“Tell me. If you could do anything…if you could do it all, what would you do?”
I take a deep breath, feeling strangely vulnerable as I share thoughts I’ve barely admitted to myself.
“I’d open a place,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “Something between a shelter and a community center, but specifically for women escaping situations like mine. Somewhere they could stay longer than the typical thirty-days emergency shelters allow. Somewhere they could actually heal and rebuild, not just escape.”
Shepherd’s eyes light up with interest. “What would it include?”
“Well, first of all it would include working with someone to figure out how to leave situations that aren’t safe. And after that,affordable housing units, or some sort of scholarship or payment assistance for when we run out of rooms. I don’t want to turn anyone away. And then there would be counseling services, legal aid for restraining orders and divorce filings.” The words flow easier now, like they’ve been waiting for permission to exist. “Job training programs, childcare, learning how to budget. Everything I needed but couldn’t find in one place when I was trying to start over. Because quite frankly, leaving isn’t the hardest part,” I say quietly. “Staying gone is.”
Shepherd doesn’t react at first. He doesn’t even flinch, nor does he look at me like I’m stupid. He just…listens.
“You know.” I shrug, not wanting to make eye contact. “That sort of thing.”
“That sounds incredible.” When he finally speaks, there’s no patronizing tone, no dismissal of my dreams as unrealistic. Just genuine admiration that makes my cheeks warm.
“Yeah, well,” I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just a pipe dream. That kind of operation would cost millions to start up, let alone maintain.”
“Why does that make it just a pipe dream?” he asks.
“Because dreams like that take resources,” I say, tracing a pattern on the countertop with my fingertip. “Money, connections, business knowledge. All the things I don’t have.”
Shepherd tilts his head, studying me with those thoughtful eyes that always seem to see more than I want them to. “You have more than you think.”
I laugh softly. “What, my extensive collection of broken teacups? My bartending skills?”
“Your experience,” he says seriously. “Your passion. Your understanding of exactly what these women need because you lived it.” He leans forward, wincing slightly at the movement. “Those things are invaluable, Sutton. The rest? The money, the connections? Those are just tools, and tools can be found.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. Not dismissal or empty encouragement, but genuine belief.
“You make it sound possible,” I whisper.
“It is possible,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Anything in this world is possible if you believe in it enough.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“Oh, I know it’s not easy,” he says. “But neither are you.”
I blink.
“What does that mean?”
He smiles slightly. “It means you don’t quit.”
My throat tightens because he’s right, I don’t. Even when I want to. Even when it would be easier.
“You really think I could do something like that?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, I do. I have zero doubt you could do anything you put your mind to.”
How does he make life seem so goddamn easy? I really don’t know how he always says the right words that make me want to believe him, and believe in myself, but he does it every time. Maybe my dreams are possible and maybe they’re not but just for this moment, I let myself believe in the what-ifs.
I shift closer to him dragging my plate to the other side of the island nudging him with my shoulder as I take another bite of my eggs. “You know,” I murmur, “for someone who got hit by a truck yesterday, you’re very optimistic.”
He huffs. “I’m a professional.”
“Of optimism?”
He leans over and kisses my cheek. “Of being right.”
