Chapter Five
She Has Very Specific Amnesia
T he sign for Heart Springs flashes by, just a blip on the highway, swallowed by an endless stretch of land.
Insignificant. Forgettable. Small.
Exactly what I feel coming back here. Exactly why I never do.
Don’t even know where I’m going, just that I couldn’t stand to be in my piece-of-shit apartment for one more second. I’m exhausted, and reeling from what happened the other day. Barely slept, too caught up in an endless cycle of what-ifs, what-the-fucks , and denial.
After the social worker left, I spent an hour checking and rechecking my emails—making sure I didn’t miss anything. Nothing from Summit County, DCFS, or any other official notification about the shitshow that was about to rain down on me.
Rest of the night, I mindlessly cleaned the hell out of my house, not stopping until I passed out on my couch.
Threw the fucking thing out back and lit it on fire after that, like I could burn away the judgement that’d filled my apartment hours before.
Didn’t work. My demons remained, and my reality never shifted. Still hasn’t.
Marlee is dead.
The thought is a slow burn, a dull ache that builds in the back of my throat.
I think back to the girl who used to curl into my side on late summer nights, the one who knew exactly how to sneak out without waking her grandma. The girl who made me believe forever was something we could actually have, before she decided my life was too small.
Marlee was sunshine and laughter. Vibrant, and reckless. She was the girl who sat on the hood of my truck, counting clouds and dreaming up impossible futures.
And for a while, she was my whole damn world, until she turned it upside down and destroyed it.
But that was a lifetime ago, and no matter how much I loved her back then, we were never meant to survive the kind of storms that tear through South Dakota.
I adjust my grip on the familiar steering wheel, stretching my right leg as much as I can in the cab that still somehow smells like my dad. The deep ache in my thigh doesn’t lessen, but it pales in comparison to the incessant throbbing in my chest.
Truth is, I haven’t thought about Marlee like this in years. Not since the worst of it. Not since I finally stopped waking up angry.
Her name became a ghost that only haunted me when the nights got too long, and the whiskey wasn’t strong enough. But it didn’t linger. And eventually, her memory faded. I moved on. She moved away like she said she would. Apparently got married and had a baby.
A baby.
Aurora. Not even a year old, and in the fucking hospital.
Why the hell would Marlee leave her kid to me of all people? We haven’t talked in years—never even tried.
After her letter, I may have re-upped my contract, but my information never changed.
She could have reached out. Could have gotten word to me if she’d changed her mind, or fuck, just wanted to talk.
But she didn’t, and neither did I. After a while, I stopped thinking about her, and assumed she did the same.
Doesn’t make any fucking sense.
A baby. A guardian. A father.
Makes me think of my own dad.
How he’d roughhouse with Hazel, Gemma, and me while simultaneously cuddling baby Clem or Colby to his chest. How he effortlessly guided us, taught us, and loved us, while also taking care of our mom and an entire massive farm production.
My dad was a superhero.
And I… am not.
There’s a deep, painful itch in my soul to pick up the phone and make a call that’ll never get answered.
To talk to him. To ask him what the hell I’m supposed to do.
Almost did it that night after Georgia left.
Had the phone in my hand, his number a memory under my fingertips.
Dialed it out—got far enough to know his phone’s still in service for some asinine reason.
Maybe for business, or just my mom’s way to keep him close.
Either way, the sound of his voice scared the shit out of me, and I disconnected.
My heavy eyes stray from the road ahead to the rolling greens of early spring. With a slow exhale, I crank the window down, letting the familiar scent of damp earth fill the cab and wash everything away.
The air is thick with the fresh bite of new grass, the faint sweetness of budding wildflowers, and the sharp, clean tug of rain that hasn’t yet fallen. Somewhere in the distance, the scent of tilled soil lingers, earthy and deep, mixing with the subtle smokiness of burn piles fading into the land.
It’s the kind of smell that imprints itself into your soul. The kind that never leaves you, no matter how far you go. Even miles from civilization, in a country covered in sand, I could close my eyes and still breathe it in, still smell Heart Springs.
I lose myself to the familiar turns and gravel trails, letting the hum of an old country song fill the silence. But before long, my thoughts inevitably wind up back in the last place they should.
Because apparently, I’m a masochist.
Georgia Walker.
