Something that belongs to me, not to my father’s reputation or Evan’s LinkedIn.
The idea is terrifying. And intoxicating. Standing at the top of the high diving board and realizing no one’s up there with you telling you what to do.
Last night, after Lila went to bed, after we ate too much cobbler and laughed too loudly, and Dallas made a joke about me doing the social media for the ranch, a little spark lit up in my chest and refused to go out.
It’s still there now.
Me, taking pictures of the brothers working cattle at sunrise. Posting videos of Rusty stealing biscuits. Making graphics forthe Spring Branding BBQ, highlighting local businesses, helping people find this place… Find us.
Me, not arranging carbon copy holiday parties in beige ballrooms, but capturing real moments. Crooked smiles. Muddy boots. Handmade wreaths.
Me, here.
With him.
I let myself lean into that fantasy. Dallas making coffee while I sit at his kitchen table editing photos. Lila running in from the porch, cheeks pink from the cold, shoving a crayon drawing into my hands. My mom joining us on Sundays for dinner. Charlotte coming home on break and teasing me about being “whipped for a cowboy.”
The thought makes me smile into the pillow.
And then my phone buzzes.
Violently.
The sound is so sudden in the quiet room that my whole body jolts. I flinch, fingers tightening on the sheet. The cute, soft daydream shatters like glass.
Dallas stirs beside me, mumbling unintelligibly.
I reach over him toward the nightstand, careful not to jostle too much. My hand closes around the phone where I left it last night, next to his alarm clock and a half-read paperback.
One notification lit up on the lock screen.
Unknown number.
My stomach gives a weird little drop, but curiosity wins out. I slide my thumb up.
A photo fills the screen.
My brain doesn’t understand what it’s looking at. The image is grainy, zoomed in, and badly lit. The background is mostly darkness and a hint of water. A glint of lake. In the foreground, two people.
A woman pressed back against a tree. Hair wild. Head tipped back.
A man, crowding into her, his hand braced beside her head, his face buried in her neck.
It could be anyone.
Except it’s not.
Because I recognize that jacket. That hair. Those shoulders.
It’s me.
And Dallas.
My body goes ice cold in an instant. The air in my lungs seems to evaporate.
Beneath the photo, a text bubble appears.
Unknown number:Running again, Faith?
