I stood in front of his bedroom mirror, squinting at myself in the daylight. My hair was a tangle, the blue tips standing out like war paint. My face was splotchy but alive, lips still red from biting. I brushed my fingers over the bruises, then touched the skin above my heart, where it hurt most.
We’re going to be okay, I told my wolf. We just have to try.
The wolf licked its paw and settled in, smug and at peace for the first time since Paris.
I went back to the kitchen, made another cup of coffee, and sat at the table to wait. I didn’t know what the day would bring, or what Gunner would say when he got home. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was running. I felt claimed, and it was the best kind of terrifying.
I finished the second cinnamon roll, licking sugar off my fingers, and looked out the window. The ranch stretched forever, fields and fences and a line of pecan trees dark against the sky. I tried to picture myself here—a gallery in town, dinners at this table, a life that felt rooted instead of borrowed.
It seemed impossible. But I wanted it.
That was the beginning.
Downtown Dairyville was five blocks of nostalgia posing as progress, and our new building was smack in the middle—a two-story brick-and-mortar leftover from the days when people did their shopping on foot and not by algorithm. I parked the Lexus (Harper’s, but she’d let me drive today) in front of the curb, next to a battered feed truck and a golf cart loaded with someone’s groceries. The fresh paint on the facade gleamed in the Texas sun, a kind of midnight blue that made the old brick pop like a before-and-after shot on a reality show. The awning above the front windows read “Tierney-Davenport Building” in chunky serif, and I made a note to one day swap it out for something less geriatric.
The architect Chantel was pulling away just as I’d pulled in. She’d been more hands-on than I’d thought she’d be, regularly checking on the construction crews. She wanted to be sure her designs and blueprints were being followed to the letter. It had been a few weeks, and things had really started to take shape.
Harper was already inside, talking to the construction foreman. I could hear her laugh through the glass, bright and insistent, even over the whine of a power saw. She wore high-waisted jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and a pair of Blundstones—her “I’m not here to mess around” outfit. Her hair was up in a bun, but stray pieces fell out, framing her face in the kind ofdeliberate chaos you’d pay $200 for at a salon. She saw me through the window and waved, then pointed to her watch in a way that said “you’re late, but I forgive you.”
I hustled across the sidewalk, ducking past a pair of construction guys in matching orange t-shirts, and let myself into the cool, echoey space. The ground floor was already gutted to the bones, dust swirling in sunbeams. Rows of bare bulbs hung from the rafters, and the smell of fresh paint and sawdust was so thick you could taste it. There were two ladders, three folding tables covered in blueprints, and a stack of drywall leaned against the far wall like dominoes waiting to fall.
Harper called out, “You’re here! You brought coffee, right?”
I handed her the drink carrier—Aspen’s again; I’d grabbed extra cinnamon rolls for the crew. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat all of these on the way over.” I tossed her one, nearly missing her head. She caught it one-handed, then gave me a squinty, up-and-down look, noticing my small wince.
“Gunner the cause of that?” She asked, eyebrows up.
I flushed. “Combo situation. I started it. He finished it.”
She just grinned. “Oh girl, there’s a story there that is dying to be told. When you’re ready, I’ll be ready to listen.”
We walked together to the back, where the new dividing wall was going up—metal studs already set, insulation peeking out like pink cotton candy. The forewoman, a short woman with inked arms and a permanent scowl, met us there.
She gestured to the wall that would divide our spaces. “We’ll have this up by Thursday. Drywall done in a couple of days. Office doors after that. Your side’s got the better light, by the way.”
Harper smirked. “Told you.”
We did a walk-through of the space. The ground floor was divided into two large sections. On one side, the future studio for Harper’s dance classes; on the other, my gallery, with an open floor plan, a reception area and small office at the back. The ceilings were high; the ductwork paintedmatte black; and the floors were original hardwood, sanded and sealed. Upstairs, a catwalk circled the open atrium, leading to my office and a storage room.
I stood in what would be my gallery, picturing it full of paintings and sculptures and people who didn’t see Dairyville as a dead end. “It’s perfect,” I whispered.
Harper nudged me. “You’re going to crush it here. You know that, right?”
I let myself believe her for a second. “I want to. I want to do something…big.” I looked out through the unfinished windows at Main Street, where the only movement was a dog sleeping in a patch of shade. “I don’t want to just sell art. I want to bring something real here. Get people talking.”
Harper’s gaze softened. “You’re already doing that. You’re the only person I know who could turn a boarded-up furniture store into a dream in just weeks.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “You did tons of the heavy lifting, harassing contractors and consulting with the architect. I just made mood boards and picked colors.”
“That’s called being a visionary, babe. Plus, let's face it, our trust fund did most of the heavy lifting.”
She wasn’t wrong about that. Money talked.
The forewoman’s walkie crackled, and she excused herself. Harper and I wandered up to the mezzanine, where the UV-coated glass windows had just been installed. The sunlight came through in cool sheets, turning the floors blue and gold.
“This is your office,” Harper said, pulling me up to the unfinished room. It was barely framed in, just a suggestion of walls, but the view was incredible. You could see the entire gallery below, every inch of future space.
I looked down at the unfinished gallery below, imagining opening-night crowds, wine glasses, the hum of people who actually cared about beauty. “It’s insane,” I said. “How did we even get here?”
