I don’t know where the fuck I’m going. All I know is that I’m being dumped on some ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, owned by one of my dad’s best friends.
My fingers tap out a restless rhythm against my knee.
Tap.Tap.Tap.
How much fucking longer?
I curl my legs up, shifting sideways, my forehead pressed against the cool glass. Might as well get comfortable in this leather-lined prison cell.
Outside, the scenery shifts. The road stretches ahead like something out of a movie, winding through hills with thick clusters of trees that look too green to be real. Pines sway lazily in the breeze, their needles rustling with gusts of wind. Every few miles, golden fields appear—soft, wild stretches of grass dotted with little patches of purple.
Pansies.
My lips twitch at the sight of them, and a tiny smile breaks through the exhaustion.
They were my mother’s favorite.
We pass a blur of nothing before finally rolling into the small town of Ruby Ridge.
My eyes move between the buildings, taking in the charm of this small town, so different from what I’m used to in Los Angeles.
I scan the storefronts as we cruise through. Red brick buildings worn soft by too many southern summers, wooden signs that creak with the wind, windows lined with twinkle lights, and dusty flower boxes. There’s a diner on the corner with faded booths and locals out front, sipping sweet tea.
It’s so different from Los Angeles, I almost laugh. No paparazzi. No blaring horns. No one is walking a chihuahua in Gucci loafers—just life.
Quiet, slow, and painfully... normal.
I spot a bookstore, a coffee shop, something that looks like it could be a salon or a boutique if you squint hard enough. I mentally pin a few of them for later, because apparently, I need to find a job now. You know, since I’ve been forcibly removed from the platinum princess lifestyle and dumped into rural rehab.
“Five minutes until we arrive at Blue Moon Ranch, ma’am.” The driver’s voice slices through my thoughts, way too calm for the existential crisis that’s brewing in the back seat.
Five minutes?
My stomach drops in my fucking ass. A slow, queasy churn settles low, coiling tighter the closer we get. My palms start to sweat, and I wipe them on my pants like it’ll help.
I try to focus on the road ahead, on the way the hills stretch out and the trees blur past. But everything feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. My heart won’t slow down, and my chest is starting to ache again.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
One. Two. Three. Exhale.
catalina
. . .
Five minutes was nearly not enough time to calm the fuck down before we pulled in. My anxiety is still tap dancing on my ribcage when the car rolls to a stop and the driver starts unloading my things like I’m some disgraced debutante.
He mutters a polite goodbye and drives off like he’s escaping a crime scene.
Just like that, I’m alone.
The only sound left is the slow crunching of tires fading down the gravel drive, and birds chirping like this is some peaceful slice of heaven instead of the hell I’ve just been sentenced to.
Blue Moon Ranch.
I stare at it from the edge of the drive. The place stretches out in front of me like some rustic postcard.
It smells like hay, fresh air, and freshly mowed grass. There isn’t a single trace of pollution or the heavy smell of smog that typically clings to LA air. It’s cleaner here. Softer. The kind of air you don’t know you miss until you breathe it in.
