"No. There isn't. But there's something wrong with thinking that's all there is." I gesture around the bar—at the worn wooden floors, the Christmas lights that stay up year-round, and the jukebox in the corner that plays only country. “These people don’t care what fork I use. They don’t care what I’m wearing or who my mother was. They care whether I show up when someone needs help, whether I remember their names, and whether I'm kind."
Cynthia stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language.
And maybe I am. Maybe I've started learning a new one.
"I should go," she says. "Archie's waiting."
She hugs me at the door, and it's awkward in a way our hugs have never been before. Like we're strangers pretending to be friends. Or maybe like we were always strangers, and I'm just now realizing it.
"Call me when you're back," she says. "We'll do lunch."
"Sure."
We both know I won't call. We both know there won't be lunch.
I stand in the doorway and watch them pull away, the silver Audi kicking up dust as it turns onto Mountain Road. Cynthia doesn't wave. Archie doesn't look back.
And I feel... nothing.
No, that's not true. I feel something, but it's not loss. It's not longing for the life they represent.
It's relief.
I'm still standing there when Dolly's voice comes from behind me.
"Friends of yours?"
I turn to find her leaning against the bar, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. I don't know how long she's been there. Long enough, probably.
"They used to be."
"Mmm." She comes to stand beside me, looking out at the now-empty parking lot. "Fancy car."
"Fancy people."
"They wanted you to leave?"
"They wanted to rescue me. They think I'm hiding here. Running away from my real life."
Dolly is quiet for a moment. Then she says, "And what do you think?"
I watch the last of the dust settle on Mountain Road. I think about Archie’s condescension, Cynthia’s confusion, and the way they looked at The Rusty Spur like it was a joke. The way they looked at me like I was a puzzle they couldn't solve.
"I think," I say slowly, "that I spent thirty-four years living someone else's idea of a real life. And I think maybe it's time to figure out what mine actually looks like."
Dolly nods, satisfied. "Good answer."
She pats my shoulder and heads back inside, leaving me alone with the mountains and the quiet and the strange, fragile feeling of becoming someone new.
CHAPTER 12
The next night continues in a blur of music and laughter, and the kind of ease I didn’t even know existed. Someone puts a Garth Brooks song on the jukebox. A group starts line dancing. The mechanical bull claims victim after victim, all of them laughing as they fall. Around ten o’clock, a group near the bar starts chanting for karaoke, and someone wheels out the machine that usually lives in the storage room.
“You should sing something,” Presley says.
“Absolutely not. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Come on, it’s fun.”
