She shakes her head. “Nope. Born and raised right here. Went to school here, got my first job here, and somehow I’m still here.”
“Wow.” It slips out before I can stop it, but I mean it. “I don’t know if I could do that. I mean, staying in one place that long? Doesn’t that feel—I don’t know—limiting?”
“Sometimes,” she admits quietly. “But it’s home. My family’s here. My friends. Everything I know.”
I study her for a moment, trying to reconcile the fearless, quick-witted woman in front of me with someone who’s never stepped outside the bubble of her hometown. “So you’ve never even thought about leaving? Not even once?”
She hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “I’ve thought about it,” she says softly. “But thinking about it and actually doing it are two very different things. And I don’t think I’d even know where to start.”
I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. There’s something raw and real about the way she says it, and I can tell she’s not looking for pity or judgment.
She’s being honest, and that’s what I asked for.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, leaning forward, “you strike me as someone who could figure it out if you wanted to. You’re smart, resourceful, and let’s face it, a little intimidating when you want to be. I don’t think there’s much you couldn’t handle.”
She blinks at me, surprised. “You think I’m intimidating?”
“Obviously. Beautiful, confident women always are.”
Lucy looks taken aback by that comment too. “Beautiful and confident?” She repeats the words like she’s rolling them around in her mouth, testing how they taste. “You really lay it on thick, don’t you?”
“Hey, I call it like I see it. Plus, it’s not laying it on thick if it’s true.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. “I feel like such a dipshit not having done anything ... I don’t know. Adventurous.”
“Everyone has their version of adventure. It doesn’t have to be skydiving or jet-setting across the world. Sometimes it’s just about stepping outside your comfort zone.”
Lucy lets out an unladylike snort, fingers fiddling with the edge of her hoodie sleeve. “You sound like a motivational speaker.”
“I try.” I grin.
“I have a confession to make,” she blurts out. “I am so small town that I live above my parents’ detached garage.” Lucy cringes. “Is that bad?”
My head tilts back when I laugh.
“Wait,” I say, still chuckling. “Above the garage? Like a real-life, fully functioning apartment or are we talking a futon and mini-fridge kind of situation?”
Lucy presses her lips together. “Somewhere in between. There’s a bed, a kitchenette, and the world’s tiniest bathroom. It’s cozy, okay?”
“Cozy,” I repeat, leaning forward with a grin. “Is that the word we’re using?”
“Don’t make fun of me!” She swats my arm, her cheeks flushing. “I like it there. It’s private, and it’s not like I need a lot of space.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. Honestly, it sounds kind of great. No annoying neighbors—plus, you can probably guilt your parents into delivering food right to your door.”
“I never said no annoying neighbors—sometimes my parents drive me nuts, especially my dad, who’s nosier than my mom.” She grins, the tension melting from her shoulders. “Mom brings me leftovers all the time. I think she feels bad for me.”
“Why would she feel bad?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because I never left? Everyone else went off to school, doing big, exciting things—college, careers, traveling—and I’m still here, living over a garage and teaching yoga classes.”
I watch her carefully, noting the way her gaze drops to her lap, like she’s bracing herself for me to say something stupid or patronizing.
I don’t.
Instead, I lean back against the couch, arms stretching across the backrest.
“You ever think maybe they’re the ones missing out?” I ask, my voice calm, steady. “I mean, yeah, traveling and careers are cool and all, but there’s something to be said for staying close to the people you love. Being home.”
