“We'll pack up and head back now,” I said.
“Cord, no—” Dusty started.
“Yes.” I set down the phone and turned to him. “You've given me all this time when you have a gallery to open and a family business to help run. If your brother needs you, we go back. End of discussion.”
“But you're doing so well here—”
“I'm doing well because of what you've taught me. The breathing exercises, the meditation, the way to think about my body differently. I can do those anywhere now.” I started gathering our scattered belongings. “Besides, I feel clear-headed. Ready to face whatever comes next.”
He watched me pack with something unreadable in his expression. “You sure?”
“Completely. You sacrificed these days for me. This is the least I can do.”
We packed quickly. The leftover food went into a cooler to return to The Ranch. As I folded clothes and gathered my notes, I realized I wasn't panicking about leaving early. Whatever tools Dusty had given me, they were portable now.
The drive back happened as the sun started setting, painting the Texas hills in shades of orange and gold. October light at its most beautiful, that magic hour photographers love. Dusty drove in silence, worried about whatever his brother needed to discuss.
“It'll be okay,” I told him, my hand finding his on the gear shift.
“You don't know that.”
“No, but I know you. Whatever it is, you'll handle it.”
He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his features. “When did you become the optimistic one?”
“About three hours ago when I realized I have actual choices about my future instead of just desperate attempts to salvage the past.”
Through the windshield, I watched familiar hills roll past.
“Thank you,” Dusty said. “For understanding. For not making this a big deal.”
“Thank you for the last three days. For seeing me as more than just a broken quarterback.”
“You were never just that.”
The Ranch came into view as the last rays of sunlight painted everything gold. The familiar buildings looked different now—less like sanctuary, more like a waystation.
I was different too. Not fixed, not cured, but functional. Present. Ready.
Vincent met us at the entrance, concern evident despite his professional composure.
“Dusty, you can use the phone in my office for privacy,” he said.
Dusty nodded, squeezing my hand once before heading toward the elevator. I watched him go, then turned to Vincent.
“He's worried,” I said.
“Family stuff usually is.” Vincent studied me. “How are you feeling? Honestly.”
I considered the question. When I stood in this spot just a few days ago, I couldn't answer without calculating how many hours until my next pill. Now...
“Good. Really good, actually.” I tapped my legal pad with the options mapped out. “Clear enough to start making actual decisions instead of just reacting to whatever crisis comes next.”
“That's progress.”
“It's all Dusty. He helped me remember that I'm more than just my career stats.”
Vincent's expression softened. “He's good at that. Seeing people for who they really are instead of who they think they have to be.”
