I don't look at them long. That's not me anymore.
My eyes catch on the stand beside my bed. A cowboy hat sits there—faded black, the brim curved and broken in just the way he liked it. The front dipped low, the back kicked up slightly. A thin leather band wraps the crown, worn smooth in places from years of hands adjusting it.
I used to steal that hat.
It's too big for me. Always was.
My chest tightens.
I don't touch it. I don't even let myself look at it twice.
I turn away and set my bag on the bed.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and it dips the same way it always has. For a moment, a flash—sitting here with someone else. Late nights, low voices, laughter that came easy. The kind of closeness that didn't need explaining.
I stand up fast.
Not going there either.
I unpack without thinking. Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom down the hall. Laptop on the desk. When I'm done, I just stand there in the middle of the room.
Who I was here feels close enough to reach. Who I am now hovers at the edges, waiting to be invited in.
By evening, I'm restless enough that I step onto the porch. The sky burns orange and gold near the horizon, clouds darkening farther out. Wind moves across the land, carrying the promise of a storm. I lean against the railing, letting the cool wood press into my palms.
The ranch shifts around me—cattle moving in the distance, a gate creaking somewhere. I focus on the way the land seems to watch me. Not accusing. Not welcoming. Just present.
This place doesn't ask anything of me yet. It just waits to see what I'll do.
Movement catches my eye near the barn. I freeze. There's someone down there—tall, moving with purpose toward theopen doors. Too far to see clearly in the fading light, just a silhouette against the barn's dark frame.
One of the hands Mae mentioned, probably. She said she had help keeping things running.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs anyway.
I should go down there. Introduce myself. Ask what needs doing tomorrow, what the schedule looks like, how I can actually be useful instead of just taking up space.
I don't move.
The figure disappears inside the barn, swallowed by shadows, and I stand there a moment longer before turning away. The porch boards creak under my feet as I head back inside, closing the door behind me with more care than necessary. Like if I'm quiet enough, I can slip back into the house unnoticed. Postpone all of it—the questions, the explanations, the inevitable conversations about how long I'm staying and what I'm planning to do.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with all of it tomorrow.
I make my way down the hall to my room, exhaustion settling into my bones. The day feels longer than it should, twelve hours of driving catching up with me all at once. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my shoes, letting them drop to the floor one at a time.
My phone buzzes against the mattress.
Shae:You're officially HOME!!!
I smile despite myself.
Me:It's temporary, remember. Don'tget excited.
I've saidtemporarymore times than I can count now. Like if I repeat it enough, it'll stay true.
Shae:Temporary my ass. Bar tonight. Six o'clock.
I close my eyes.
