2. Teddy
TEDDY
WAITING FOR THE SHOT THAT DOESN’T COME
“All right, Teddy, you’re in the country now, might as well get some fresh air.”
The only voice answering me as I roll down the window is Bon Jovi pouring out of the Jeep’s speakers. I’ve changed the song six or seven times already, chasing something that might quiet the restless buzzing crawling under my skin.
It’s not even energy. Not really. More like static because my brain won’t land on a single clear thought.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, the rhythm uneven, impatient, as the road narrows from highway to a quiet two-lane lined with trees trimmed so neatly they almost look fake.
I ease my foot off the gas. The Jeep doesn’t like it—nor do I.
It feels unnatural to me. Like I’m doing something wrong.
Like if I don’t keep moving, something’s going to catch up to me.
Still, I force it, force myself, to take things in.
It’s not as easy as it looks. Slowing down isn’t exactly my default setting. But apparently burning out in spectacular fashion isn’t either, so here we are. Boudica Springs.
Warm air drifts into the Jeep, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and… is that… a faint whiff of dung? I think it is. Weirdly, it makes me smile. It’s honest. Not trying to be anything other than what it is.
In LA, the air always smells like peanut oil and exhaust fumes—sickly sweet, thick enough to taste.
It settles into your clothes, your skin, your lungs until it feels like you’re wearing the city instead of living in it.
By the end of the day, I’m desperate to peel my shirt off, to scrub the city off, to breathe something that doesn’t feel manufactured.
It feels like I’m not going to have to try that hard here.
That’s the thing about a rut. It creeps in slow enough that you don’t notice, until one day the air feels wrong.
Too thick. Too close. Like every breath gets trapped halfway down, and no matter how far I go, I’m still dragging the same stale air in with me.
Out here, the wind carries dirt, grass, and the occasional farmyard reminder that something nearby is very much alive.
I take a deep breath. It smells like space.
Up ahead, a weathered wooden sign comes into view.
WELCOME TO BOUDICA SPRINGS
Population 2,843
Below it, someone added a smaller hand-painted board.
HOME OF THE ANNUAL HARVEST FESTIVAL.
I snort. In LA, the welcome sign would’ve been sponsored by a luxury car brand and flanked by flashing billboards bright enough to give half the population a seizure while advertising the latest blockbuster. Here? Someone has nailed a plastic pumpkin to the post.
Is it flashy? No. Classy? Definitely not. Cool? Damn straight.
I ease into town at a comfortable crawl.
The sounds that greet me are cheerful. Kids laugh somewhere nearby.
A dog barks enthusiastically at nothing in particular.
Neighbors who’ve clearly known each other for decades wave across lawns, shouting greetings.
No honking. No gridlocked traffic. No delivery scooters darting between lanes and pissing off every driver within fifty feet.
Just people living their lives, following the comfortable rhythm of a place where everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.
The baker bakes.
The barber cuts hair.
The farmer farms.
Simple.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last three years introducing myself through magazine covers and gallery exhibitions because I’m not entirely sure who I am without them anymore.
Longing slams into me. What would it feel like to know where I belong again?
A breeze rustles through the massive oak trees lining the street, their branches stretching overhead like a natural umbrella against the afternoon sun.
The whole town looks like the set of one of those Christmas movies my dad used to watch when I was growing up.
As a teenager, I complained whenever he put one on, rolling my eyes at the predictable endings and syrupy music.
Now I’d give anything to sit beside him on that old couch again. It was a simpler time.
The quiet stretches out ahead of me as the main street narrows into smaller roads and older buildings.
Eventually, the houses become few and far between.
The trailer park sitting on the right gives way to open fields and long stretches of grass dotted with freshly painted mailboxes.
The town might be old, but it’s easy to see the people here take pride in where they live.
My apartment sits right at the edge of town, in a building with 1815 etched into the brick above the doorway. If those walls could talk, I’d probably stop the car just to listen.
The apartment is quiet and clean—exactly what I asked for. The movers delivered my boxes and furniture, which were now draped with drop cloths.
