ELLIE
One thing I loved about living with my parents—aside from the comfort of home—was waking up to my mom’s cooking. Every morning when they were here, she made me breakfast. But more than the food, it was the quiet moments we shared over coffee and eggs that I cherished.
Since retiring, my parents had taken to either nesting around the house or adventuring across the country in their RV like a pair of carefree teenagers. They deserved it. After years of working tirelessly to provide for Boone and me, they’d earned every ounce of freedom.
This morning, my mom scooped a generous helping of scrambled eggs onto my plate. She followed with two thick slices of her famous French toast, golden and cinnamon-sweet. My mouth watered at the sight.
I rubbed my hands together in anticipation, then reached out with a dramatic gimme motion.
She laughed, the sound warm and familiar, before handing over my plate and grabbing her own to sit with me.
“What does my favorite daughter have on her agenda today?” she asked, lifting her mug of hot tea and gently blowing across the liquid.
I forked a bite of eggs into my mouth and chewed thoughtfully before replying. “Working at the shop all day, then Logan’s swinging by later. We’re grabbing dinner.”
Logan was one of Boone’s best friends and someone who had been a constant presence in my life since we were kids. Boone and his crew were all older than us, so Logan and I had naturally gravitated toward each other, finding our own bond in the margins of their world.
He didn’t have much of a family to lean on growing up, so Cassidy Ranch became his refuge. We grew up together. Ate together. Celebrated holidays together. Got into some light trouble together. He was as much a part of us as the land itself.
“And what about my favorite mother?” I asked with a grin, echoing her question. “What’s on her agenda today?”
She took a long, slow sip of her tea, then set the cup down with a little sigh.
“Well, your father’s going with Boone to pick up the new horse, so I’ve got the house to myself.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “I’m hoping to get some gardening done… in peace.”
“I can’t wait to see what artistic creation you come up with this time.” I smiled as I sipped the last of my orange juice.
Mid-summer in Texas brought the kind of heat that pressed against your skin like a weighted blanket, and the dry air sucked every bit of moisture from the ground. But somehow, my mom thrived in it.
Being a teacher meant her free time had always been during the summer, so the heat did little to her. She spent every sunlit hour elbow-deep in soil, hands covered in earth, absolutely glowing.
She was a wizard at landscaping—turning bare patches of yard into vibrant works of art.
It was because of her that I fell in love with flowers in the first place.
But I preferred my blooms inside, thank you very much. Give me air-conditioning and the delicate work of floral design over sweating in the sun any day.
“You should see the zinnias I’ve got to plant,” my mom said, her eyes lighting up. “They’re stunning. Bold and bright, the oranges and pinks just sing in the sun. I’m thinking about pairing them with some red yucca… give the whole bed a pop of warmth.”
Her voice trailed off, dreamy and distant as if she could already see the finished garden in her mind. I laughed softly, shaking my head.
Talking to her always felt like talking to a version of myself. It was probably why we had the relationship we did—we were cut from the same cloth.
Before my identity crisis that resulted in bottle-blond hair, we were nearly identical in looks—long brown hair, soft features, and limbs just slightly too long for our frames. People always said I was her mirror image, and I used to brush it off. But now, I would wear it as a badge of honor.
We spent the next few minutes chatting about her latest vision—though we both knew it would likely change the moment she stepped outside and got dirty.
When I finished breakfast, I rose from my chair, carried my dish to the sink, and pressed a loud, grateful kiss to her cheek. I was ready to start my workday, feeling semi-refreshed and partly prepared for whatever the day had in store.
I pulled up to Petal Pusher, belly full and clinging to what optimism I had left. But the second I saw a car parked in my spot, it all vanished.
With a frustrated sigh, my head tilted back against the seat, and I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
Every. Single. Morning. I parked in the side alley beside the store, out of the way, off the main road, so I could leave the best spots open for customers. It was a simple system, respectful. But today, that unspoken code had been broken. A sleek black Mercedes sat where my truck should be.
I had to keep driving, cruising past the shop and down Main Street until I could find another space.
The farther I drove from Petal Pusher, the more my irritation swelled. Was there some big event happening in town I didn’t know about? Faircloud felt like it had been taken over. Every curb was full.
