I hope we never grow up enough to lose this.
The words blur.
A lifetime of belonging.
A lifetime of being chosen.
A lifetime of sunlight, I somehow stepped out of.
I shut the diary, hands trembling.
I’m not the girl I used to be. But I’m not the woman I want to be yet either.
I sit there in the quiet, snow pressing against the window, and wonder where she went. That girl who believed in joy and bravery and small-town magic.
And whether she’s still somewhere inside me, waiting.
Whether I’m allowed to find her again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dallas
December 28th
My brain has been runthrough a wood chipper.
Paperwork is the devil. It always has been. But dealing with invoices and orders is my job. It allows me to be indoors, to be around my daughter more.
My office at the ranch is warm, cramped, and looks like a storm made of paperwork hit it. The only nice thing in here, the only soft thing, is the wall above my desk, covered from edge to edge with drawings.
Lila’s drawings.
Horses, mostly. Some imaginary, some that bear a closer resemblance to potatoes with legs. One picture of “me and Daddy and Miss Faith,” which she drew last night and taped up before I could even protest. I’m a stick figure in a giant hat, Faith’s stick figure has a lopsided smile and very enthusiastic hair, and Lila’s is drawn front and center, arms in the air. A rodeo queen greeting her adoring fans.
I don’t look at that one too long.
Faith leaving yesterday has sat in my chest as an extra rib. Tight. Achey. In the way. I keep telling myself it’s good she went. My brain nods along, but my body disagrees.
I rub the back of my neck, finish the last line item on a spreadsheet that should earn me some kind of medal, and lean back.
I need out of this office. Out of this house. Out of my own damn head.
Lunch is a good excuse. Mom and the boys will eat anything if I bring it home, even if it’s just coffee and pastries. The Buttercup Bakery is still open during the holidays, decked out in garlands and twinkle lights that you can smell cinnamon through from half a block away.
Yeah. Fresh air. Food. A break.
I grab my coat and head out.
Main Street in December is intense.
Every lamppost wrapped in evergreen. Big red bows on storefronts. Lights draped across the street. Kids dragging parents around to look at window displays, adults clutching takeaway cocoa cups. It’s the kind of small-town magic that should feel cheesy.
It doesn’t.
It makes my chest flicker with warmth, the way it always does this time of year.
Buttercup Bakery sits on the corner, smelling of sugar, cinnamon, and whatever joy would smell of if it had a scent. I tug open the door, and the bell jingles overhead.
