“Nope, I sold that.”
“Fine, moving in, then. I heard you were fixing up the Chickadee Ranch. That’s got to be one heck of a project.”
“Yeah, so taking a couple hours out of months’ worth of time aint no thing.”
She pressed her lips together in a stern face I bet she used on Noah at least twice a week. It made me smile harder.
“I don’t need charity.”
“Lily, it’s not charity. Might be hard to believe since I’m clearly a contender for Whittier Falls popularity contest, but you’re one of the only friends I have here in town. You need help with something, even though you won’t admit it. So just let me help.”
“Damn,” she whispered under her breath, and I knew I got her. “Fine, but I’m cooking you dinner as a thank you.”
“Deal,” I said, a little too fast.
We stood there for another second, the sidewalk suddenly feeling too small for the three of us.
Noah let go of the bag and cuddled into his mom’s shoulder. She nuzzled his head with her cheek, then settled him back intothe stroller. He squirmed, giggling, and I watched the way she tucked the blanket around his knees and smoothed his hair. There was something magnetic about the simplicity of it. The way she focused so completely on her son, on the small details that kept him happy and safe. It made my chest feel warm and tight and I didn’t know what to think about that.
I realized I wasn’t uncomfortable at all—not with the kid, not with Lily, not even with the looks I was probably getting from every window on Main. I was just . . . there. Present. And for the first time since I’d come back to Whittier, it didn’t feel like the ground was about to drop out from under me.
She gave me a quick, nervous wave. “Well I gotta get him dropped off and get to work. See you tonight? Apartment 2C. The buzzershouldbe working . . . hopefully.”
“2C,” I repeated, my voice catching in my throat. “See you then.”
She started down the sidewalk, boots tapping out a rhythm. I watched her go, feeling a stupid, hopeful itch at the edge of my chest.
The drive out to the ranch was a blur of field and sky. My mind kept circling back to the moment on the sidewalk—how easy it had been, how right. For the first time since I’d gotten back, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for the next disaster. Maybe the rumors and the whispers were just that—noise. Maybe there was still a way forward, even for someone like me.
I parked the truck, carried the supplies inside, and started in on the prep work. But my mind was already at the pharmacy, picturing the blue door, the crooked steps, the sound of a leaky faucet.
I didn’t know what tonight would bring, or if Lily even wanted me around beyond fixing her sink. But I liked the idea of finding out.
There are worse things, I thought, than making yourself useful.
And sometimes, it’s the only way to prove you belong.
Nine
Lily
There were at least ten thousand ways to overthink a simple dinner, but I’m pretty sure I’d discovered a few new ones by the time the meatloaf hit the oven. I’d also nearly worn a groove in the kitchen linoleum before the timer on the oven went off.
Back and forth, heel-to-toe, like I was personally responsible for keeping the earth spinning. The meatloaf needed another seven minutes. The mashed potatoes were already whipped to death. I snuck a look at the living room, where Noah sat cross-legged on the carpet, running two toy trucks into each other with the kind of violence that would make insurance adjusters break out in hives.
Wham. Crash. “Oh no!” he shrieked. “Big accident, Mama!”
“Uh oh,” I called back.
The kitchen was a galley-style nightmare—a single countertop, fake granite curling up at the edges, cabinets that barely shut unless you slammed them. I’d lined up every single piece of cookware I owned, as if having all my utensils out would make me look more competent when the guy fixing my sink came over. That the guy in question was a billionaire, atleast according to local legend, was just the cherry on top my nervous, jello-brained sundae.
I stirred the potatoes again with unnecessary aggression, trying to picture Ford Brooks’ face when he realized I was feeding him meatloaf from a recipe I found on the back of a soup can. Would he even eat it, or would he do that thing rich people do and say he was gluten free, or vegan, or only ate meals plated in tiny concentric circles? Would he look around the place and spot every chipped baseboard, every stain on the ceiling tile? Would he notice the cheap plastic blinds, the fraying kitchen towels, the dent in my fridge that was probably put there in 1997?
I wiped my hands on my jeans. My heart was in my throat, and I hadn’t even opened the bottle of wine I’d been eyeing since noon. I didn’t normally drink around Noah, but I felt like having a bottle of wine on offer was something rich people expected. And it would at least soothe my nerves. Hopefully.
In the living room, Noah provided a steady soundtrack of vrooming and crashing, narrating the fates of various Hot Wheels in a series of escalating pile-ups. The kid’s world was all cause and effect, no filter. Sometimes I wished I could borrow that. I checked the clock: six fifty-five. I should have had everything ready by now, but the idea of Ford seeing me flustered made me double down on perfectionism.
I pulled the meatloaf out to glaze it with a tomato-based sauce I read online was ‘sexy and savory’—whatever that meant—then frowned at how lopsided the loaf was. Was it supposed to sag? I smoothed the top and shoved it back in, cranked the temperature, then immediately regretted it and set it back to the recommended 350. In the time it took to do that, Noah had migrated from the carpet to the kitchen doorway, watching me with wide, blue eyes and a plastic truck clutched in each hand.