No wonder Mrs. Winchester had been so fired up about Mr. Fringle taking her spot yesterday. Now that it happened to me, I could relate. However, the label “sociopath” still seemed a bit dramatic.
I knew exactly whose Mercedes that was. No one in Faircloud drove a luxury car like that. Not unless they were new, loud, and trying too hard to prove something.
Miles—the fancy city chef.
I imagined egging his car. Maybe wrapping it in toilet paper—just enough to send a message.
But the thought of that level of petty brought more exhaustion than satisfaction.
Drawing attention to myself would only fan the flames of small-town gossip.
A twenty-something woman vandalizing a car because of a parking spot? Yeah, that would go over well.
Still, my anger simmered just beneath my skin, hot and sharp. And the fact I still couldn’t find a damn place to park only made it worse.
I wanted to love this town again. I wanted to feel grounded here, proud of the place where I’d planted roots. But with everything, my patience had been worn down to threads. Nothing felt right. I couldn’t find my footing no matter how hard I tried.
Maybe I came home too soon. Maybe coming back at all was a mistake because every time I thought I could handle the way I felt about this town, little things like this set me off.
A scream ripped out of me—raw and harsh and entirely unplanned. The sound echoed inside the cab of my truck, cutting through the morning air like a blade. I was this angry over a parking spot?
What the hell was wrong with me?
The thought hit hard, and with it came a rush of emotion I couldn’t stop. A single tear slipped down my cheek, then another. This wasn’t about the car. Or the spot. It was everything, piled up and weighing down on me like a boulder I couldn’t lift.
I needed a second. Just one. To breathe. To stop crashing out.
The shop could wait. I was early anyway.
I looped down a side alley and turned toward the old baseball field, parking where no one could see me. It was early enough that the field was still and quiet, the way I needed it to be. I killed the engine and let the silence settle around me.
Bringing my legs up, I tucked them close to my chest. I wrapped my arms around them as I rested my head on my knees. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing.
In for four.
Out for four.
I felt irrational—unhinged, even—but the anger twisting inside me wasn’t just about a parking spot. That was surface-level. Beneath it was a storm.
Hurt.
Shame.
Sadness.
Anxiety.
Disrespect.
Anger was just the sharp tip of the iceberg; underneath floated the weight of much more. I sat with it, letting it settle and sting, forcing myself to name each emotion so it couldn’t sneak back into the shadows.
How was I supposed to heal in the very place I’d been cracked open?
Sure, I was fine around my friends. I laughed with my family. But in the in-between moments—at the coffee shop, in the grocery store, walking downtown—I felt exposed as if the whole town still saw me as that girl.
The one who had been too na?ve, too in love, too blind to notice her boyfriend was cheating.
Did they still whisper about me when I passed by? Did my name taste like gossip on their tongues?
I felt exposed.
I often wondered why I cared so much about people's perceptions. Why couldn’t I let it go and move on as a normal person would?
I hoped one day I could, but what would it take?
Healing only works in safe places. And deep down, I didn’t know if Faircloud was the safety I needed.
But it had to be. Because this was my home. The people I loved were here. My roots—tangled and stubborn—ran deep in this soil. And if I couldn’t find peace here… then what?
I sat for a few minutes, watching the mountain peaks in the distance, their blue silhouettes brushing against the wide Texas sky. I searched for clarity, for a sense of belonging. I tried to remind myself why I loved this town—really loved it.
The cozy, close-knit feelings.
The memories I created here with my family.
Logan.
But the list was shorter than I expected. These days, it felt like Faircloud gave me more reasons to ache than to smile.
When the edge of my anger finally dulled to a quiet hum, I started my truck and headed toward Petal Pusher. As I pulled onto Main Street, a spot opened up across from the shop, as if it had been waiting just for me.
I parked, turned off the engine, and glanced over at his car still sitting in my spot.
I could’ve keyed it. Slashed a tire. Found some other way for a petty little win.
But I didn’t.
Let him have it today.
Some battles weren’t worth fighting—not when I was still trying to win the war inside myself, the one I didn’t know if I could keep fighting on my own.