And somehow, confessing it out loud to my sisters and declaring it just an idiotic teenage mistake that I’m long over makes me feel like it’s true.
Waylon Ludlow and our drunken, fumbling night together is nothing but a faded, regret-filled memory.
I’m sitting on the top step of my parents’ front porch, elbows on my knees, boots hooked on the edge. The paint on the railing is chipped, where I carved my and my little sister’s initials when I was twelve—WDL and PCL. Waylon David Ludlow and Priscilla Christine “Crissy” Ludlow.
I remember Momma screaming at me when she saw it. They had just had the entire house painted the week before.
I gently rub a finger over the letters.
Guess it hasn’t been painted since.
The screen door is propped open, and laughter spills out of the house. Ruby’s laugh. High and unguarded, and it takes me back to the summer before everything went sideways.
Crissy used to fill this house with laughter.
My mother’s voice follows, softer but just as full, teasing Ruby about something, prompting more giggles. There’s a clatter of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator, the familiar creak of a house that’s held generations of Ludlows.
The sound makes my chest ache.
For the first time in … hell, I don’t even know how long, my shoulders drop. Not all the way. I don’t think they ever will. But enough that I notice the difference. Enough that the knot between my shoulder blades loosens, just a fraction.
Peace is a dangerous thing. It sneaks up on you when you’re not looking and makes you believe you can stay.
I hear the truck before I see it. Diesel engine, familiar rattle, tires crunching on the gravel drive.
Caison always did like a loud truck.
It slows to a stop. The passenger window slides down, and he leans over. He’s wearing a ball cap pulled low, shadowing his eyes.
“You ready?” he says. “It’s been a long day. I could use a beer.”
I glance back through the screen door and catch sight of my daughter climbing onto a chair at the kitchen island. Already dressed in her pink pajamas, happily chatting away to her nana, who’s making hot cocoa.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I’m ready.”
“Hop in.”
I push up from the step and climb in, the seat creaking under my weight. The cab smells like leather, dust, and coffee that’s been reheated one too many times. Familiar, in a way Vegas never was.
We pull out of the drive, the house shrinking behind us, and I don’t look back. I’ve done enough of that for one lifetime. I know Ruby is safe and sound with my parents, so I can relax and let go for an evening.
It’s been a while.
Ten Points Tavern sits exactly where it always has—squatting at the edge of town. The half-lit neon sign flickers—always has. Dim yellow light spills onto the gravel lot, illuminating a handful of beat-up trucks parked at weird angles.
Inside, it’s darker than I remember and exactly the same. Low ceiling. Scuffed floors. Pub tables scarred and weathered. An old jukebox hums in the corner, waiting for someone drunk enough to feed it.
The place smells like beer, sweat, and history.
Every stool at the bar is occupied by a man who looks like he’s been worked hard by the land and life. No women. Not a one. And for once, that feels like a mercy.
We take the two empty stools at the far end. The bartender—a man I recognize, but can’t quite name—nods once as Caison throws up two fingers. A minute later, two ice-cold drafts are sitting in front of us.
Caison doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. Just waits, the way he always did when we were kids, sitting on fence rails, staring out at land we dreamed of owning one day.
“I guess you talked to Pop,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Briefly,” he replies. “Holland said you were back. Might be staying a while. Told me to find you a job and get the foreman’s cabin fixed up.”
