“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “Get the papers signed. Explain the situation. Then leave.”
Simple.
Liar.
I grab my crossbody bag, smooth down my shirt, check the mirror once.
My lipstick’s mostly gone. There are shadows under my eyes.
My curls have frizzed out from driving with the windows cracked.
But the rest is the same if a little older.
I’m still wearing size eighteen jeans and an XXL shirt.
I still got a soft belly, thick thighs, and a bubble butt.
The hair’s got a few grays. The laugh lines got a little deeper.
Thirty-three hits a little different when you’re living mostly on the road.
What-fucking-ever.
If Benji can’t handle me looking human, that’s his problem.
I step out of the van.
The air hits me first—clean and crisp and edged with hay and dirt and something warm from the kitchen.
It’s grounding in a way I don’t expect.
Simple. Clean. Real.
Then the front door opens.
A woman steps out.
And my heart plummets.
God, she’s curvy and pretty, around my age, with a bright face and the cutest little apron I have ever seen in my life.
It’s vintage-looking, fitted, and very fall-girl-coded even though it’s still technically summer.
What if she’s Benji’s girl?
My heart stutters over itself, but if he picked her, then he picked her. I only hope they aren’t married because then this thing becomes a lot more serious.
An older woman follows behind her, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes immediately narrowing on me in careful assessment.
I brace myself.
“Hi! I’m—” the younger one starts, then freezes.
Her eyes go huge.
“—OMG!” she shrieks, both hands flying to her mouth. “You’re Van Life with Esme!!”
I blink.
