I don’t even make it three steps into the kitchen before I freeze and then groan.
Sam has Charlie bent over the counter, both of their jeans around their ankles like it’s amateur hour in a low-budget porno. Charlie’s head tips toward the doorway, and the second our eyes meet, hers go wide in horror. Probably mirroring the horror on my own face.
“Sam,” Charlie breathes, panic in her voice.
“That’s right, darlin’. Take it all,” Sam grunts like some absolute caveman.
“For the love of God!” I practically screech. “You two have a bedroom. Freaking use it!”
I don’t wait for a reply. I spin on my heel and haul ass down the hall, stomping into my room and slamming the door behind me. Tears are already spilling down my cheeks, hot and humiliated and ridiculous.
Then, like the universe just wants to twist the knife, I hear Sam Jr start wailing in the other room. And just like that, I feel like an even bigger asshole.
I have to get out of this house.
That’s the only solution.
Grabbing my phone, I open the browser and start searching flights. My fingers fly across the screen, booking the first onethat makes sense. I don’t stop. I can’t stop because if I do, I’ll talk myself out of it. I’ll justify staying. I’ll pretend I’m fine.
And I’m not.
I don’t just need out of the house. I need out of this town. Maybe even the whole damn state. I think of Will, and the weight of everything unsaid between us, and suddenly Kansas sounds like salvation.
Once everything’s booked, I pack my suitcase quickly. Like if I move fast enough, the ache won’t catch up.
When I step into the living room, Sam is there, gently rocking Sam Jr in his arms. His face softens when he sees me.
“I’m sorry—” we both say at the same time.
I shake my head. “It’s your house, Sam. You should be able to do whatever you want.”
He looks at me like I just cracked something in him. “It’s your house too, Phern.”
But it’s not. Not really. Not since our parents died without updating the will. No, according to the law, this all belongs to Sam and I’m just a late-in-life afterthought.
I swallow hard and say, “I’m going to visit Olive in Kansas for a while. When I get back I think it’s best if I start looking for a place.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but I hold up a hand.
“I need to do this, Sam.” I offer a small, tired smile. “Besides, how else am I going to force myself to actually use my college degree?”
He nods, but there’s worry in his eyes. And maybe something else—grief, guilt, and the understanding that this isn’t just a trip. It’s me letting go.
“Text me when you get there,” Sam says, bouncing Sam Jr gently in his arms.
“I will.”
I offer a small smile then turn and step outside. The morning air is warm, the kind of Wyoming spring day that makes you believe things might get better.
After tossing my bag into the back of my truck, I climb in, roll the windows down, and take off. The tires crunch against the gravel drive as I pull away from the house that used to feel like home.
The drive takes me down Main Street, right through the heart of Broken Heart Creek. God, I love this little town. I have loved it. Every weather-worn corner. Every crooked sign. Every memory stitched into its sidewalks.
But it doesn’t feel like there’s a place for me here anymore.
Not really.
Not when everything I want seems wrapped in what I can’t have.
