“So,” she says, “what’s the plan?”
I laugh under my breath, raw but real. “Honestly? I don’t have one. Move maybe. Open a bookstore somewhere coastal. Or spend a year getting lost in Europe, bartending, living out of a backpack. Find a small town where nobody cares about résumés or LinkedIn connections. Somewhere I can just be.”
Laurel’s mouth quirks. “North?”
I shake my head. “West, actually.”
Toward something wilder. Uncharted. Toward a version of myself I haven’t met yet.
“Doesn’t scare you?” she asks, her voice lighter now.
“No,” I say, smiling for real this time. “It’s the first thing that doesnt.”
She lifts her coffee cup in a silent toast. “Then go find your way, Rorie Adams. Whatever that looks like.”
Emotion wells in my throat, thick and bittersweet.
Before we part, she reaches out, covering my hand with hers. “They don’t need to be here for me to say this. Your parents are proud of the woman you’ve become. I hope you are, too.”
The words hit harder than anything else could have. I blink once. Twice. Then the tears slip free, tracing silent trails down my cheeks.
Laurel squeezes my hand. No rush. No awkwardness. Just letting me have the moment.
When I rise, one hand slides into my jacket pocket, fingers finding the compass tucked there. The brass is worn, edges smoothed by time and memory. I lift it, the needle still swings true, steady as ever.
And I think that’s the lesson. Even the things we think are broken can still find their way home.
And so can I.
CHAPTER 54
THE PIECES WE SALVAGE
NOLAN
The smell hits first.Faint bleach, fresh-baked bread, and florals. The lavender air freshener doesn’t quite cover the underlying weight of time passing too fast.
I push through the double doors into the lobby of Ridge Hollow Senior Living, my steps automatically slowing like the place itself demands it. Muted lighting. Soft colors. A hushed quiet meant to soothe frayed edges.
It doesn’t. It never has.
A woman approaches, a warm, practiced smile smoothing over her face. “Mr. Rhodes?”
Nodding once, I slide my hands into my jacket pockets.
“I’m Margaret. I oversee care planning here.” She gestures toward a small glass-walled office tucked just off the main sitting area. “Thank you for coming in.”
Inside, the office is neat, a little too staged. Plush chairs, a plate of untouched cookies on the side table. I don’t sit until she does, stretching my legs out and folding my arms across my chest like a shield.
Margaret pulls a manila file from the stack in front of her, smoothing it flat with careful fingers. “I know these meetings aren’t easy.”
I grunt in response. Meetings don’t scare me. It’s what they’re about that ties a fucking knot in my throat.
She clears hers softly. “Your father’s cognitive assessments show notable decline over the past few months. More confusion. Some sundowning behaviors. Increased wandering risk.”
I stare past her, at the framed photo on her desk. It’s a team of elderly residents playing cards, laughing. My mind is stuck on three specific words:
Wandering. Confusion. Risk.
