"Wouldn't you?"
She thinks about it, picks up the menu even though we both know she's not going to order anything complicated.
Presley eats the way Mitch used to eat—decisively, without fuss, food as fuel rather than experience.
"I told him," she says to the menu.
"I know. He told me."
Her eyes come up.
Sharp. Assessing.
So much like Harlan it makes my chest ache. "You went to the ranch?"
"Yesterday. As soon as I saw your location."
"And?"
And he screamed at me. And I screamed at him. And then he put his hand on my face and everything I've spent two decades burying detonated, and I let him fuck me against a wall like the last two decades didn't happen, and this morning I woke up in a motel room with his marks on my body and the taste of him still in my mouth.
"We talked," I say. "It was hard."
Presley studies me.
I see the moment she clocks the bruise on my throat—the one I tried to cover with concealer and a high-necked shirt, the one that's sitting right above my collar like a brand.
Her expression doesn't change, but something tightens around her eyes.
She's twenty, not stupid. She knows what a mark like that means, but she doesn't mention it.
"Are you leaving?" she asks.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're here."
"I'm not a child, Mom. You don't need to?—"
"I know you're not a child." I keep my voice even. Steady. The voice I used when she was fourteen and testing every boundary I'd ever set, the voice that saysI love you and I'm not going anywhere and you can push as hard as you want."But you're my daughter. And you're in a situation I created, whether you want to admit that or not. I'm not leaving you here alone."
"I'm not alone. I have—" She stops. Recalibrates. Whatever she was about to say—I have him, I have my father, I have theranch—she pulls it back. Not to spare me. Because she's not ready to say it out loud yet. "I'm fine."
"I know you're fine. You're incredible." I echo the word I said to Harlan on his porch, because it's true and because some truths bear repeating. "But I'm staying. Not to interfere. Not to control anything. I'm staying because this is where you are, and there's nowhere else I should be."
She looks at the menu again. Quiet. Processing the way Presley processes—internally, methodically, like she's running the data through a filter before she decides what to feel about it.
"Are you going to open a salon?" she asks finally.
The question surprises me. "How did you know?"
"Because that's what you do. Whenever things get hard, you open a salon. After Dad died, you remodeled the whole shop in two weeks. It's your version of punching walls."
I almost laugh. "There's a space on Main Street. I'm going back tomorrow to see the inside and talk to the landlord."
"Good." She sets the menu down. "That's good, Mom."
