***
The rental car rattles with a strange, rhythmic clunk, the kind of sound that makes LA mechanics salivate and mountain folks shrug. I make my way down the winding two-lane highway, my head throbbing from too little sleep and too much on my mind.
As the sun begins to rise, painting the mountains in soft pinks and golds, everything around me feels eerily unchanged. The towering green trees, the sleepy little towns every fifteen miles, each with a single stoplight that blinks through the morning haze. It’s all exactly as I remember. Like time decided to stand still here, keeping this place in some kind of quiet, unbreakable hold.
I grip the wheel tighter, a strange mix of comfort and dread settling over me.
I don’t know what I’m going to find when I pull into that driveway. I don’t know if I’m ready to face what’s happened in the three years I’ve been gone.
Every twist of this road holds a piece of my past—memories blooming like wildflowers in the cracks. There’s the bend where I fell from a tree, breaking my arm, and Mom drove me fifteen minutes to the hospital.
Just past the ridge is where Holden Cartwright broke my heart. I found out he’d been cheating on me with Jana Flenning. Everyone else knew before I did.
Then, the path that leads down to the creek. Jasper waiting by the water the night I told him I was leaving for LA. He looked at me, his eyes solemn, and asked if it was really what I wanted. I didn’t answer him then. Maybe because I wasn’t sure, or maybe because I didn’t want to admit how desperately I needed something more.
These mountains have held so much of me. So many memories woven into these roads, and yet, it feels like there was never enough time to say goodbye to any of it.
I turn off the main road when I spot the carved eagle, weathered but still strong, watching over the valley. Years ago, a lightning storm split the old tree in two, and one of Dad’s friends took a chainsaw to it, transforming it into this proud, fierce guardian of the mountains.
I never believed we needed guarding, but maybe I was wrong.
Finally, I reach the end of the long driveway and pull in behind Dad’s beat up Chevy, its red paint rusted and worn. I cut the engine, letting the quiet settle around me. I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of it all. It’s been three years. Three years of chasing dreams and building a life in LA. But here… here is the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even if I haven’t wanted to admit it.
I climb out of the car and grab my bag from the back seat. Standing there, looking at the familiar house framed by tall trees and a wide-open sky, I feel a pull deep in my chest. This is home. The one place I’ve never been sure I belonged.
The porch steps sag in the same places, the paint on the railings peeling into curls. Firewood is stacked high against the wall, and the smell of pine and earth wraps around me like an old friend. Everything here bears the mark of Dad’s hands, of years of care I hadn’t been here to share.
I used to think the only place that mattered was the top. The top of the follower count, the top of the brand deals, the top of the algorithm. Being seen, being admired? It's everything I've worked for since the moment I uploaded that grainy unboxing video in my tiny West Hollywood studio three years ago. Back then, I couldn't have imagined how addictive the climb could be. Every like, every comment, every new subscriber was another step toward the life I'd always dreamed of—glamorous, glitzy, and perfectly filtered.
But standing here, in the middle of the Ozark mountains, with zero cell service and my carefully curated life left behind in California, feels like I've been dropped into a parallel universe. One where bars mean tree trunks, not signal strength.
"Elowen!" Mom's voice pierces through the thick, humid air, yanking me out of my thoughts. She's waving from the porch of our old, weather-beaten house, the screen door groaning as it swings open.
Mom’s smile is wide, real, and unfiltered. A stark contrast to the perfectly angled selfies I’ve mastered. For a heartbeat, I almost believe everything will be okay. But Dad’s truck in the driveway is a reminder. He’s not the one waiting on the porch. And that truth hits harder than the humid air pressing in around me.
CHAPTER THREE
Unfiltered Silence
"Mom," I call, dragging my suitcase behind me as my heel sinks into the dirt. All I can smell is pine, dust, and memories I don’t feel ready for. "This place hasn’t changed a bit."
She laughs, the sound too loud, too fake as it bounces off the trees. "Well, it’s not Los Angeles, that’s for sure."
I manage a small smile, but it’s more out of politeness than anything else. I’m not sure how to explain to her that right now, that’s the problem. This place… it’s not Los Angeles. It’s too far from the world where I’m in control, where I make the rules, where I get to pick and choose which sound byte or video gets published for the world to consume.
I reach the porch, and she pulls me into a tight hug. I can smell the coconut in her graying hair, the same shampoo scent she’s used since I was a kid. It’s comforting and familiar and almost makes me forget how out of place I feel here.
"Your brother’s inside," she says, pulling back to look at me, her green eyes crinkling in the corners. "And you’ll never guess who’s with him."
I don’t have to guess. Jasper and his childhood best friend have been joined at the hip since Dad bought the land and started building our house.
The second I step through the creaking screen door, I hear his voice—deep, easygoing, unchanged since the days we played hide-and-seek in the woods between our houses. Sometimes, I still dream about him chasing me, his laugh too loud, too close, echoing long after I wake.
And then I see him. Boots kicked carelessly by the couch, broad shoulders slouched like he owns the place, a faint trace of pine and soap hanging in the air around him. He doesn’t look like the boy I remember. He’s filled out, taller somehow, more solid. Worse, he knows it. The smirk tugging at his mouth says he couldn’t wait to remind me he still has the power to get under my skin.
"Elowen," he says, dragging out my name like it’s some kind of joke. He’s obnoxious, but I can’t deny the way the room warms at his smile.
"Brooks," I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral, but I know it’s useless. He has always been able to get under my skin, and from the look on his face, he knows it, too.
