I don’t answer. Because that question feels dangerous. Like it might unravel me. Like she might know something that I don’t.
She presses on. “Look. I’m not saying run back and fall into his arms. I’m saying come back to Broken Heart Creek. Let people see your face again. Let him see it. Let you see what it feels like to stand on your own there. Not for him, but for you.”
My throat tightens. “You think I can do that?”
“I know you can.” She leans closer, voice dropping. “Opal would’ve gone back. Not for him, but for herself. And so should you.”
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “You always know how to hit where it hurts.”
“It’s not supposed to hurt,” she says. “It’s supposed to heal.”
We sit there for a while, letting the silence settle in.
Then, softly, I say, “What if I go back and he doesn’t want me?”
She shrugs. “Then we slash his tires and egg his truck. But either way, you’ll know. And you won’t have to wonder anymore.”
A laugh breaks out of me, wet and tired, but real. And for the first time in weeks I don’t feel so far away from brave.
“Okay,” I murmur, almost in disbelief at myself.
Before I can even blink, Phern jumps to her feet and hollers into the house, “Ora! She agreed!”
Mom appears in the doorway like she’s been lurking just out of sight this whole time, grinning like she won the lottery.
“Oh, hun,” she says, eyes shining. “I’m so proud of you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been set up?”
“Because you totally have,” Phern says with a wicked little smile. “Now go pack. Our flight leaves at eight.”
I blink. “Eight? As in tonight?”
They both just grin at me like it’s Christmas morning.
I groan but push to my feet. “You two are the worst.”
“We know,” Mom says sweetly, and Phern just winks.
I rush to my room, heart pounding. I toss things into my overnight bag, not caring what matches, what doesn’t. This isn’t about fashion. It’s about finally doing the thing I’ve been too scared to even consider.
I keep telling myself I’m not expecting much. Closure. That’s it. Just closure. But as I zip my bag and glance around the room I know it’s not just that. It’s for the girls growing inside me. To prove to myself that I tried.
When I come back out, I freeze. My parents are standing in the living room. With bags.
I frown. “Are you coming with me?”
Dad nods, as casual as if we’re going to the grocery store. “Figured we needed a little vacation. Heard it’s a pretty time of year in Wyoming.”
“It’s absolutely not,” I say flatly. “It’s mud season. And snow. Or mud and snow.” I look between the three of them. Suspicion rising. “You’ve all been planning this.”
Phern shrugs. “We might’ve had a group chat.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, trying not to smile. “You’re all lunatics.”
Mom pats my shoulder. “You’ll thank us later.”
I highly doubt that.
