Me:Pretty much.
Star:Shame. I had plans for you.
Me:You can’t say that to me right now.
Star:I can, and I just did.
Me:I’ll make it up to you.
Star:You always do.
I stare at her last message longer than I should. She’s not mad—not exactly. But I know her well enough to hear the space between her words.
I shove the phone in my pocket and get back to work, but the weight in my chest stays put.
By Sunday night, missing Stella is a weight in my chest, and Agave Hills feels like it’s on the other side of the world. I’m already carving the days into my calendar until I can get back.
Stella
Me:I don’t know. He's cozying up to some PR bimbo because one of the JV kids couldn’t keep his fists to himself.
Sugar Plague:So why’s he the one stuck at home? Shouldn’t the kid be kissing ass, not Donovan?
Blythe: Probably because the PR rep wants to show a united coaching staff, not a divided front.
Sugar Plague:Or maybe she just knows you turn into a cranky little cactus when you’re not getting your regular dose of vitamin D.
Blythe:Please tell me you mean sunlight.
Sugar Plague:… Do I?
Me:I hate you both.
Ansel is right; I am just mad because I don’t get to see Donovan for two additional weeks. I don’t actually think the PR bimbo is going to try to cozy up to my husband.Maybe I should send her a polite reminder that I own a casket company. And a crematorium.
At least my house isn’t totally empty. With Blythe leaving Sinclair the way she did, I offered her a fresh start and a place to land. She’s set up in the guest bedroom down the hall. She’s close enough that I can hear her soft footsteps at night, a reminder I’m not alone in this too-big house.
She’s still finding her footing. The move was sudden; there was no time for a plan. She left in the middle of the night after things with Sinclair turned ugly. The kind of ugly that sticks to your skin.
I don’t push for details, but I’ve caught enough glimpses: the way her hands shake some mornings, the way she stares a little too long at her untouched breakfast. We’ve both been adjusting to our new lives in our own ways.
For now, she’s helping out at Carrington Caskets. Okay, I might have invented a job for her, but she’s holding her own. Still, her dream is to get back into a nail salon, and so far, Agave Hills’s beauty gatekeepers aren’t letting outsiders in.
We’ll figure it out. Worst case, I bankroll the whole thing and have Bennett handle the renovations. He still owes me a favor from high school, which means I’ll get it done for a fraction of his usual ransom.
It was my junior year, and Bennett thought it would be a brilliant idea to sneak into the art room after hours to “borrow” a set of professional brushes for a mural he was painting under the bleachers. The problem? He tripped the alarm, and campussecurity had him cornered before he could make it out the side door.
I just happened to be in the studio finishing a project, so I slid the brushes into my own bag, walked out first, and told the guard that Bennett was just there to help me carry supplies to my car.
He’s been in my debt ever since. And I have no problem cashing it in for Blythe.
I decide I should probably talk to Donovan about the nail salon before I mention it to anyone else.
After a few hours, I’m restless. There’s only so much sorting through my parents’ things I can do—and I’m not ready to step foot in their bedroom.
Blythe and I head out for a hike. Cute leggings, matching cropped sweatshirts, tennis shoes, and water bottles—ready. Saguaro Crest has trails for every level, so we pick an intermediate one. Halfway up, we’re out of breath, laughing, and for a little while, today’s troubles are forgotten.
By the time we reach the top, we’re huffing like a cowboy who smokes a pack a day. We sit on a rock and take a selfie—because no pictures, no proof, right? I snap a less-than-glam shot (sweat is not my best accessory) and schedule a quick Instagram post.
