My insides did a triple axel. I could feel the blood draining from my face.
Harper jumped in, voice gentle. “Brie’s not really seeing anyone right now. She’s focusing on herself.”
Mom’s lips pursed. “That’s probably best. I always thought those French men were a little too… continental for you.”
I snorted, bitter. “You have no idea.”
She reached across the table and, for once, actually took my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “You’ll figure it out, darling. You always do.”
I wished I could believe her. Or that the words didn’t taste like lead in my mouth.
Oscar refilled our tea, and Aspen poured a little cream in each cup, her movements slow and soothing. She didn’t say much, just let the clinking of spoons and the aroma of fresh pastry fill the spaces where conversation would have been.
Mom started talking about how long we’d be living in Parker’s family home. I wasn’t sure what she was even going to do for money. I think my father may have had a life insurance policy that was still good? Harper listened, nodded, even asked follow-up questions. I let the words wash over me, staring out the window at the empty street and the parked motorcycles gleaming in the sun. Out there, someone was living a real life, one not defined by brunches and whispered gossip.
I wondered if I’d ever get to be that person.
My phone vibrated; a text from an unknown number. I almost didn’t check it, but curiosity won out.
It was a single sentence, no punctuation:
don’t let them break you
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Was it Gunner? I didn’t know if I wanted it to be.
I looked at Harper, her profile soft and sure in the morning light. Then at Mom, who was still talking about grout colors and the importance of a properly set table.
I excused myself, went to the restroom, and stood at the sink, hands shaking just enough to betray me if anyone looked too close.
I stared at my reflection. For once, the harsh overhead light felt honest.
“Don’t let them break you,” I whispered.
I wasn’t sure who “them” meant anymore, or if it mattered.
Maybe I’d figure it out. Maybe I wouldn’t.
I returned to the table, bracing myself for more maternal crossfire, but the dynamic had shifted. Harper’s eyes were bright, her excitement tangible, and even Mom had the air of a woman who’d just arranged the world’s neatest flower box. Aspen had retreated to the kitchen, probably to give us space, and Oscar was perched on the counter, nose twitching like he’d just detected a disturbance in the Force.
Harper jumped right in, as if she’d been waiting for me to come back. “So, actually, I wanted to talk to you both about something,” Harper said, fingers lacing together on the table. “I’m thinking of opening a dance studio in Dairyville. There’s an empty storefront across from the courthouse. The seller has agreed on an excellent sale price. I just need to get the contract signed and find a contractor and get the space prepped.”
Mom was delighted. “That’s wonderful! A proper business, Harper. You could teach children—maybe even adults. You could finally use your training.” She actually reached across the table to squeeze Harper’s hand, as if she’d just announced her candidacy for President.
“Here’s the best part though,” she said, leaning in. “The dance studio has two sides—one big, one a bit smaller. I only need the big one. The other space has great light and a storefront window. I thought… maybe you could doan art gallery. Or one of those paint-and-sip things. You know, with wine and acrylics and…” She stopped, grinning. “It could be fun, right?”
The suggestion hit me like a shot of espresso to the frontal cortex. For the first time in weeks, I felt my blood speed up for a reason other than panic. I could see it—rows of easels, the cheap, heady reek of dollar store acrylics, some group of loud Texans making bad jokes while I taught them how to draw cacti and wildflowers. Or maybe in the evenings, I could hang my own canvases in the window and let people judge them, the way they always had. Maybe I could turn it into an actual gallery.
The idea was stupid. It was small. It was so perfect I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
“You really want to do that with me?” I asked, voice coming out smaller than intended.
Harper beamed. “Of course. You could do private parties, girls’ nights, whatever you wanted. Dairyville isn’t exactly brimming with options, you know? People would line up.”
Mom’s hand went to her chest, nails clacking against her pearls. “That is a wonderful idea, girls. Brie, you could bring some… sophistication to the town. And Harper, you’d be the talk of Dairyville with your own studio.”
I felt my posture change, back straightening, fingers tapping involuntarily against the edge of my teacup. “We could do bachelorette parties,” I said, brain racing now. “Or birthday groups, or those weird team-building things where everyone paints the same bad landscape and pretends it’s not a cult.” My cheeks felt hot, but it was the good kind of flush—the kind that meant maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely dead inside.
