I follow.
She’s at the rear passenger door when I reach her. Close enough that when she turns, she has to press her back against the door without quite meaning to. She sucks in a sharp breath as if the metal is cool against her spine. I stop in front of her, closer than I need to be, the space between us narrowing until the air feels thick.
Up close, she smells like engine oil and soap, something soft and faintly sweet underneath it. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous.
Her blue eyes lift to mine, curious and searching, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
I reach past her and open the door.
It’s such a small thing. Something I’ve never done before. But her breath catches anyway, barely there. She has to slide past me to get in, her arm brushing my chest, her knee grazing my thigh. The contact is brief, innocent, and it hits me harder than it should.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then she climbs into the seat. I close the door gently and step back as Owen scrambles beside her, already talking about the horses like nothing in the world could ever be wrong.
I stand there under the endless Wyoming sky as the engine turns over. Dust kicks up behind the truck as they pull away, and Poppy glances at me through the window, just once.
I don’t look away until they’re gone.
I’ve never been surer of anything. I want to be in their family.
But I don’t know if she’ll ever let herself believe she deserves me. Or that I deserve them.
But I know one thing for sure. It’s always been her.
It’s four in the morning, and I haven’t slept at all.
I tried. I laid on the mattress upstairs with the lights off, staring at the ceiling while the building settled and the town went quiet around me. I kept thinking about Poppy standing in my doorway, shaking her head when I offered her the apartment. About the way she said she wasn’t ready, like wanting something safe felt dangerous.
So, I got up and got to work.
Now the music is blaring, bass thudding through the old walls, loud enough to drown out my thoughts. The apartment above the shop smells like dust and stale smoke, the kind that’s been soaked into carpet for decades. I’m sweating through my shirt as I peel back another strip of disgusting, stained carpet and roll it tight. I drag the roll down the narrow stairs and toss it into the bed of my truck parked below. Murphy’s Auto is dark except for the glow spilling from the windows upstairs. Across the alley, the bakery is quiet, ovens cold until dawn. A few blocks over, houses sit dark and still, porch lights flickering like they’re half asleep too.
No one’s awake but me.
I head back up and grab the pry bar again. The carpet comes up with a sound like it’s fighting me, stubborn and angry. I yank harder.
Because even if she said no, even if she isn’t ready to movein, I want this place clean. Safe. New. If she ever changes her mind, I want her to know I was serious.
The floorboards beneath are scarred and stained, and the new carpet that’s coming in that I ordered will be better. Better than what Poppy and Owen are living with now, with the foreclosure that’s looming over her. Better than relying on a man who never actually shows up and does what he says he’s going to do.
If they end up here, which is what I’m hoping, I want this place to feel like a home, not a last resort, and I want to surprise her with new carpet and fresh paint. It’s the least I can do for them.
I yank up the final corner of the carpet. The room already feels bigger, better, and cleaner without all that grossness. She’s going to be surprised.
I think about how blood doesn’t always equal family. Life is way too short to give my mom the time of day if she doesn’t want to be a mom to Cami and me. Cami still has hope that she will be a mother. She wants to have our mom around, I get it. I wanted that, too. I just don’t think she’s capable of being who we need.But I also don’t want to dampen Cami’s joy.
I crack a window to let in fresh cold air. My sweat instantly chills, but I don’t stop. I grab the paint can from the hallway and pop the lid. The color is Betsy’s Linen that’s a creamy white. I picked it because it feels peaceful and fresh. Like a fresh new start.
I start rolling paint onto the wall in long, even strokes. My muscles burn and my back aches. It feels good and purposeful.
By the time the sun starts thinking about waking up, I have both bedrooms painted. I step into the middle of the room and breathe deep. It already feels like a different place.
I rinse paint off my arms in the tiny bathroom sink, then strip out of my clothes and turn on the shower. The pipes rattleto life, and steaming water comes down like a reward. I lean my forehead against the tile.
Cami’s words replay in my mind.
“You could live out here.”
