25. Sophie
SOPHIE
Five minutes later I was heading out of Maplewood Falls again, Sarah’s little Jetta buzzing along Route Twelve while my phone cheerfully announced directions from the cup holder.
The engine made its usual determined little humming noise every time I asked it to climb a hill, like it was encouraging itself with positive affirmations.
I appreciated the effort. We were both operating on questionable emotional fuel at this point.
“In two miles, turn left.”
“I’m on it, Gerta,” I told the GPS. Yes, I named my GPS. And, yes, that was a tad crazy. But I didn’t care.
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel, mostly because it gave them something to do besides dramatically gesturing at empty passenger seats.
“He’s an asshole.” I said it firmly, like repetition alone might eventually convince the tiny optimistic part of my brain that kept filing formal objections.
“You hear that?” I told absolutely nobody. “An asshole.”
The word didn’t fit. Which was inconvenient. I’d really wanted it to fit. Life would’ve been considerably easier if he’d simply turned out to be awful.
I tried again.
“A… frustrating asshole.” Better. More nuanced. Slightly less satisfying.
Still not quite right. Ugh. Why did reality always insist on being complicated? Couldn’t people just neatly fall into categories? Villain. Hero. Person who leaves shopping carts in the middle of parking lots. Simple.
“An emotionally constipated asshole.” I nodded slowly. There it was. That felt medically plausible. Someone should probably prescribe him feelings twice daily with meals.
Closer. Not perfect. But definitely moving in the right direction. If nothing else, I’d created an entirely new psychological diagnosis.
“He kisses women one night, arrests them the next, and then refuses to answer basic questions about innocent farm animals.” I pointed one finger toward the windshield as if presenting evidence before a jury. “That is not normal behavior. I feel like we can all agree on that.”
I nodded to myself.
“Yes.” Convincing. Decisive. Almost presidential.
That felt accurate. At least from my admittedly biased perspective. Which was currently the only perspective available inside Sarah’s Jetta.
Mostly. There it was again. That irritating little crack of uncertainty.
Maybe.
“Okay, fine. He did have a very good reason to arrest me.” I sighed so dramatically the windshield probably fogged up a little. Stupid conscience. Always showing up uninvited.
I frowned. “No.” I wagged a finger at myself. “We’re not doing that.” I pointed at the windshield. “We’re not defending him.”
This conversation had become alarmingly democratic. Every opinion received a rebuttal from another part of my personality. At this rate I was going to need a moderator and a timer.
“I can still live here.” That part mattered. More than kissing sheriffs. More than embarrassing myself. More than whatever emotional tornado had swept through my life over the last forty-eight hours.
Maplewood Falls had always been home. Long before Captain Competent decided to start patrolling it with his unfairly attractive face and his deeply inconvenient sense of integrity.
Just because one ridiculously handsome sheriff happened to patrol it didn’t mean I had to move and change my identity. Witness protection seemed like a slight overreaction. Also, I’d probably miss Dottie’s muffins.
People survived awkward encounters every day. Grocery stores were practically built on former couples pretending to compare cereal prices while desperately avoiding eye contact.
I’d simply wave politely if I saw him, calm and mature. Then I’d walk in the opposite direction. Preferably with casual purpose. The kind that suggested I genuinely had somewhere else to be besides anywhere Captain Competent happened to exist.
“He doesn’t get to ruin this for me.” The words came easier now, firmer. Less like I was trying to convince myself and more like I was finally starting to believe them.
My voice sounded strong enough that even the GPS remained respectfully silent for several seconds.
More certain. Funny how saying something out loud sometimes made it feel more real. Or at least louder.
“For the first time in my life.” I smiled. “I found something I’m actually good at.” The realization still felt new enough to handle carefully, like discovering a hidden talent you’d somehow spent years walking past without noticing.
Festival planning. Who would’ve guessed? Certainly not me. I’d volunteered for the job expecting temporary employment. To wing it and see what happened. Instead I’d stumbled into something that made sense to me.
Organizing chaos. Which, in hindsight, might’ve been excellent preparation for managing my own brain.
Making impossible things somehow work. Replacement bands. Missing volunteers. Escaping animals. My professional specialty involved looking at disasters and saying, “Give me five minutes.”
