“So Tuesday.”
He chuckles. “Exactly.”
We clean up, and he heads out, probably to terrorize another client in town. I’m left with the echo of my own breathing and the faint creak of the barn settling around me.
The silence used to feel like home. Now it just feels like an echo I can’t shake off.
I wander to the open doors, towel slung over my neck, and watch the morning unfold. My brother Rowan’s truck pulls into the drive, and my sister Hadley’s voice drifts in from the porch. The smell of bacon sneaks through the breeze, and mystomach growls loud enough to make a cow in the pasture look over.
“Come eat before Mom declares you malnourished,” Hadley calls, hands cupped around her mouth. She’s standing on the porch steps, messy bun, leggings, coffee mug that saysGood Moms Say Bad Words.
“Already did rehab,” I say.
“Rehab doesn’t count as food.”
“Tell that to my protein shake.”
She rolls her eyes and disappears inside.
I grab my hoodie from the bench and follow, flexing my hand to keep the joint loose. Every motion’s a reminder of the hit that ended everything—the way my arm twisted wrong, the pop, the crowd’s gasp that swallowed the world.
Some days, I hear it in my sleep.
Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter. Mom stands at the stove, flipping pancakes like she’s feeding an army. She looks up when I walk in, smile bright and knowing.
“There he is,” she says.
“Morning, Ma.”
“Sit. Eat. Don’t argue.”
I sit. I eat. I don’t argue. It’s the Wright family way.
Hadley drops into the chair across from me, already scrolling through her phone. “So Bailey’s roof is leaking.”
I freeze halfway through a bite.
“Lila says Bailey’s been patching it herself.”
“She shouldn’t be on a roof. That woman is so stubborn. She should hire someone to do it.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Why do you sound personally offended?”
“I’m not. I just—roofs are dangerous.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her coffee. “Maybe you should go help her. You know. Be useful while you’re pretending to be retired.”
Mom sets a plate in front of me, pancakes stacked high. “She’s a good girl, that Bailey,” she says, as if that’s relevant. “I don’t know why you two don’t talk.”
“Because we’re adults with separate lives,” I say, stabbing at the pancakes.
“Separate zip codes don’t mean separate lives,” Hadley singsongs.
I give her my best big-brother glare, which works on everyone but her.
“I saw her yesterday,” Mom continues, undeterred. “Still running that sweet little bookstore. Lighthouse looks beautiful.”
Of course she did. My mother collects small-town updates like souvenirs. I don’t add that I saw her, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t already sought out that information.
