Chapter 3
I spend one night back at Sam and Charlie’s place before I remember exactly why I left in the first place.
Which is how I find myself standing inside Knot and Spur the next afternoon, surrounded by rhinestone denim, locally made candles, and aggressive turquoise.
Sherry raises a perfectly drawn brow at me from behind the counter. “So you’re serious?”
“I’m sure,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate. “I need my own space. And I heard you’re renting the apartment upstairs.”
She tilts her head, like she’s reading between the lines. “Honey, I can use the extra money. If you want it, it’s yours.”
Relief rushes through me like a damn river breaking its banks.
“Yes,” I say, breathless. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
She grins. “Don’t thank me yet. That place still smells like patchouli and bad decisions from when my cousin lived up there.”
I laugh for the first time all day. “Great. And I love patchouli!”
We go over the details. When rent is due, where the spare key is hidden, if guests are allows. And then Sherry hands me a worn but solid set of keys. They feel like possibility in my hand.
I’m still grinning when I walk into Sam and Charlie’s house, practically floating.
But the second I step into the living room and see Will sitting on the couch cradling Sam Jr my smile slips right off my face.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Sam, are you busy today?”
He looks up, eyebrows rising. “No more than usual. What’s up?”
I take a deep breath, already feeling the weight of what I’m about to drop.
“I found a place in town,” I say carefully. “And I need help moving my things out.”
Silence.
The kind that feels dense. Like it eats sound. Even Sam Jr goes quiet, as if he can feel it.
Then Charlie bursts into tears.
Which, of course, sets Sam Jr off again.
I blink, stunned. “Um, sorry?”
Charlie covers her face, shaking her head as the tears keep coming.
“It’s me. I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “It’s the hormones. I just—I didn’t know you were really going.”
“I’m really going. But I’m not going far.” Then I pause. “Wait. Are you pregnant again?”
She nods, still crying.
Well, shit.
Sam smiles, warm and proud. “This is a big change, Phern. I’m proud of you.”
My own smile feels tight around the edges. “Well, sounds like you’re going to need the room.”
I glance at Will. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, still holding Sam Jr like the baby belongs there. And somehow, that is what breaks me a little.
I clear my throat. “So, I guess I’ll start packing and let you know what I’d like to take.”
Will finally speaks, but not to me. “Load it in my truck,” he says to Sam. “It’s got a bigger bed. And I know you’ve got hay to move this week.”
The words are practical. Helpful. Distant. Part of me hates that he won’t even look at me. But I get it. I made things weird last night.
Quietly, I slip from the living room. I doubt anyone notices.
No one ever really does.
When I reach my room, I stop in the doorway, taking it all in.
This is where I grew up. Where I had my first crush, who, ironically, is just down the hall.
Where I cried myself sick after my dad died.
Where I swore I’d never laugh again. So many big moments tucked into these four walls.
I exhale, long and slow, then start with the closet.
Luckily, thanks to Sam’s constant deliveries for the ranch, there are always boxes around.
I label each one as I go. Clothes, check. Books, next. Desk, knickknacks. Memories I can’t let go of, tucked between paperbacks and candles. The last thing I pack is my stack of cookbooks.
The apartment isn’t furnished. I’ll need a couch.
A table. Maybe a real coffee maker. Furniture for the kitchen and living room.
Things I’ve never had to buy before. But for the first time, it feels like a good kind of lonely.
Like I’m building something that’s mine.
Even if it’s just four empty walls and a box of cookbooks.
Three hours later, my bedroom furniture is officially moved into the apartment above Sherry’s store.
I’m standing in the middle of a very empty living room when I hear the rumble of Will’s truck fade down the street.
He didn’t say much as he helped Sam unload everything. Hardly spoke, really. He didn’t mention that you can see his apartment from my living room window, either, though I know he noticed. We both did. When everything was inside, he gave me a small, polite smile and then he left.
I exhale slowly, letting the silence wrap around me. It’s mine now. This space. This moment.
Pulling out my phone, I start browsing for furniture. A couch. A kitchen table. Maybe a secondhand armchair with character and questionable history. The essentials.
My parents left me a decent amount of money when they passed. Then there’s what I’ve saved working on the ranch. I’ve never had to dip into those funds before but now, as I scroll through price tags and delivery fees, I realize I’ll have to be careful. Or find a way to make more money coming in.