I’d spent years bouncing from one terrible job to another, wondering what was wrong with me. Receptionist. Retail. Office assistant. Every position had felt like trying to wear somebody else’s shoes, technically possible but deeply uncomfortable.
Nothing. The answer had been so ridiculously simple it almost annoyed me.
I’d simply been standing in the wrong room, trying to become successful at things that had never fit me in the first place.
Turned out, I wasn’t bad at everything. My brain had spent years collecting evidence to the contrary. Nice to know it had been using incomplete data.
I’d just never found the right thing. Sometimes the problem wasn’t you. Sometimes it was the map.
And nobody—especially not Captain Competent—was taking that away from me.
“Not again.” The words came tumbling out. “No man gets to decide who I become.” I’d handed over too much of myself before until I barely recognized the person looking back in the mirror. Never again.
Not Henry. I’d spent far too long trying to become the version of myself someone else wanted.
Not anyone. That chapter of my life had officially closed for renovations.
Definitely not the sheriff. No matter how mesmerizing his eyes were. No matter how well he kissed. No matter how annoyingly decent he’d turned out to be underneath all that sheriffing.
I still had a job, a real one, one I actually woke up excited to do instead of calculating how many hours remained until I could leave.
I still had my family—slightly chaotic, frequently opinionated, occasionally humiliating, but unquestionably mine.
And right now, I had four animals to save. Everything else—including emotionally constipated sheriffs—could wait.
Gerta announced another turn. Her calm, pleasant voice suggested this was all perfectly ordinary. Turn left. Continue for three miles. Rescue emotionally significant livestock.
I followed it through winding country roads lined with old maples and white fences until a weathered sign marked HILLS FARM came into view.
The road narrowed to gravel, and the Jetta bounced over a few potholes with enough enthusiasm to remind me Sarah was absolutely going to ask questions if I returned her car making suspicious new rattling noises.
“There you are.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Please let this work. Please let me be five minutes away from talking a lovely retired couple into adopting four animals with nothing more than determination and wildly optimistic financial planning.
I pulled into the gravel driveway. Dust swirled behind the car before slowly settling over rows of lavender planted beside the lane. Somewhere nearby a rooster crowed with the confidence of someone who clearly hadn’t checked what time it actually was.
The farmhouse was cozy, the sort of place where homemade pie probably appeared without warning, and everyone owned at least three pairs of rubber boots.
It was a freshly painted white, judging by the neat trim and the absence of peeling boards.
Somebody clearly took pride in the place.
It had a beautiful wraparound porch with flower baskets swaying gently beneath the eaves.
Bright pink petunias spilled over the sides while hummingbirds darted from bloom to bloom, completely unconcerned with my rapidly escalating blood pressure.
A middle-aged woman in muddy boots was watering tomato plants while a man repaired part of a fence nearby.
He wore faded overalls and a ball cap advertising some brand of tractor I’d never heard of.
She waved before I was even fully out of the car.
They seemed like nice people, wonderful, hopefully also with a weakness for emotionally persuasive speeches involving miniature goats.
I climbed out before the engine had fully stopped. Technically not the safest procedure. Emotionally, however, I felt speed was justified.
“Hi!” I was slightly breathless, slightly desperate, and entirely committed.
The man rested one boot on the bottom fence rail while the woman shut off the hose and brushed her hands against her jeans.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked kindly. She had one of those warm faces that made you want to confess everything, including things you’d done in elementary school.
“I’m looking for the festival animals.” I took another step toward them. “The ones from the petting zoo. The goat. Two alpacas. Little donkey.” I counted them on my fingers in case additional visual aids somehow improved the situation.
Recognition crossed both their faces.
“Ah, yes,” said the man, Mr. Peterson most probably. He smiled a little. “That little goat sure had some personality.”
“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Exactly.” Bandit. Professional menace. Amateur escape artist. My favorite tiny criminal who somehow wasn’t currently under arrest. “I’ve come to talk to you about them. About an arrangement, maybe?”
The couple exchanged a look. Not a long one. Just long enough for every alarm bell inside my head to start ringing.
The hopeful little balloon inside my chest popped immediately. “What?”