He’s right, a quiet voice in my head says, so much like my dad that the lump returns to my throat. Of course he’s right, though I’m not ready to admit it. My big brother doesn’t need to know that he’s actually helping me right now. I have to protect what remains of my stupid pride. He interrupts my thoughts while I’m crafting the perfect zinger in response.
“Anyway, I gotta get this food to Indie before it gets cold. We’ll talk tomorrow. You good, Sis?”
He means well. I know he does. “I guess so.” I gather up my trash with a sigh, slamming the door behind me. “See ya tomorrow,” I shout through the closed door. He doesn’t care. He has a hot fiancée to make out with.
I’m stomping up the walkway to my mother’s front door when my phone dings with a text from Oliver of all people.
DARTH OLIVER
We’ve found a replacement nanny to take over care of Imogen for the duration of filming.
“Why?” The word shrieks through the cool night air just as another text comes in.
DARTH OLIVER
You’ve done an excellent job with Imogen. We assume that your focus needs to be on the resort now and are attempting to plan ahead. Your assistance has been much appreciated and as previously discussed, your paycheck will be electronically deposited.
Assistance. That word is wholly inadequate to describe the attachment I’ve formed with that little girl. This hurts, just like I knew it would. I crash through the front door and shove my trash into the bin in the kitchen. I stomp up the stairs to my bedroom, frustrated at the world.
This day started way too early, and the weight of it pulls me onto my old bed face first. I smash my fingers onto the screen of my phone looking for the thumbs up emoji. That’s all Oliver is getting from me. After all, he lit my family legacy on fire and had the nerve to fire meas Imogen’s nanny. I push send and open my text chain with Anders. Nothing. Our text chain has gone dead since we were together all weekend. I’m a little sick about how I walked away from him tonight, so I type out a short apology.
ME:
I’m sorry I was short with you when I left tonight.
Maybe it’s good that I’m not taking Imogen tomorrow. I’m not in the right place mentally to be around Anders. The effects of the fire are as consuming as the fire itself and I need to tap into the wisdom of pre-Anders Sunny. I need to behave like my normal, old self until I fix everything at the resort. Comfortable, reliable, somewhat depressingnormal—that will get me through this. Back to the status quo, for now at least. We have a dozen decisions to make to get the place repaired and I need my mind running at full capacity to handle it—which means no deliciously distracting men. Hopefully Anders will understand.
I read and reread old texts from him and nod off sometime in the middle of the night.
Normal.
This is good. I’m running from my mom’s house to the resort, something I used to do all the time to burn off steam. It’s a quick four mile route through the desert that I’ve taken at least a hundred times. When I get to work, I’ll shower in the spa and change into the clothes I’ve stashed in my compact backpack, along with a sensible, high-protein lunch. Then, Joe and I will meet with the insurance guy about the fire. That part is not-so-normal.
I pick up my pace, grateful for the tailwind and an activity to channel my stress into. My running has been inconsistent recently, and even though it hurts more than usual, my mind needed this. Joe’s reminders from the night before are echoing in my head, and I realize with more than a little relief that he—and Anders—are right. The fire is awful, but the damage is fixable. I can’t take responsibility for it. It’s a setback. I’m not a failure.
The more I repeat those thoughts, the lighter I feel.
Dolly Parton is singing about working nine to five through my earbuds as I jog around the last bend before I reach the resort. I sing along as I run because Dolly gets me. I am going to kick today in the butt. I’ve got this. I won’t have a handsome movie star around, throwing me off balance. I groan, thinking about Anders.
He texted me after I fell asleep last night and again this morning. When I missed a phone call from him on my way out the door for my run, I texted back a quick, “Things are hectic. Glad you found someone to take care of Im. We’ll talk soon!”
I’ve missed a few more texts from him, but I can’t talk to him yet. I still have too many things to think through. I need a clear mind and a solid plan for this mess before I’m around the man. He’s all-consuming and I don’t trust myself to be smart in his presence. I still wish I could see him and Immy today, though. Just for a minute. I push harder, making my lungs burn and my legs ache. Maybe I can run off the heartsickness.
The wind gusts into my face like a slap, blowing around a cluster of tumbleweeds in the distance. I squint to keep the sand out of my eyes, but it stings my bare legs and arms. This is getting gnarly. It’s a good thing I’m almost done with my run. I spot a medium-sized tumbleweed on the path ahead, rolling right toward me. I leap over it in time with Dolly Parton and laugh at how insane I must look. I’m glad it’s barely dawn so I’m alone out here.
I push through the wind until I’m almost at the resort entrance. Then I spot the final boss: A tumbleweed roughly the size of Jabba the Hutt, rolling toward me on the path. I’ve lived in the desert my whole life. I’m familiar with tumbleweeds. Honestly, I don’t usually think about them much. This one is different, though. I swear I hear a deep, villainous laugh as it rolls my direction.
“Huhhh huhhh huhhh,” the tumbleweed throat-laughs as it crashes toward me on the path, seemingly in slow motion.
My senses are on high alert. I push down the volume on my music. “Hang on, Dolly,” I whisper, keeping a sharp eye on the tumbleweed as I slow to a jog. I track its direction given the wind, calculating where to run to avoid it rolling into or over me. Finally, it tumbles past and I’m safe.
I crank up the volume and resume my pace, but the wind changes direction sharply. Something large and extremely scratchy crashes into my bare legs from behind. Between the powerful wind and Jabba the Tumbleweed, I lose my balance and land in a gangling heap in the spindly sagebrush. “Aaaaack!” I holler to no one, while Dolly Parton continues to trill in my ear.
I scramble to my feet, brushing bits of shrubbery off my legs and red running shorts. I make a quick examination and find a few scratches on my thighs, but nothing terrible. I’m fine, just humiliated. Situation normal.
“Are you okay?” a melodic male voice calls from behind.
I know that voice.
