“Ugh, everything.” She wrinkles her nose. “The fluorescent lights. The office politics. The fact that nobody cared about the actual science, just the profit margins.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the road.
“I worked in a lab in New Jersey for two years,” she continues. “And one day I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made something just because it was beautiful. Everything was about efficiency and cost-per-unit and shareholder value.” She shakes her head. “So, I quit.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” She says it lightly, but there’s weight underneath. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “My parents were... not supportive.”
I slow down for a stop sign, using the moment to look at her fully.
“What does ‘not supportive’ mean?”
She meets my eyes, then looks away.
“My mom said I was throwing away my education on a hobby. My dad said if I wasn’t going to be serious about my future, he wasn’t going to pay for my mistakes.”
I pull forward through the intersection, my hands tightening on the wheel.
“I haven’t talked to either of them in almost three years,” she says quietly.
The words hang in the cab of the truck. I can hear the hurt she’s trying to bury under that matter-of-fact tone, and it makes me want to hit something.
I squeeze her hand instead. “Their loss.”
She glances at me, surprised. “Most people tell me I should try to fix things. That family is family.”
“Most people don’t know what they’re talking about.”
That gets me a real smile, small but genuine. Something loosens in my chest at the sight of it.
“So,” I say, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles. “You quit the job, your parents cut you off. How does Montana enter the picture?”
She laughs, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
“I was driving.” She shifts again, angling her body toward me. I feel the warmth of her knee pressing against my thigh. “After I left New Jersey, I just got in my car and started going west. No plan. I had some savings and a suitcase and this vague idea that I wanted to be somewhere that didn’t smell like exhaust fumes and desperation.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the road but tracking every word, every shift in her voice.
“I drove for four days,” she continues. “Slept at rest stops. Ate a lot of terrible gas station food. And then one morning, I came over this ridge outside of town?—”
She stops. I glance over and find her looking out the windshield, but her eyes are distant, like she’s somewhere else.
“The sun was coming up over the mountains,” she says, her voice softer now. “There was fog in the valley. I pulled over and got out of my car and just... stood there. The air smelled like pine and snow and nothing else. No pollution. No noise. Just clean.”
My grip on the steering wheel loosens. I’m watching the road, but I’m seeing her—standing on the side of a mountain at dawn, breathing in a new life.
“I stood there for twenty minutes,” she says. “Just breathing. And I thought, this is it. This is what I want to make people feel.” She looks over at me, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “See? Stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I moved to a town where I didn’t know a single person because I liked how the air smelled, Ben.”
“You moved to a place that made you feel something.” I look over at her, holding her gaze for a beat longer than I should while I’m driving. “And then you built a whole life around helping other people feel things too. That’s not stupid. That’s brave.”
She holds my gaze, and I watch something shift behind her eyes.
