Chapter 1 #2
I ended the call, stared at my calendar, and knew there wasn't another excuse left that would sit right in my chest.
I called my boss that afternoon. Family emergency, I needed flexibility for a few weeks. She agreed to let me work remotely as long as I stayed available. Temporary. Flexible. Under control—or at least that's what I told her.
I step inside, and the familiar coolness of the house settles around me. It smells the same as it always has—old wood, dust, coffee brewed too strong. Sunlight slants through the windows, catching on worn furniture and scuffed floors.
The house feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I've grown used to spaces that echo.
"You didn't have to come rushing back," Mae says, closing the door. "I was managing."
"Shae called."
Mae's mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. "Of course she did. This town's never been very good at minding its own."
I huff quietly.
We move into the kitchen together. Mae busies herself at the counter, fussing with nothing, and I lean against the doorway, watching her.
Noticing the things I know better than to name.
The way she avoids putting too much weight on her leg.
The tightness around her mouth when she reaches for the kettle.
Coffee mugs appear between us. I wrap my hands around mine, letting the heat seep into my palms.
The kitchen looks the same in all the ways that matter. The worn edge of the counter where I slipped once and split my lip open. My mother at the sink, steady and brisk, telling me to hold still, this would sting, don't be dramatic.
My gaze drifts to my forearm. The scar is still there—faint now, pale against my skin, but unmistakable. I press my thumb to it once, then drop my hand back to the mug before I let myself think about it too long.
"I won't be here long," I say, because I need to say it. "Just until you're back on your feet."
Mae doesn't answer right away. She stirs her coffee longer than necessary, eyes on the slow swirl.
"I've had help," Mae says finally. "Someone keeping things running while I've been laid up."
I wait for her to elaborate, but she just takes another sip of coffee.
"Well," she adds, casual as anything. "I appreciate you being here."
Silence settles between us. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
"You can take your things to your room," Mae says. "It's the same as you left it."
I carry my bag down the hallway, my steps echoing softly. My bedroom door sticks for a moment before giving way, and the room feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I've just outgrown it.
My old quilt lies folded at the foot of the bed, colors faded but intact.
Riding ribbons hang crooked on the wall—dusty blues and reds from junior rodeo, a few regional buckles catching the afternoon light.
The whole town used to show up to watch me compete.
Friday nights under the arena lights, bleachers packed with people who knew my name, who cheered when I cleared the barrels clean.
I don't look at them long. That's not me anymore.
My eyes catch on the stand beside my bed. A cowboy hat sits there—faded black, the brim curved and broken in just the way he liked it. The front dipped low, the back kicked up slightly. A thin leather band wraps the crown, worn smooth in places from years of hands adjusting it.
I used to steal that hat.
It's too big for me. Always was.
My chest tightens.
I don't touch it. I don't even let myself look at it twice.
I turn away and set my bag on the bed.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and it dips the same way it always has. For a moment, a flash—sitting here with someone else. Late nights, low voices, laughter that came easy. The kind of closeness that didn't need explaining.
I stand up fast.
Not going there either.
I unpack without thinking. Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom down the hall. Laptop on the desk. When I'm done, I just stand there in the middle of the room.
Who I was here feels close enough to reach. Who I am now hovers at the edges, waiting to be invited in.
By evening, I'm restless enough that I step onto the porch. The sky burns orange and gold near the horizon, clouds darkening farther out. Wind moves across the land, carrying the promise of a storm. I lean against the railing, letting the cool wood press into my palms.
The ranch shifts around me—cattle moving in the distance, a gate creaking somewhere. I focus on the way the land seems to watch me. Not accusing. Not welcoming. Just present.
This place doesn't ask anything of me yet. It just waits to see what I'll do.
Movement catches my eye near the barn. I freeze. There's someone down there—tall, moving with purpose toward the open doors. Too far to see clearly in the fading light, just a silhouette against the barn's dark frame.
One of the hands Mae mentioned, probably. She said she had help keeping things running.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs anyway.
I should go down there. Introduce myself. Ask what needs doing tomorrow, what the schedule looks like, how I can actually be useful instead of just taking up space.
I don't move.
The figure disappears inside the barn, swallowed by shadows, and I stand there a moment longer before turning away.
The porch boards creak under my feet as I head back inside, closing the door behind me with more care than necessary.
Like if I'm quiet enough, I can slip back into the house unnoticed.
Postpone all of it—the questions, the explanations, the inevitable conversations about how long I'm staying and what I'm planning to do.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with all of it tomorrow.
I make my way down the hall to my room, exhaustion settling into my bones. The day feels longer than it should, twelve hours of driving catching up with me all at once. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my shoes, letting them drop to the floor one at a time.
My phone buzzes against the mattress.
Shae: You're officially HOME!!!
I smile despite myself.
Me: It's temporary, remember. Don't get excited.
I've said temporary more times than I can count now. Like if I repeat it enough, it'll stay true.
Shae: Temporary my ass. Bar tonight. Six o'clock.
I close my eyes.
Me: I'm tired.
Shae: No excuses. We're not letting you hide.
I stare at the screen. Shae won't let this go, and part of me doesn't want her to. I just need one more night before I face everyone. Before the questions start.
Me: Fine. Tomorrow night then. One drink.
Shae: We both know that's a lie.
I laugh softly and set the phone aside.
Tomorrow. One drink.
What could possibly go wrong?