Adult problems.
I smile to myself. Tired, but proud.
This might not be where I thought I’d end up. But it’s mine.
That night, after unpacking just enough to find my favorite hoodie and a pan that isn’t dented, I make something simple. Buttered noodles with too much garlic and a sprinkle of parmesan. It's not fancy, but it tastes like comfort.
The apartment smells like patchouli and leftover store air, so I crack open a window. The breeze carries in a low hum of music from down the street. Probably from Will’s bar. I think I hear his voice once, laughing faintly over something, and I pause, hand wrapped around my mug of ginger tea.
My stomach flutters in the worst kind of way.
But I shake it off.
After dinner, I curl up on the floor with a blanket and scroll through my furniture cart. I delete half of it. Add two things. Delete them again.
This is freedom, and it’s terrifying.
Around ten, I shower and get into bed. I pull the covers up, let my hair dry against the pillow, and try to relax enough to sleep.
But, it’s hard. I’m not used to all the noises in town. Out on the ranch, it’s silent, except for my brother’s marital noises.
I’m just about to get up when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Will Flowers
You good over there?
I stare at the screen for a long second, thumb hovering.
Then I type back.
I am. Thanks for checking.
No problem, neighbor.
Ugh. Neighbor. That’s almost as bad as kiddo.
I wait to see if he’s going to text back. He doesn’t, so I put on a podcast and listen to it until I drift off to sleep.
The next morning, I check in with Olive. She’s staying at the only bed and breakfast in town. She says she and Liam are going out again tonight. Another date. I can’t tell if she’s excited or terrified. Maybe both. Before I can ask, her mom calls for her, and we hang up.
I stare at my phone for a minute after, then sigh.
I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Once upon a time, I had dreams and goals. Event went as far as enrolling in school in Chicago. After my dad passed, I came back and just stayed. Fell into the rhythm of the ranch. Became good at what was in front of me. But good isn’t the same as passion.
And passion? That was always writing. Journalism. Digging into stories and pulling the truth out from where it hides.
But there’s no market for that in Broken Heart Creek.
Will’s bar is basically where the town gets its news—birth announcements, breakups, gossip, politics, the whole damn spectrum filtered through pool tables and whiskey.
Still.
Maybe I’m not thinking big enough.
Broken Heart Creek is known for its annual rodeo festival in June. Thousands of people roll in from all over the state. There’s money. Eyes. Buzz. Maybe that’s where my voice fits.
The idea stirs something in me I haven’t felt in a long time.
I sit with it while I get dressed, tugging on jeans and boots with a bit more purpose than usual.
I’ve got plans to meet Liam at his place to go over some business stuff. Since Olive quit, I’ve been helping him manage things.
Liam’s already out in the barn when I pull up.
He’s scribbling notes on a feed inventory sheet, muttering under his breath, which is honestly very on-brand. I knock on the barn doorframe as I step inside, and he glances up.
“You’re on time,” he says. “That’s terrifying.”
I smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”
We go over the feed order, a new supplier contract, and a few other odds and ends. I’m halfway through updating the invoice spreadsheet when I clear my throat.
“There’s something I want to run by you.”
Liam looks up, wary. “Does it involve spending money?”
“Not yours.”
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued now. “Then shoot.”
I take a breath. “You know how the town rodeo’s coming up?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’s gonna be big this year.”
“Well,” I say slowly, “I’ve been thinking about starting a local newsletter. Or blog. Or something more longform. Not just gossip or schedules, but actual stories. History, interviews, behind-the-scenes stuff. People love this rodeo, but no one ever documents what goes into it.”
Liam frowns. “You want to write about cows?”
I give him a look. “No. I want to write about people. Cowboys. Contestants. The families who’ve worked this land for generations. The drama behind the arena. The heart of it all. I think there’s something real there. Something people would actually read.”
He studies me for a beat too long. “You’re serious about this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
Liam leans back against a post, arms crossed. “You always were the nosy one in the family.”
“And you always were the dramatic one. So it evens out.”
I pause, heart starting to race—not from nerves, but from the slow thrum of something that feels like purpose. “So would it be okay to interview some of the bull riders coming out this weekend?”