“You are not a life ruiner,” she says. “You are a woman who finally stopped letting a man run her life.”
A sob catches in my throat. “He’ll tell everyone I cheated.”
Mom’s eyes flash. “Because the truth makes him look like the villain. And he can’t handle that.”
She stands and holds out her hand.
“Come on,” she says. “We’re taking a walk.”
My whole body recoils. “Mom, no. I can’t?—”
“You can,” she says gently. “We’re not going far. Just air. Just movement. Just proof to your nervous system that the world outside this house is not your father.”
I stare at her hand like it’s a lifeline and a threat at the same time.
And because I am still her daughter in the way that matters, because she has always been the one person who could tell me I’m stronger than I feel, I take it.
Ten minutes later, I’m bundled in a coat, scarf wrapped up to my nose, hat pulled low, like I can disguise myself.
Mom walks beside me, her arm linked through mine, as if she’s physically anchoring me to the earth.
The cold hits my lungs and helps a little. Buckhorn winter is honest. It doesn’t pretend to be glamorous. It just is: sharp air, snow-crusted sidewalks, the smell of woodsmoke and someone’s breakfast bacon drifting from a chimney.
I keep my head down, eyes scanning for threats that aren’t really threats. Every passing truck feels like a spotlight.
My phone is still buzzing in my pocket. I refuse to touch it. It might as well be a live grenade.
We turn down Main Street.
And there it is.
Spurs Diner.
Red door chipped. Neon horseshoe sign flickering like it’s held together by pure stubbornness. Windows fogged from heat and coffee and people who have lived here their whole lives and still show up for pie like it’s church.
My heart stutters.
Because part of me wants to run.
And part of me wants to collapse into that booth like a woman coming home.
Mom squeezes my arm. “We’re going in.”
“I don’t?—”
“You do,” she says. “Because if Jet finds out from someone else, she’ll drive her car through our house.”
That gets a laugh out of me. Small. Wobbly. But real.
We push through the door.
Warmth spills over us. Bacon grease and coffee and cinnamon and comfort.
The bell jingles overhead, and suddenly every nerve in my body lights up, convinced the whole diner is going to turn and point and shout:There she is.
But instead…
“Faith?”
