A photo of me and Charlotte at the county fair. A photo of me and Mom at Christmas when I was fifteen, wearing matching peppermint pajamas.
So many versions of myself.
All of them real.
None of them the skittish, exhausted woman who crawled into Dallas’s guest room bed two nights ago, shaking like a leaf.
My throat tightens.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach into the nightstand drawer.
My diary is still there.
Pink cover. Lock long gone. Pages scribbled with the earnest desperation of a teenage girl.
I flip to a random page.
April 11th
Age 15
Dallas McCoy smiled at me today when I beat him at pitching hay into the loft. Said he didn’t mind losing to a girl. Said I’m “stubborn in a good way.” Jet almost fell off the fence laughing because I turned so red I matched her hoodie.
Best day.
I put my hand over my mouth to smother a helpless sound and flip further on.
June 2nd
Age 16
Jet and I skipped studying and walked to Spurs instead. She made the waiter take our picture because she said, “This is our era.”
Dallas showed up after feeding the calves and stole half my fries, but he brought us free milkshakes, so Jet said he could stay.
We watched the sun set from the bed of his truck. Everything felt possible.
Another page.
August 19th
Age 17
I think this is what being alive is supposed to feel like.
Dallas taught me how to downshift on the old ranch road and didn’t even yell when I stalled twice. We laughed so hard we almost cried.
My breath stutters.
I skim more pages, faster, my eyes catching on snippets:
Jet is dragging me to karaoke night.
Dallas held my hand when I freaked out about college letters. Said I could go anywhere and still be “my Faith.”
We spent all day at Buckhorn Lake. I swam in my jeans like an idiot. Jet filmed it.
I love this town. I love these people.