After dumping my bags inside, I head straight back to the Jeep for the one thing I refused to let the movers touch: my camera. Some people have emotional support animals; I have photography equipment.
I line everything up on the kitchen counter. My Canon EOS R5 Mark II. The lenses, memory cards, tripod. The familiar routine settles me. Not enough, but it’s something.
By the time I’ve unpacked the essentials, sunlight stretches across the floor in long, golden strips, and my stomach is threatening legal action.
When I open the fridge and find it bare, I shake my head.
What did I expect to find? I guess I’ll have to get something delivered.
I search for delivery on my phone and turn up empty.
Apparently, Boudica Springs believes in leaving your house for food.
I probably should have researched this before packing up and leaving. Although, that’s not exactly easy to do when the decision to move happens somewhere between midnight panic and screw it, I’m leaving.
I lean back against the counter, the edge digging into my spine, and let out a slow breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way out. My fingers drag through my hair, catching slightly like I’ve been doing it too often. Which… yeah, I have.
My shoulders pull tight, a dull ache settling in my lower spine, and I press my palm into the small of my back, trying to work it out. All right, looks like I’ll have to socialize—exactly what I was hoping to avoid for a while. I stare back at my phone, hesitating for one last second before I type.
Food near me.
The results don’t look promising. One Safeway.
One independent grocery store, likely owned by the town’s founding family members.
A bar on the other side of town (definitely need to try their beer before attempting their food).
Two fast-food places (hmm, I should scope out the town a little more before trusting anything mass-produced). And one diner.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering like there’ll be more options. The diner has four-and-half stars. Seems promising. Not that I have much choice.
I drag my gaze away, jaw tightening as the quiet settles in again, thick and unfamiliar. Too much space. Too much time to think.
Nope. Food. Focus on food.
Despite it being fall, the late-afternoon air still holds a lingering warmth that tricks you into thinking the day isn’t already slipping away. I grab my jacket, hesitating before putting it on, like I’m bracing for something more than just the weather. Which I probably am.
The Jeep glides over the cracked tar, the steering wheel steady beneath my hands as I head back into town.
For some reason, the drive feels longer, as though time is dragging its feet just to mess with me.
Probably because my stomach feels like it’s trying to crawl up my throat and make a run for it to the nearest place that serves deep fried anything.
Shifting in my seat, I press a hand against my abdomen, trying to settle the roiling.
No such luck. I tighten my grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hoping to conjure a steakhouse.
This is ridiculous. Why can’t I control a simple need like hunger?
It’s not like I’ve been on a hunger strike for seventeen days.
My stomach twists in disagreement.
I chose the apartment on the outskirts of town for a reason—the farther away from people, the better. But now I’m regretting my life choices.
The diner eventually comes into view on the corner, half-hidden behind a line of trees that catch the last of the afternoon light. Leaves flicker gold and green as they move, shadows stretching across the pavement, hoping to hold on to the day a little longer.
I almost drive right past it because it doesn’t look anything like what I had pictured.
No faded red awnings or flickering neon fighting for its last breath. No grimy windows or peeling paint clinging on out of spite.
Instead…
I slow the Jeep, eyes narrowing slightly as the place settles into focus.
It’s clean. Not sterile but cared for. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the trees, warm light spilling out onto the street like an open invitation. Everything about the place seems warm and intentional. I can tell the owner actually gave a damn when they put it together.
I should know better than to box things in before I’ve even seen them. My art beat that out of me years ago. Still… I didn’t expect this or to like it either.
The parking lot holds the usual suspects you’d expect at a diner in a small town: a battered Buick, and a couple of pickup trucks lined up like they belong here more than I ever will. But that’s not what makes me smile. It’s the tractor parked right outside the diner.
A full-on, mud-caked, seen-some-things tractor, like the owner suddenly got a craving in the middle of plowing. A quiet huff of amusement slips out of me before I can stop it.
That’s new.
My hand moves on instinct, already reaching for my camera before my brain catches up. Fingers flex around nothing. Right. I left it back at the apartment.
But the photograph is framed in my head. The late-afternoon light hitting the metal, contrasting with the clean glass windows, something rough edged up against something polished.
