We stand there in the quiet kitchen, both of us pretending this is normal.
And maybe, for now, that's enough.
I spend the rest of the morning working the ranch—checking fence lines, hauling feed, cleaning the tack room. My body remembers the rhythm before my mind catches up, even ifthe place itself feels different. Quieter. Growing up, this place hummed with activity—a full crew living in the bunkhouse, cowboys rotating through shifts, voices carrying across the yard at dawn. Now the bunkhouse windows sit dark and the yard is still except for the cattle and me.
I don't see anyone else all morning. No ranch hands, no trucks on the drive. Whoever I saw at the barn last night is nowhere to be found today.
By afternoon, my muscles ache in ways I'd forgotten, and sweat has soaked through my shirt.
It feels good. Grounding.
Then my phone buzzes.
Shae:Bar tonight. Six o'clock. Don’t forget.
Dread blooms low and steady.
Me:I don't know—
Shae:Too late. Everyone knows you're back.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. Shae Barker and I became inseparable junior year—two girls testing every limit this town had to offer. She's the only one who drove hours to see me in the city, who never made me explain why I couldn't come back, who kept showing up even when I didn't deserve it.
Which is exactly why I can't say no now.
I set the phone down and head for the shower.
The hot water helps. I take my time, let the steam ease the tension, then dry off and face the mirror.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, blonde and still damp at the ends. I let it air-dry, the natural wave taking over.Dark jeans that fit the way expensive jeans should. A soft blouse that brings out the green in my eyes.
Heels instead of boots.
I catch my reflection. Polished. Put-together. The version of myself I built in Denver.
My gaze flicks to the cowboy boots shoved to the back of the closet. Worn leather, scuffed from years of work and arena dirt. Next to them, barely visible in the shadows, are my old riding gloves and a coil of lead rope I haven't touched in five years.
The whole town used to show up on Friday nights to watch me run barrels. Now they'll show up to see if I'll talk about why I stopped. I close the closet door.
Not tonight.
Outside, the sky leans toward evening. I grab my keys and pause at the door, hand resting on the knob longer than necessary.
This is just a bar. Just people I grew up with. Just one night.
I square my shoulders and step out.
***
The bar is louder than I remember.
Sound hits me the moment I walk in—country music pushed too loud through tired speakers, boots scuffing across the floor, chairs scraping back. Conversations overlap and collide and laugh right over one another.
In the city, bars are designed to feel temporary—neutral lighting, seasonal menus, music meant to blend. Here, nothing has been updated on purpose. The same men sit on the same stools they claimed years ago. Names don't need repeating.
The air smells like beer soaked into wood, fried food clinging to the walls, old cigarette smoke no coat of paint ever managed to hide.
I step inside and let the door swing shut behind me.
