“Allergic to open spaces, period,” McKenna says, exaggerating for my dad’s benefit. “LA is ninety-nine percent concrete and the other one percent is sand. Even the beaches are crowded.”
Our shared laughter fills the kitchen, followed by the kind of silence you can nestle into.
McKenna breaks the mood by asking me, “So, what time do you have your interview?”
“Ten.”
“When will you be back?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how long the interview will take.”
“You’re going to crush it,” McKenna says, like the chronic optimist she is.
Dad nods silently. “Check in with Jace when you’re back here.”
“I will.” I finish my last bite and stand to clear my plate. Before I leave the kitchen, I lean in and hug Dad from behind while he’s still seated.
My dad’s never been a man of many words, but his facetells you everything you want to know—even when it’s shuttered. And he definitely isn’t teamCarli gets the job. But he’s not stopping me, so that says something.
I’m twenty-six—old enough to run my own life. Something happens on a ranch, though. You grow up early, and yet, in some ways you never fully grow up. I’ve had adult responsibilities since I was old enough to make my way to the barn without getting into too much trouble. But I still answer to my mom and brother—even now, as an adult. I’m ready to spread my wings—as long as it doesn’t mean leaving my family in the lurch in the process.
McKenna finishes her plate and joins me in the UTV. We drive to my cottage, the misty rain making the landscape look like something out of a Jane Austen movie.
Once we’re in my cottage, the nerves about my interview ramp up. This is about to get real. I hop in the shower while McKenna makes herself at home. When my hair is dry and my makeup is on, I step into the bedroom where she’s leaning back against my headboard, scrolling her phone.
McKenna smiles and says, “Well, if your dad’s whole vibe at breakfast didn’t say send-off parade, I don’t know what would.”
“Right?” I ask, pulling a shirt off a hanger and holding it up to myself in my full-length mirror. “The idea of me getting a job is an adjustment for him.”
McKenna steps up beside me, running her hand across my shirts and eyeing each one as she does. “That one you’re holding is a no.”
“Why?”
“It saysSunday school teacher.”
“And that’s bad because … ?”
Granted, McKenna knows fashion. I know how to dress to get the job done. This isn’t a runway—it’s a county position. Still, I hesitate, studying the shirt in my hands.
She just tips her head and smirks. “Just no. You want something that screamsconfident woman attuned to details,notI’m great with a flannelgraph.”Then she mutters, “I forgot how much I missed a closet that isn’t a glorified cereal box.”
I hold my white, collared shirt up. “What I picked out is fine.”
“Fine is not going to impress the people interviewing you. You need something that says fire inspector.”
“Like a suit?”
“A suit, but … I don’t know. Nothing with flames, obviously.”
“How about one with an extinguisher motif across the skirt?”
“You have that?”
“Um. No.” I laugh. “Can I just dress like a normal person?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Give me a minute here.” McKenna pulls out a shirt I forgot I owned. It’s silk and professional, but not stodgy. “Here. Put that with this skirt.” She pulls out a simple brown skirt that falls mid-calf.
I try the outfit on while McKenna falls back on my mattress and rambles. “Maybe you just need to come with me to Cali next time I go.”