It would’ve been a good shot. A great shot. The kind that used to make my pulse jump and have me snapping more before I’d even finished the thought.
Instead, I just stand and stare, waiting for the excitement to kick in. For the itch to crouch down for the perfect angle. For that familiar certainty that this is a moment worth chasing.
Nothing happens.
I pinch my nose. A few years ago, I would’ve crossed the parking lot at a dead run to get that photograph.
Now all I can think about is dinner. And that scares the hell out of me.
Maybe six months in the middle of nowhere will help me remember why I picked up a camera in the first place.
Because if it doesn’t, I have no idea what comes next.
I kill the engine and climb out of the Jeep. The smell of frying oil and spices drift through the screen door, setting my stomach off again. The symphony of hunger returns. Loudly. I just hope no one hears it. I don’t need my first nickname in town to be Stomach Guy.
When I tug open the diner screen door, a bell chimes overhead, and I fight back a smile. Dad would’ve got a kick out of this. Warm air wraps around me the moment I step inside, carrying the scent of bacon, coffee, and pie. The place hums with life, so I pause just inside the door, taking it all in.
Even without my camera, I see everything through a lens. Every detail sharp, every movement framed. Hyper-focused. It can be both a blessing and a curse.
An old man sits at the counter, hunched over a bowl of soup, his movements slow and steady like he’s in no rush to get anywhere else. When he smiles, it’s all gums, no teeth, but there’s nothing self-conscious about it. If anything, it makes the smile feel earned.
I find myself watching him longer than I mean to. He answers the dark-haired waitress with a single word. Then another. Short and precise as he weighs each one. He strikes me as deliberate, not shy. Like he’s spent enough years talking to know most of it’s not worth the effort.
There’s something almost peaceful about it. No need to fill the silence. No scrambling to keep a conversation alive just for the sake of it. It must be nice. My jaw shifts slightly, the tension I didn’t notice easing a fraction. I drag my gaze away, aware I’ve been staring.
My gaze slides to some commotion in the back of the diner.
A pregnant woman wrestles two toddlers in the corner booth.
She looks exhausted but content. It’s the sort of contentment people spend their whole lives chasing.
If she could bottle that feeling, she’d be a millionaire.
Laughter hits my ears, and I follow the sound to a few lone truckers sitting scattered around the diner, boots stretched out under the tables.
They seem to know each other, yet it’s curious that they don’t sit together.
At some point people are going to notice me staring like a crime scene investigator so I take in the diner rather than the people.
The place feels lived in rather than manufactured.
Faded photographs line the walls, and I find myself wanting to touch them, to trace the frames with my fingertips and see if any of the stories trapped inside might rub off on me.
Faded booths lend to the homely atmosphere.
In LA, those would’ve been labeled rustic décor and sold for six thousand dollars in a gallery.
Here, they look like they’ve always been there. No one pays them any attention.
As I slide into a booth by the window, I feel it in my bones. Peace. Contentment. The vinyl seat creaks under my weight as I settle. A small wooden holder sits at the edge of the table with menus tucked inside. Pulling one out, I flip it open. Everything looks unapologetically fried.
A corner of my mouth lifts. Perfect. Exactly what I need. Something simple. No expectations. Nothing but grease and salt.
I’ve just decided on the cheeseburger and fries when a voice cuts through the quiet. It’s warm and smooth like honey sliding over rough bark, wrapped in a soft Midwestern drawl that doesn’t rush, doesn’t push just is.
“Afternoon. What’ll it be? Coffee first? Or are we being bold today?”
My gaze lifts automatically and everything else just stops. Thought. Breath. The slow, steady rhythm I’d found as I walked in here. It was all gone.
Because the woman standing beside my table…
Jesus.
Her eyes are the first thing that hit me. Blue, but not just blue. Bright and clear. They don’t just catch the light, they hold it, pull it in and keep it there. I forget what I was about to say. Forget what I was about to order. Hell, I forget all basic human function.
My lungs stall like they’ve hit a wall, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with earlier and everything to do with the fact that I’m suddenly very aware of her standing right there, looking at me expectantly. And I’m staring. Definitely staring.
Shit.