I peeled off my jacket and tossed it on the hook. “Thanks, Haley. Has be been out long?”
She shrugged. “Fell asleep after one book. I made mac and cheese but he only ate the cheese part and left the noodles. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, he’s picky. Thanks for trying.” I smiled, and she relaxed a little, pushing her hair out of her face. “Let me get your money,” I said, heading to my purse.
She got up and stood awkwardly by the door while I counted out the bills. “You have to work tomorrow too?” she asked.
“Just the morning,” I said, thankful it wasn’t another double shift. “He’ll go to daycare and I’ll get him after. Thanks again, Haley. See you next week?”
She nodded, already halfway down the the stairs. “Night, Miss Michaels.”
I locked up, then tiptoed down the short hallway to Noah’s room. The nightlight washed the walls in soft blue, painting everything with a kind of peace I never managed to feel during the day. My son lay splayed in his bed, arms up, a superhero inpajamas. His hair curled at the temples, damp with sleep. He made little snuffling noises with each breath, lips parted, cheeks round and flushed.
I leaned over and brushed a speck of dried cheese from his chin. He stirred, eyelids fluttering, and for a second I thought he might wake up and need me to rock him again. But he only sighed and rolled onto his side, burrowing deeper into the tangle of blanket and stuffed animals.
“Goodnight, Bug,” I whispered. I smoothed the blanket over his legs, careful not to wake him. For a minute, I just stood there, letting myself feel all the things I tried to ignore during the day. The smallness of the room. The echo of my own voice in the quiet. The way my chest ached every time I realized how fast he was growing, and how much of his life I missed while I was trying to earn enough to keep us afloat.
Tuesdays were always like this—tired, and empty, and heavy. Every time I pulled a double shift I promised myself I’d make up for it on the weekend. But every weekend, the bills stacked higher, and the promises turned into more work. It never seemed to get any easier.
I sat down in the rocking chair, the one that had come with us from the old place. I let myself sink into the worn cushions, then set the chair in motion with a gentle push from my toe. For a while, I just listened to the hush of the room, the creak of the wood, and the slow, even breaths from Noah’s bed.
My mind drifted, as it always did, to all the things I tried to keep out. The memory of my ex-husband’s voice, low and mean. The scars on my body, white and shiny now, but still there, badges from a life I didn’t talk about.
And today, something new. The blue-eyed man with a broken face, walking Main Street like he didn’t care who saw him bleed.
I knew better than to get involved. I’d spent two and a half years building a life that was small and predictable and safe. A life with no surprises. No risks. Just me and Noah, and the narrow path between work and home. But my brain kept tripping over the way Ford Brooks had looked at me. The way he smiled when I touched his arm. The rumors that swirled around him like barn dust, thick and persistent.
I thought about what those men outside the saloon had said. Ty Higgins. The gorge. The night that changed everything, even for people who weren’t there. Ford’s history was none of my business, and neither was his future, for that matter. But I hadn’t so much as looked another man in the eyes in years, let alone touched one—even as innocently as I had today.
Maybe Sutton was right. It was fine to have a little crush. The man was attractive, after all. I could just enjoy the sight of him from afar and that would be that.
But something told me even an innocent crush would be my undoing. So I forced myself to let go of it. I hummed a lullaby, the same one I sang when Noah was just a colicky newborn, and let the sound fill the room. I would keep my distance. I would protect myself and my boy. I wouldn’t let the past catch up, not this time.
The nightlight flickered, casting shadows across the floor. I got up, leaned over the bed, and pressed my lips to Noah’s forehead. He mumbled, “Mama,” without waking, his breath warm and sweet on my cheek.
“We’re safe here,” I whispered.
But as I turned off the light and crept out into the hallway, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it was a lie.
Four
Ford
It took me three tries to wedge the couch through the living room door, and even after I’d finally muscled it into place, it looked all wrong. Too new, too big, too gray for a ranch house that still reeked of linseed oil and stale winter dust. The couch was the only piece of furniture that was mine. Everything else I had here came with the house, according to the ancient, half-blind real estate agent who’d grinned with a mouthful of antique fillings as he handed me the keys and told me I was “getting a hell of a deal, son.” I’d only bought the place last month, sight unseen, but it looked like nobody’d lived here since before I left Whittier Falls.
I dropped down onto the cushions, letting the moving box in my arms thunk to the floor. The sun was low, shooting blinding streaks through the crusty front windows and making the air inside look thick as syrup. I took a slow breath, then forced myself up again. Still too much to do to be sitting around, and the longer I waited, the more the old house creaked and moaned as if to remind me I was, in fact, still alone.
Most of my stuff was already here. A dozen boxes, three suitcases, my computer set-up, and exactly zero sentimental keepsakes, unless you counted a glass jar full of guitar picks anda set of black-inked sketchbooks. I liked to travel light, and I liked to keep my past where it belonged—in the past.
But now, staring at the battered cardboard box labeled “OFFICE,” I hesitated.
I knew what was inside before I even pulled the tape. My hands didn’t shake, but I felt the little hitch in my pulse as I peeled the box open and thumbed through the contents. Laptop. Old stack of programming books. A photo frame, facedown at the bottom. I picked it up, traced the pitted glass with my thumb, and felt the first warning shot of a headache behind my right eye.
It was a picture of the Red Downs Ranch crew from high school—me, Gray, Walker, Damon, and Mason, all in Wranglers and boots, all grinning like idiots, each of us caked in the same layer of sweat and dust. In the background: a pickup truck, faded blue, paint peeling off the hood. I remembered the day, the stupid jokes we’d made, the feeling of belonging that was as rare and intoxicating as good whiskey.
I carried the frame, figuring I’d set it on the shelf by the window. That’s when the memory hit—harder than the fist that caught my jaw yesterday.
The smell of gasoline thick in the summer air, so strong it made my tongue go numb. My father, standing by water, cigarette burning between two fingers, hand raised—not to wave, but to strike. I saw the moment freeze: his face a mask of rage and grief, the lines carved so deep they looked like scars. The world behind him was fire, the sound like wet logs in a bonfire, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.
