap. “That’s really kind of you to say.”
She leans back, her pen poised. “Tell me—what inspired you to apply for the head editor position?”
My mouth opens before my brain catches up. “Oh, I—well, I didn’t actually apply. Someone reached out.”
She laughs, not unkindly. “Even better. That means you’re in demand.”
Right. In demand. Something twists inside my chest.
“I’ve always loved working closely with writers,” I say, my voice on autopilot. “Helping them refine their voice, polish their stories, bring them to life.”
Allison nods along, tapping her pen. “Exactly what we’re looking for. It’s a fast-paced environment, of course. Mostly in-office, with some flexibility once you’re established.”
There it is—the punch to the gut.
I nod, forcing a pleasant tone. “Of course.”
She keeps talking—about budgets, deadlines, leadership strategies—but her voice starts to blur.
My mind drifts back to Colt. The way he sets every fibre of my being ablaze with a single smirk. The way tugs me closer and nuzzles my neck in his sleep. The way he asked, “You sure you wanna go, darlin’?” when he dropped me off this morning.
I wasn’t sure then. I’m even less sure now.
“Clementine?”
I blink. “Sorry—what was that?”
Allison’s smile doesn’t falter. “I asked what kind of work culture motivates you.”
My chest tightens. “Uh—collaboration, I guess. Working together toward shared goals.”
It sounds hollow, even to me. Allison appears unfazed, and continues the interview as if I didn’t just gave her the world’s most basic answer.
By the time I walk out half an hour later, my feet ache, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my head is spinning. The sun glints off a skyscraper—sharp, white light that makes me squint.
The city is loud—horns, chatter, someone arguing on their phone—and I have to fight the urge to cover my ears. I remember feeling like this when I first moved here. I just didn’t expect it to feel so foreign again so fast.
I pull out my phone. There’s one new text from Colt. I got his number after the lamb incident, never wanting to feel that sense of helplessness again. Never wanting to not be able to reach him again.
Colton: How did it go, sweetheart?
My throat tightens. I start typing something casual, but I can’t make myself hit send.
I slip the phone back into my bag and start walking.
----
I push open my apartment door to find Devin and Savannah sprawled on the couch, flipping through magazines. They both straighten immediately.
“How’d it go?”
I kick off my heels and drop between them. “Fluke.”
“Oh noooo,” Devin groans, looping their arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Nerves?”
I shake my head, numb. “I wasn’t even nervous. I just couldn’t… play the part. I felt so out of place—like I didn’t belong there anymore.”
Devin nods solemnly. “Classic imposter syndrome.”
I sigh, burying my face in my hands.
Savannah squeezes my knee. “So, when you were there, did you want it?”
I look up, frowning. “What do you mean?”
She tilts her head. “I know it was your dream job, but sitting there… Was it everything you thought it’d be?”
I let that settle. Then shake my head. “No.”
Savannah lets go of my knee and stands, glancing at Devin. “This one’s on you. I’m too biased to help her figure this out—I want her home.” She disappears into my room.
Devin grins. “Bold of her to assume I don’t want you home. This home.”
I rub my temples. “I don’t know what to do, Dev. I can’t make this decision on my own. I don’t want to throw everything I’ve built away for…”
“A guy?”
A lump forms in my throat. I can’t even answer.
Devin’s grin fades. “It’s not just a guy, is it?”
I study their face, words tumbling in my head. “Actually—no, it’s not just a guy. He isn’t just a guy. But I don’t even know if it’s just him I’d be giving this up for.”
Devin raises their brows. “What do you mean?”
I exhale, eyes unfocusing as my mind drifts back—quiet nights and glittering stars, creek swimming with my cousins, getting roped into cooking with Mama, the soft push of a calf’s nose against my palm.
That feeling of belonging so deep it rooted itself in my bones.
Devin slaps their palms against their knees and stands. “Well, guess I better find a new roommate fast. Can’t afford rent on my own.”
“Dev…”
They wave me off. “That look in your eyes, Clem—that tells me everything you won’t say out loud.”
They pause in the doorway. “Want me to stay with you when you call your dad?”
My heart twists. Right. Dad.
I shake my head slowly. “I think this conversation requires a visit.”
Devin nods, soft and knowing. “I’m proud of you, Clem.”
And then they’re gone.
And that’s when the tears come—slow at first, then all at once.
----
Dad’s house smells familiar and foreign all at once. The scent of rosemary chicken hangs in the air—Mom’s favorite. It’s Marlene’s recipe, though, so it’s not quite one-to-one, but I still appreciate the gesture.
We’ve always had a good relationship, which isn’t necessarily a given.
She came into my life just a year after Mom died, with two young sons from a previous marriage.
I could’ve blamed them for stealing the attention away from me.
Could’ve blamed her for whisking us away from everything I’d ever known.
But I didn’t. I saw the way Dad flourished, especially after we moved to the city. I saw how two broken people took what was left of themselves and pieced it together to make something whole. My stepbrothers—although annoying at times—turned out to be pretty sweet, too.
Savannah tugs off her coat beside me, flashing that cheeky grin. “I bet she made pecan pie, too. She goes all out when you visit. I’m just happy I get to tag along.”
“That makes two of us,” I murmur, straightening my skirt.
The sound of clinking dishes and soft music filters in from the kitchen. Marlene appears with a wineglass in hand and her usual bright smile. “Clementine! Honey, you look wonderful. It’s been too long.”
My stepbrothers—both lanky and sunburned from their vacation—pop their heads up from the table. “Hey,” they mumble in unison before going right back to their phones.
I grin at them. “Hey, guys. Missed you.”
Dad comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “There’s my girl.” His voice is warm, proud. He wraps me in a hug that smells like thyme and aftershave. “I can’t wait to hear how your interview went.”
“Can’t wait to tell you,” I lie, trying not to sound nervous.
Dad turns to Savannah and hugs her too. “And my favorite niece,” he murmurs. “God, you look more and more like your mom every day.” There’s a fragile edge to his words. Savannah does look like her mom—which means she looks like my mom too, more than I ever did.
“I’m your only niece,” Savannah counters. “And if you cry on my shoulder, I’m gonna cry right back. And I’m like fifty percent strawberry daiquiri right now—pretty sure my tears will stain.”
Dad lets her go, smiling watery. “I’ve made enough roast potatoes to soak up all the alcohol.”
She sighs, relieved, plopping into a chair. “You’re a saint.”
Dinner feels… comfortable. The food’s good, the wine’s better, and Savannah keeps everyone laughing with her wild honeymoon stories. Marlene blushes when she jokes about the “perks of marriage,” and Dad keeps sneaking me those little fatherly glances—the ones that used to make me feel safe.
But I’ve been pushing potatoes around my plate for the past ten minutes.
Because I can’t stop thinking about Colton. About the ranch. About how I’m sitting here surrounded by people who mean well but still have no idea who I’ve been turning into these past few weeks.
Or maybe I’m just coming back to who I’ve always been.
When dessert comes out—Marlene’s pecan pie indeed, still warm—I manage one bite before setting my fork down. My stomach’s in knots.
Dad catches it instantly. He leans back, folding his napkin, those sharp blue eyes narrowing. “You okay, Clem?”
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just full.”
Savannah stretches and stands. “Alright, I’ll help Marlene with the dishes.”
Marlene clocks what she’s trying to say and rises too. “Boys, clear the table, please.”
In minutes, it’s just me and Dad. The old clock on the mantel ticks loud in the silence, every second landing heavier than the last.
Finally, I take a deep breath, my palms hot against the fabric of my skirt. “Alright, Daddy, there’s something I need to get off my chest.”
----
How do we think Dad will take the news? ??