Outside, the sun was already burning off the morning haze. I saw Arsenal and Papa heading out. Bronc stood on the porch, arms folded, watching the road.
For the first time in weeks, I felt settled. Not calm—never that—but settled.
I knew I needed to go pick Brie up. We needed to talk, but not at her house. She was coming over to my place this time.
Chapter 9
Brie
If I’d known that being a grown-up meant waking up disappointed before you’d even opened your eyes, I might have stayed fifteen forever. The morning after Gunner got home from his trip to Fort Worth tasted like old lipstick and defeat, even though I’d done everything right. I’d soaked in the best bathwater, shaved what wasn’t already lasered, and softened my skin with the best lotions thinking that after the way he sexted me, he’d want to get his hands on me when he got home. And after all that? Nothing. He’d texted “night, Maverick” and then vanished like a magician with a double major in emotional ghosting.
For a full twenty minutes, I debated throwing my phone at the wall or, better, marching across the dirt road and demanding satisfaction, old-school duel style. But how did I handle it? Text book response. I replied with:
“Fine.”
I lay there, staring at the faint water ring on the ceiling (French apartment, move over—this was the new aesthetic), listening to my mother clatter around in the kitchen like she was auditioning for a Foley gig. I refused to let anyone see I cared, so I spent an extra five minutes perfecting my eyeliner, then another ten getting my hair into a “messy bun” thatlooked less like I’d slept in it and more like I’d fought a wild animal for the right to exist.
That’s when I called Maddie. If anyone could salvage a day from the quicksand of mediocrity, it was her.
She answered on the first ring, voice husky with sleep or a hangover. “Tell me you’re bringing coffee.”
“If you bring the car, I’ll bring the promise of coffee and maybe a pastry from Aspen’s after lunch.”
Her exhale sounded like a dragon dying. “Deal. Where are we going?”
“Pearl’s, then the shops. I need…” I paused, staring at my open closet, which contained exactly three wearable outfits and one dress I was pretty sure belonged to my sister. “Everything. I need everything.”
“Say no more, queen,” she said. “Be there in ten.”
By the time I heard the familiar crunch of tires of Maddie’s pickup, I’d lined my lips twice and pulled on my cowboy boots. My mother was perched at the dining table, wearing a powder-blue tracksuit and a cloud of Chanel, the local paper folded to the crossword.
She looked up, one eyebrow already mid-arch. “Plans for the day, darling?”
“Lunch. Shopping. Therapy by way of retail.”
She hummed, unimpressed. “Be careful out there, sweetheart. And pick out something pretty.”
“Of course, Mom. I’ll find some pretty things to wear.” I blew a kiss and sprinted for the door, grabbing my faded blue tote (it said Musée d’Orsay on it, just so everyone would know I was cultured).
Maddie’s truck idled, AC cranked up. She was as pretty as ever with her freshly dyed pink hair in one long braid over her shoulder. She’d gone light on the makeup with only dark eyeliner and hot pink lip gloss on her pouty lips. She had on jeans and boots and a Morgan Wallen t-shirt. The girl was effortlessly beautiful. I loved her.
She sized me up. “You look good. You expecting to see someone?”
“Is it that obvious?” I groaned.
“Honestly, yeah. You look like a woman with a secret.”
I slumped into the seat, letting the icy air hit my face. “If by secret you mean an untreated attachment disorder, then yes. I’ve got it in spades.”
She smirked, pulling out onto the street. “Who are we ignoring today? Your mom or Gunner?”
I closed my eyes, dramatic. “Both. And also myself.”
She howled, thumping the wheel. “I have missed this.”
Pearl’s was already packed when we rolled up, but since her mother owned the place, the hostess waved us in like we were celebrities. There was a table free by the window, sun glinting off the little vases of wildflowers that Pearl swapped out every morning. I wanted to live in that kind of confidence—every surface curated, every detail soft and inviting.
The menu was classic: chicken-fried everything, two whole pages devoted to pie, and a coffee so strong it could be used to strip paint. We ordered two lunch specials, which turned out to be BLTs with extra B.
