Chapter 1
Of course. Of course this is where it dies.
The temperature gauge climbs into the red, needle racing toward some finish line nobody told me about, and I'm thinking—with the kind of clarity that only comes from three days of driving on four hours of sleep—that this tracks perfectly with how the rest of my week's been going. My month. My year, if I'm being honest, which I try not to be because honesty's exhausting and I'm already running on fumes. Literally. The gauge says I've got a quarter tank left, but the way my car's shuddering says it's lying. Wouldn't be the first time something lied to me this month.
The engine makes a death rattle—which, yeah, fair—and I coast off the highway onto the shoulder, dust kicking up in a cloud that turns the afternoon sun apocalyptic. Everything out here screams end times. Miles and miles of nothing, heat shimmering off asphalt, and somewhere in the distance, what might be a town. Or a mirage. Could go either way at this point.
I put the car in park. Turn the key. Nothing. Not even a cough. Just dead, clicking silence and my own breathing, faster than it should be. I tell myself it's the heat, not panic. Definitelynot panic. I don't panic. I left panic back in that hotel room two states ago along with my engagement ring and any remaining faith in my own judgment.
I sit there for a minute, hands on the wheel, staring at the horizon waiting for it to explain itself. The sun's dipping but still brutal, turning everything the color of old photographs, and my tank top's already stuck to my back. I should probably cry. That feels appropriate for a car dying in the middle of the desert when you've got exactly two hundred and thirty-seven dollars to your name and nowhere to go. But I'm too tired to cry. Too tired to do anything except sit here and think about how I'm going to explain this to... nobody. There's nobody to explain it to. That was kind of the whole point of leaving.
"Okay," I say out loud, because talking to myself is better than the silence. "Okay. You've survived worse. You survived that rehearsal dinner where Evan's mother spent twenty minutes explaining how my hips were 'child-bearing' in front of everyone. You can survive this."
The town—definitely a town, I can see buildings now, actual structures that aren't actively wavering in the heat—is maybe half a mile up the road. Walkable. Probably. If I don't pass out first. I grab my duffel from the back seat, my purse, and the box with everything else I own, which isn't much. Clothes. Some books. The stuffed elephant I've had since I was seven that I'm not ready to admit I still need. I lock the car out of habit even though there's nothing out here to steal it except maybe a coyote with a criminal record, and I start walking.
The asphalt's hot enough that I feel it through my sneakers. Heat radiates up in waves, making my calves ache, and I'm sweating before I make it ten steps. My duffel keeps sliding off my shoulder. The box is heavier than I remember. And I'm talking to myself again, narrating my own disaster as if I'm the protagonist in some tragedy where the moral is "don't run awayfrom your wedding three days before it happens because your fiancé mistakes bruises for affection."
"Could be worse," I tell the empty road. "Could be raining. Or on fire. Things could always be on fire."
They're not on fire. They're just hot. So hot I'm pretty sure I'm melting, and by the time I reach the edge of town—a faded sign that says Welcome to Coyote Bend in letters bleached almost white—I'm dizzy and thirsty and starting to think maybe I should have cried back in the car, just to get it over with.
The town looks like progress drove past and forgot to stop. Everything's sun-bleached and rusted, power lines buzzing overhead, buildings leaning into each other like they're too tired to stand up straight on their own. There's a gas station, a few scattered shops, and right there on the corner, glowing in pink neon: Sunny's.
Air conditioning. Cold water. Somewhere to sit that isn't a car or the side of a highway.
I'm through the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The blast of cold air hits me—absolution in AC form. I stop just inside the entrance, letting it wash over me, and I swear I hear angels singing except it's actually Dolly Parton on the radio and the hum of an AC unit working overtime. Chrome booths line the windows. Checkered floor. The smell of coffee and pie and something frying that makes my stomach remind me I haven't eaten since yesterday.
"Sit anywhere, honey," a voice calls from behind the counter.
I look over and there's a woman in her fifties with red lipstick and steel-toe boots, wiping down the counter with the efficiency of someone who's done this ten thousand times and will do it ten thousand more. Her eyes flick over me—the duffel, the box, the look on my face that probably screams "disaster in progress"—and her expression softens.
"You look like you need coffee," she says. Not a question. A diagnosis.
"Coffee would be great," I manage, sliding into the nearest booth. The vinyl's cool against my legs and I almost cry from relief. "And, uh, whatever's cheapest on the menu. Please. Or—do you have a menu? I should look at a menu first before just ordering random things like some kind of feral person who doesn't understand how restaurants work—"
She disappears into the back, returns thirty seconds later with coffee in a mug the size of my head and a slice of pie that I definitely didn't order. Lemon meringue, the kind with peaks that look like they belong on a mountain range.
"I didn't—" I start, but she's already waving me off.
"Looks like you need it more than my freezer does," she says, setting it down in front of me. "I'm Sunny. You passing through or running from something?"
I laugh before I can stop myself. "That obvious?"
"Honey, I've been running this place for thirty years. I know the difference between passing through and fleeing for your life." She leans against the booth, arms crossed, not unkind but not letting me off the hook either. "So which is it?"
"Little bit of both?" I take a sip of coffee. It's strong enough to strip paint and exactly what I need. "My car died about half a mile out. I walked here. And now I'm... here. Which is technically a location but I'm using it as a life philosophy at this point because I genuinely have no idea what I'm doing and honestly I think the heat might be making me hallucinate because this pie looks too good to be real—"
"It's real, honey. Eat."
From the booth behind me, I hear an elderly woman's voice say, "Nadine, I'm telling you, the cobbler's better."
"You always say that," an elderly man's voice responds. "But the lemon tart's got more character."
"Character? It's a tart, Abe. It doesn't need character, it needs to taste good."
I glance over my shoulder. There's a couple in the booth behind me, probably in their seventies, holding hands across the table while they bicker about dessert with the kind of affection that makes my chest ache. They're both sun-weathered and smiling, having this exact argument for what must be the fiftieth year running.
