I know because I’ve been counting. Fourteen calls, twenty-two texts, and at least six emails—all in the twenty minutes since I left my office. The caterer wants to confirm the Valentine’s menu. The venue coordinator has “concerns” about the table layout. Mrs. Patterson needs to know if her nephew can still get a ticket even though sales closed last week.
My brain automatically starts triaging. Caterer is urgent, venue can wait until tomorrow, Mrs. Patterson’s nephew can have ticket number forty-seven from the reserve list I keep for exactly this kind of situation.
The answer is yes. It’s always yes. Because I’m Tessa Lang, and I don’t say no to anyone.
Except today.
Today, I reach over and turn my phone off.
The silence is immediate. Startling. Like the whole world just went quiet.
I wait for the panic to set in. For the familiar clench in my chest that comes whenever I’m not immediately available.
It doesn’t come.
Instead—just quiet. The hum of my engine. Snow starting to fall outside my windshield. The distant gray of mountains through the trees.
And relief. Actual, honest-to-god relief.
When did answering my phone start feeling like a punishment?
The roadto Pine Valley winds through the mountains, all sharp curves and pine trees heavy with white. I take the turns slow, watching the flakes drift down in the beam of my headlights.
Forty minutes each way. That’s what it costs me to live in Honeyridge instead of Pine Valley, where most of my clients are. Forty minutes of mountain roads and questionable weather and gas money I probably shouldn’t spend.
Worth it. Every single time.
I didn’t grow up with community. Didn’t grow up with much of anything—just a rotating cast of foster families and the hard lesson that the only person you could count on was yourself. By the time I aged out at eighteen, I had a garbage bag of clothes, a chip on my shoulder, and zero expectations that anyone would ever have my back.
But Honeyridge snuck past my defenses. Maeve sliding me an extra scone when I look tired. Sadie saving the best flowers for my events. Everyone waving on Main Street like I belong there, like I’ve always belonged there.
First time Maeve called me “sweetheart” and meant it, I almost cried into my coffee.
These people adopted me without asking permission. Just decided I was theirs, and that was that.
I’ve never had that before.
The snow falls thicker now, coating the road in a thin white layer. I ease off the gas, feel the tires grip. The wipers sweep back and forth, a steady rhythm.
And I do something I haven’t done in years.
I turn on music.
Not talk radio. Not productivity podcasts. Actual music—Taylor Swift and Kacey Musgraves and that Fleetwood Mac album I played on repeat the summer before senior year.
When the first notes hit, I sing along. Badly, off-key, missing half the words.
My voice cracks on the chorus and I laugh—actually laugh, out loud, alone in my car—and try again. Still terrible, but I don’t care.
My shoulders drop away from my ears. My grip loosens on the wheel. The tight thing in my chest that’s been there for weeks—months, maybe—starts to unwind.
This. I remember this. Singing in my car like no one’s listening, because no one is. Feeling light and free and young again.
When did I stop letting myself be free?
Don’t answer that, Lang. You know exactly when. Somewhere between the third foster home and the second job and the desperate need to prove you didn’t need anyone.
I turn the volume up. Belt the next verse. The snow swirls outside my windows and I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
