Chapter 1 #2
I, however, lie awake with the ceiling sneering at me, torn between worshipping her reckless freedom and wanting to call her at 2 a.m. to scream into the phone, “Spill your secrets, you glorious witch!” until she finally tells me how the hell she makes it look so damn easy.
I am a constant analyzer of where I’ve gone wrong.
“No, I’m serious.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Your thirty-ninth birthday is in just over a week, and I refuse to let your last few days of thirty-eight slip by in domestic monotony.” She tilts her head at me. “And you, my dear, have not been out past 7 p.m. in—”
“God knows how long,” I finish for her, sighing.
“Exactly.” She lets satisfaction curl her lips. “So, we’re going out. Tonight. Andrew’s coming to pick up Bash soon, right?”
I glance toward the office where Bash is still glued to his tablet. “Yeah, any minute now.”
“Perfect. No excuses.” She claps her hands together. “We’ll get a drink, listen to some music, maybe even flirt with strangers if you’re feeling frisky.”
“You think I remember how to do that?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s funny. I haven’t touched a drink in so long, I’ll probably be shit-faced after one and picked up any man that can hold three seconds of eye contact.”
Demi waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Drinking and flirting are like riding a bike. You never forget, you just are a little wobbly at first. Plus, you’ll be a cheap date.”
I tell myself I long for the simple life.
Lower expenses, nothing flashy. Just enough space to breathe, to work, to be.
To step outside and hear cicadas chitter in the heat, to know the stories behind the creaky wood floors and the chipped porcelain sink in my kitchen.
No grand expectations. No risk of failure.
Just a quiet, comfortable life where no one asks what the hell I’m doing with it.
Or if I’m ever going to get married. That, in itself, is a palm to the face.
Is that longing or retreat? Am I stepping into something new, or slipping away from the person I used to be?
The ambition that once burned like a wildfire has softened into embers banked beneath the surface.
It might be growth, or I just stopped trying.
Maybe I found peace or simply found a place to disappear.
Disappearing sounds suspiciously easy these days.
This is what it is—not dust drifting across afternoon light filtering through my old windows, not the quiet thrum of a smaller life—but me, learning to rest. Soft, steady… enough.
No more chasing.
No more proving.
No more trying to fix what never wanted to be fixed.
I shake my head, but the idea of being out, of being something other than just Mom or business owner for a few hours, feels oddly appealing.
Demi smirks, reading my hesitation as a win. “Come on, Sable Hawthorne. Let’s be reckless. Or, you know, as reckless as two women approaching forty can be on a Friday night. Bash will be gone for the weekend; in mostly safe hands with Andrew—”
“Andrew would never let anything happen to him,” I correct.
She waves a dismissive hand over my incessant need to still defend him.
I look down at all the dust covering my work clothes, as if I’m actually considering this idea. “I absolutely cannot go out like this.”
With an exaggerated slap to her forehead, she lets out a sigh as if I’m hopeless.
“It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. You’ve got all the time in the world to wrap things up here, grab a shower, throw some mascara on those lashes, and slap some lotion on those long ass legs—because you are wearing something short to show them off. ”
I roll my eyes, but before I can argue, my phone vibrates on the workbench. I glance at the notification that glares on the screen, bracing myself.
It’s her.
Again.
Another fake account—this one named JustWondering2025—commenting on the latest photo I posted of a sun-bleached, knotty-oak farmhouse cabinet with hand-brushed copper hardware.
[JustWondering2025]: Looks great! I hope your client loves it as much as Andrew loved what we did together last night.
I grind my teeth. Molars ready to crack
Demi notices immediately. “What? What happened?”
I tilt the screen toward her. She skims the message, then groans. “Oh, for f—” She stops herself, throwing her hands in the air. “This bitch needs a hobby. Crochet a thong, skydive into traffic, I don’t care. She’s out here stalking your posts like a dumpster rat on meth.”
I don’t respond. I just stare at the message, letting the familiar irritation flare up. It’s been months, and she still won’t let me go. I’ve deleted and blocked every account she’d made, but she just keeps coming back, the digital equivalent of a particularly aggressive fungus.
Demi nudges me. “Okay, no, we’re definitely going out now.”
I blink up at her. “What—”
She gestures dramatically at my phone. “You need a break from this nonsense. From her, from Andrew-adjacent drama, from your shop hermit tendencies. I refuse to let a grown woman’s weird obsession keep you locked up with your pry bars and dust.”
I exhale through my nose, still simmering, but she’s right. Maybe getting out, getting away, will help. I slap my phone down on the workbench.
“Fine,” I mutter. “We’re going out.”
Demi pumps a fist in victory. “Yes! There is a bar not too far from here I’ve been dying to check out.”
The front door chimes, and we both turn as Andrew steps inside.
Andrew, a car sales manager, could charm an entire PTA into forgiving his lateness.
Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders that used to make me weak in the knees—before I realized they were holding up a man who specialized in manipulation.
There isn’t much he can’t talk his way in and out of.
Except when I found out about the blonde.
“Hey, Sable,” he says, giving me a nod and completely ignoring Demi, before scanning the shop. “Where’s Bash?”
“In the office,” I reply. “Where he always is.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, mistaking my irritation for a joke.
“Cool, I’ll grab him,” he says, heading toward the office.
Beside me, Demi crosses her arms and mutters, “You sure you don’t need to check with Crazy-Ashley first?”
I choke on a laugh.
Andrew either doesn’t hear her or is pretending not to.
A second later, Bash barrels out of the office, backpack slung over one shoulder, his tablet clutched in his hands.
“Mom!” he says, skidding to a stop in front of me. “Dad says we’re getting pancakes in the morning. Can I have extra whipped cream?”
I crouch down, brushing his curls back. “You can have all the whipped cream you want, bud.”
His face lights up. “Even more than last time?”
“I don’t know, that was a lot of whipped cream,” I tease, tapping his nose.
Bash giggles. “It wasn’t that much.”
Andrew checks his watch. “We should get going, bro.”
I kiss Bash’s forehead. “Have fun, okay? Be good for Dad.”
“I’m always good,” he says, then hugs me so tight it almost hurts.
I close my eyes, holding on just a little longer.
After I pry myself away, Bash pulls his oversized headphones from his bag, over his ears, and plugs them into his tablet. The faint sound of some over-the-top YouTuber filters through, ensuring he’s safely distracted from any impending adult nonsense. Smart kid.
And right on cue…
“Hey, Andy,” Demi says sweetly. “Do me a favor and try not to introduce him to a new stepmom this weekend. I know you live to keep the girlfriend rotation on shuffle, but maybe let the kid have some consistency, yeah?”
Andrew exhales through his nose, visibly irritated. “Nice to see you too, Demi.”
She gasps dramatically. “Oh, I bet it is nice—when’s the last time someone was genuinely happy to see you? That reminds me, how is your latest mid-life crisis? Still stalking Sable’s socials, or has she finally figured out how to type your name in a search bar and regret her entire life?”
Andrew clenches his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he just shakes his head and turns toward the door.
Bash, blissfully unaware under his noise-canceling cocoon, waves as he heads out.
Once they’re gone, I turn to Demi, who looks downright smug.
“You feel better?” I ask.
“Infinitely,” she says. “Now, let’s get you out of these dusty-ass clothes and into something that screams ‘yes, I am thriving, and no, I won’t be answering any bullshit comments.’”
I grab my bag with the determination of a woman on a mission. If Andrew’s tragic taste in women is the most exciting thing happening in my life, I officially need stronger cocktails and worse decisions.