But then—a crash shatters the calm. My heart leaps straight into my ass. I slam on the brakes in reaction to the catastrophe. Another deer quickly bounds away, leaving behind my side mirror, dangling by a single cord. Great.Breaking Fucking News:I just got T-boned by Bambi. I should have known there would be more than one deer. I grew up here. I know better.
"Of course," I exhale, as the deer disappears without a glance back, swallowed by the darkness beyond the trees.
Five years. Five years of city life, far away from this sleepy hollow town that I never thought I’d come back to. With a shake of my head, I keep driving. This town, these woods—they don't belong to me anymore. And with one last glance at the pathetic remnant of my side-mirror swaying gently, Irealize that maybe it’s a sign. Did I make a mistake coming back here?
I navigate the familiar winding road that cuts through the heart of my past. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. Ponds and tall trees sweep by. The GPS finally declares in the Australian accent I selected, “You’ve arrived,” like I’ve just pulled up to a five-star hotel and not a field full of trucks, trailers, and questionable decisions.
Welcome back to small-town life, Sawyer.
Memories flood in—county fairs, starry-night concerts, and now… my brother, Knox, willingly strapping himself to a bull like that’s a normal way to spend a Friday night. I’m equal parts nostalgic and mildly horrified. After growing up with that wild child, I’ve seen enough ER visits to fill a photo album.
But hey, what better way to announce my dramatic return than popping up right before he gets tossed like a rag doll?
Pulling into a makeshift parking spot, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, taking in the buzz of distant cheers. I straighten up and step out of the car. A sidelong glance confirms the damage: my side mirror still dangles unpleasantly.
I dust off my dress and follow the cheers towards the fairgrounds. Then, I spot a no-nonsense man in uniform guarding the entrance.
"Excuse me," I call out. "How much for entry?"
"Last performance is almost over," he says sternly. "No entry."
"Sir," I press, not in the mood for this. "My brother's inside there, and I just drove all the way from Chicago. A lot more traffic and deranged deers than Iexpected."
The expression on his face stays stale. "No entry," he repeats.
This man is uncalled for.
I tilt my head, forcing a tight smile. "Well now, isn't this the warmest welcome I've ever received," I say, sarcastically. "Do all guests get the red carpet treatment, or am I just special?"
For a moment, there's a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe?—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He turns away and dismisses me entirely.
"Good chat," I say bitterly. I could argue, insist, demand, but something holds me back. I pivot on my heel, leaving the stubborn guard. "No entry my ass," I whisper to myself.
I scan the perimeter, looking for something, any sign of an alternative route. The trailers, haphazardly arranged to the left, catch my eye. They form a line next to an area that leads to a promising gap in the fence—an open pathway.
With all the determination of a woman on a mission—and exactly none of the footwear for it—I strut toward the trailers like I belong here. The ground is uneven, probably plotting against me, but I keep moving.
Then it happens. My right heel betrays me, sinking straight into a patch of mud so squishy it could easily be quicksand. Shoe? Gone. Dignity? Hanging on by a pesky little thread.
Now I’m hopping on one foot, muttering every four-letter word I know as I crouch down to rescue my Louboutin from the depths of hell. Mud oozes between my fingers—cold, wet, and deeply personal.
"Sign number two I should not be back here," I grumble.
The trailers are lined up in a row as I tiptoe past. A sudden burst of laughter grabs my attention, and I jerk to a stop.
"Are you with the beauty pageant?" The voice startles me, and I spin around, dirt-streaked heel in hand. A woman leans against the door of a trailer.
"Uh, yes. Yes, I am," I reply, the lie sliding off my tongue with an ease that surprises me. My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, hoping she doesn’t realize I was sneaking in.
The woman's gaze drops to the heel in my hand, her lips quivering with a hint of disapproval. "You can clean yourself up in trailer three," she says, nodding toward the trailer just ahead.
"Thank you," I murmur, walking toward the one she suggested. When I push the door open, the faint smell of warm vanilla hits me.
I step inside, relieved. Thank God for small wins. At least I didn’t lose the shoes. Sure, Harrison bought them, but they’re still Louboutins, and I’m not about to let designer footwear die on enemy soil.
I snatch a paper towel from the kitchen counter and run it under the faucet, dabbing carefully at the mud clinging to my heel. Once I’ve done a halfway decent job, I slip the shoe back on—only to glance down and realize I missed a few stubborn spots.
With an annoyed sigh, I bend down to finish the job, laser-focused on scrubbing. The faucet's still running, white noise in the background. Then everything freezes.