The hot as hell redhead with sky-high heels, a fancy-as-fuck car that’ll never make it on our back roads, and a stick so far up her perfect ass, I have no idea how she managed to sit down on my coffee table like it was her goddamned throne.
She came in swinging, all attitude and sharp edges.
Hate that I noticed. Hate that even now, she’s on my mind, when a hundred other things should be there instead.
The stubborn tilt of her pointed chin. The way the afternoon sun caught the blaze of her wild, curly hair. And eyes so green, so vicious, they burned. Every glare she threw my way felt like she was digging for something, peeling back the layers, waiting for me to fuck up.
Georgia Walker with a temper like a wildfire. And me, caught in the pull of her tiny, but mighty gravity.
Georgia Walker with her fair skin, delicate features, and freckles like stars. Freckles that somehow managed to etch themselves into my fucking brain, despite the fog of Jack.
Like the night sky lit her up just to mess with me.
Or maybe it was the alcohol and life-changing news making me see shit.
I scrub a hand over my face, muttering a curse under my breath.
I’m losing it. That’s the only explanation. Grief, guilt, and whatever that meeting from hell was—it’s all fucked me up, twisting me into knots.
No sane man would be thinking about a woman like that after the bomb she dropped.
With an exhausted sigh, I hang a right without thought. Call it routine. Familiarity. Maybe even an accident.
But I know the truth.
Before the social worker showed up, I’d been hellbent on getting blackout drunk and calling the day a wash.
Better to sleep through hell than live it.
I’d stared at the ceiling for hours, face up in bed, whiskey in hand, Hazel’s words about Honey Bea failing spinning through my brain like a tornado.
The idea that the place my roots grew from might not even be standing anymore, guts me.
It’s where I watched my sisters grow up, scrapping over everything and nothing.
Where I had my first kiss and got grounded for it after Hazy caught me and Tabby Stewart behind the tack shed.
Where my parents got married. Where my mom’s dreams came true.
Where my dad—
A pressure builds in my chest, tight and suffocating.
It’s where he’s buried, for fuck’s sake. It’s home. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget that.
The road curves, and suddenly, the edges of the property are right in front of me. My stomach turns. Sweat tracks down my spine, and not because of the late March sun blazing through my window.
My fingers flex on the wheel, but I don’t slow down.
The place is still massive—barns, silos, open fields.
The house stands tall in the distance. White.
Wide. That wraparound porch my mom always dreamed of is still cluttered with potted plants.
Even from here, I can make out the yellow cushions she’s had since I was in high school.
If I got closer, I bet I’d see a pitcher of sun tea heating on the steps.
My vision blurs. The truck slows, but I don’t stop. Can’t.
A few minutes later, the bunkhouse appears. The siding’s beat to hell, but it’s standing. Same for the smaller homes, five of them scattered across the land. One for each of us.
I haven’t stepped foot in mine in years. Probably never will. More than once, I’ve thought about showing up in the dead of night and setting the damn thing on fire.
Burning down the dream I once built before life blew it all to hell.
My jaw ticks as the wrought-iron sign comes into view. The one I’ve driven under a thousand times but haven’t laid eyes on in years.
Honey Bea Farm is bold and curved across the top. Our family name hangs from a wooden sign beneath written in soft, delicate script. Below that, the year it all began—the year my parents were married.
My foot slips off the gas.
The truck idles in the middle of the empty road, engine humming quiet beneath the weight pressing on my chest.
I can’t move.
Can’t tear my eyes away from that damn sign.
How easy it would be to take the turn, to drive down the long, gravel driveway and park in front of my family's house. How simple it would be to just go home . To see the farm, my sisters. To sit at the old dining table and talk to my mom. Tell her everything that’s changed.
Open my mouth, bear my soul, and beg her to tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
It would be so easy.
Except, it’s not easy at all.
Not a single thing in my life is simple right now.
My fingers flex around the wheel and my foot presses down on the gas a little too hard, making the fields skip by in a blur.
A flash of movement, small and fast, darts into the road.
My foot slams down on the brakes and my knuckles pop from the force of my grip.
“ Shit !”
Instinct has me jerking the wheel just enough to veer off onto the shoulder, gravel skidding under my tires. My heart slams into my ribs as the truck shudders to a stop, pulse hammering in my throat.