Aspen stays quiet, just slides her hand over mine and threads our fingers, silently reminding me that we’re in this together.
My foot finds the gas again and the Jeep hums forward, tires whispering over gravel. The town thins the farther we go—storefronts giving way to wider spaces. Weathered ranch gates bear names of families who’ve owned the land for decades.
Too many are defunct and derelict.
“Most people wouldn’t stay someplace that held this many bad memories,” Aspen says quietly, watching another abandoned ranch disappear behind us.
“Probably.”
“So why didn’t you?”
My jaw tightens. “Because leaving felt too much like escaping it.”
A few more minutes of nothing before newer houses pop up and then the nursing home.
It looks like you’d expect. One story, beige siding, faded blue trim that used to match the Wyoming sky. A flag snaps halfheartedly in the breeze out front.
It’s a nice place, but it’s not somewhere anyone looks forward to living or visiting.
I ease into the lot and cut the engine, and suddenly everything feels too quiet for how loud my head is.
For a minute, I just stare through the windshield, trying to get my head on straight before we go inside.
Beside me, Aspen waits me out without pushing.
Which only makes this harder. Makes it damn near impossible not to want things I’ve spent years convincing myself I don’t need.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Aspen says softly, like she’s afraid I’ll take her up on it.
For the first time since we left the overlook I really look at her.
She’s stunning.
Wind-tangled hair. Misty eyes. And bracing for impact.
“I am,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. I bring her knuckles to my mouth, closing my eyes for a second as I press a kiss there.
Then I step out of the Jeep and walk around to her side before she can get out herself.
She lifts a brow but lets me help her down anyway. She still does most of the work, afraid to reinjure me.
The walk across the dusty parking lot is too short. Before I have a chance to flee, we’re inside. It smells like grass and disinfectant. Something I never understood until Connie explained it’s actually nonenal. Basically aging skin.
A nurse I don’t recognize pushes a wheelchair past us, humming.
Aspen pauses beside me, waiting to follow my lead. I nod to the hallway that leads to our right. It’s the memory care wing.
“Follow me,” I say.
There’s no chance that she’d leave my side but the words feel like an anchor and I need that more than I care to admit.
We get to a set of locked doors and a reception desk, all meant to keep the residents safe. The receptionist smiles at me warmly.
“We’re here to see Monica Slate.”
“Lovely. See’ll be so excited to see you. They just finished lunch—she should be in her room or the living room. There was a rather wild game of spades going on when I was down there a little while ago.”
“Great,” I deadpan.
