Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sierra
By the time I get back to my room, the Banger Sisters crew has everything spread out and the floor looks like a scrapbook factory detonated. Photos, ticket stubs, ripped notebook pages, and at least four empty cocoa mugs litter every surface.
The shoebox hits the quilt with the soft thud of something heavier than cardboard. Emotional weight. Historical weight. The kind you try not to think about until you’re ripping it all open in front of four women you trust with your life.
Charlie whistles low. “Damn, girl. That’s not a box. That’s an archive.”
“It’s a shrine,” Holly corrects, scooting closer. “Your personal Smithsonian of ‘Oh No I Have Feelings’.”
Eve flops onto her stomach and pulls a label maker from her tote like she’s arming herself. “I brought organization tools. Don’t judge me. I like order in my chaos.”
Dixie kicks the door shut and sets down the other two shoeboxes she insisted on carrying. “And I brought snacks, because this?” She gestures at the spread. “This feels like a group project powered by sugar and tears.”
My pulse thrums under my skin. The snowstorm outside lashes the windows, wind whistling across the old glass. We’re technically trapped—but I’ve never felt less stuck in my life.
Charlie holds up a crinkled slip of paper. “Yeah, babe. This is a man you never got over. Exhibit A: this note literally says ‘don’t forget how he looked at you today.’” She pauses. “We already know how he looked at you today, and you’re still trying to breathe normally.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “We are not discussing my respiratory patterns.”
“Oh, we are,” Eve deadpans. “We’re discussing everything. This is group therapy with scissors.”
Dixie lifts a photo of Everett laughing, head tipped back, shirt half untucked. “Okay but like… were you TRYING to emotionally torture yourself? This is criminally pretty.”
“I took that during the fall festival setup,” I mutter.
Charlie gasps. “So the year you almost fell off a ladder and he caught you by the belt loop?”
“That’s unrelated.”
They all give me the same unconvinced look.
“Fine,” I groan. “It’s maybe slightly related.”
“Oh honey,” Holly says gently. “All of this is related.”
She gestures to the sea of memories across the carpet—years of little confessions I kept tucked away for safety, and now I’m about to hang them on a wall and call it heritage.
My chest squeezes.
Dixie holds up a print and stares at it like it's proof of extraterrestrial life. “Jesus. Look at his stupid face. Man was genetically engineered to ruin women.”
Charlie snorts. “Heartthrob bones.”
“You’re damn right,” Dixie says.
Eve lifts a photo of Everett leaning against the North Ridge sign. “This was the winter his dad broke his wrist, right? Everett got his first chance to get a taste of running things, right?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah. That’s how I got the shot.”
Holly digs into the box and pulls out a folded scrap of paper. “This looks…dangerously like a diary entry.”
“Oh God,” I whisper, too late.
She unfolds it.
It’s my handwriting. Messy. Smudged. Sixteen-year-old catastrophe.
If he kisses me tonight, I’m not going to survive it.
Holly gasps. “Yeah, I knew you had pics with notes… but I didn’t realize you were having full-blown emotional episodes in cursive.”
“I—shut up.”
Charlie picks up another scrap. “He’s going to break me in half one day and I’m going to thank him. Damn, Sierra. No wonder the darkroom was biblical.”
My face burns. “These were PRIVATE.”
“And now they’re décor,” Dixie says, tossing it into the “maybe hang this” pile.
Eve shakes her head, smiling softly. “Tonight isn’t about protecting your secrets. It’s about telling the truth. Even the feral teenage ones.”
Before I can respond, My phone buzzes on the quilt.
Not Everett.
Shelly Morgan.
Relief slams through me and blow out a breath when I see her message.
“You reached out,” she says softly.
“I did,” I whisper. “Last night. I asked her if…”
I swallow hard. “If she thought Bruce might want to come to the heritage walk.”
Charlie leans in. “Shelly’s a badass. I adore her. She’s giving big Grammie Bea energy.”
Holly nods. “Warm, loving, and absolutely capable of dragging someone by the ear if needed.”
Eve adds, “Honestly? I’d trust Shelly to run the county in a crisis.”
Dixie lifts her mug. “Shelly for President.”
“I just… I want Bruce to see Everett the way we see him. Not overwhelmed. Not scrambling. Just… settled. Rooted. Capable. Loved.” I swallow hard.
“If he can stand in that room tonight and see the lodge thriving and Everett steady in the middle of it… maybe something will shift. Maybe they can start fixing what broke.”
No one jokes this time.
Even Dixie stays quiet.
Then Charlie slips an arm around my shoulders. “Okay. Emotional moment logged. Now—where do we want the pictures that make him look like a rugged broody fairy-tale lumberjack?”
Eve lifts a pen. “Preferably not next to the ones where he’s seventeen and looks like a malnourished string bean.”
“He had potential,” I defend weakly.
Dixie snorts. “He had a metabolism that could commit crimes.”
They start laying photos out across the long table, grouping them by year, by mood, by how feral I must have been for him during each era.
Charlie waves a Polaroid. “This goes in the ‘sweet enough to ruin you’ section.”
Holly holds up a candid of Everett teaching a little kid to tie a boot. “And this one—this goes where he can’t miss it.”
Eve calls from the far wall, “I need two more verticals for the ‘you were never subtle’ column.”
I bury my face in my hands. “This is going to be on TV. God.”
Charlie pats my knee. “Yeah, and that’s why it has to be honest. If the world’s going to see something, it should be the truth.”
Holly folds a photo gently, her voice soft. “You’re not doing this for TV. You’re doing it for him. And finally, you’re doing something for you.”
Charlie grins. “So chin up, babe. If this is going to be immortalized on national television, at least it’ll be the good part.”
Dixie stands with her hands on her hips. “Alright, ladies. Feelings processed. Crisis addressed. Where do we want the thirst traps?”
I point to the far right panel. “There. But tasteful thirst.”
Dixie cackles. “Baby, nothing about this is tasteful.”
And somehow, that’s exactly right.