Page 1 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

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Vivian Calder always thought rock bottom would feel louder—like a dramatic crash, or at least a satisfying cinematic thud. Instead, it was quiet. Just her, her mother's guest room, and the faint hum of an air conditioner that sounded suspiciously like judgment, all surrounded by half-packed boxes that weren't going to finish themselves.

She had thirty days to make serious life decisions. Thirty days before her life packed up and moved on whether she was ready or not. And if she wasn't careful, she'd end up right back in this room—where dreams went to suffocate slowly under floral bedspreads.

She stared at the to-do list she'd typed into her phone's planner—the one that had started with "Get it together" and somehow branched into an entire ecosystem of impossible expectations. Find a place to live. Pay off credit cards. Figure out who you are. The last one had three question marks after it, which felt ambitious and wildly optimistic.

Her mother had called this Vivi's "phoenix era," but Vivi suspected she was more like a pigeon—stubbornly circling the block hoping someone would drop a french fry. She was trying, though. She'd stopped doom-scrolling her not-quite-an-ex-boyfriend's Instagram and had only cried twice this week—once over an overdraft fee and once over a sad puppy video. She'd even bought a self-help app with an aggressively positive title: Project Glow Up.

Now she stood in front of a coffee shop in a one-stoplight town, far away from the bright lights of New York, wondering how her life had come to this. How her entire world had boiled down to one hastily made decision.

Vivi hadn't so much as reached the door of Espresso Yourself before her life detonated before her very eyes. One second she was gliding toward the entrance—head high, latte order rehearsed, pretending she wasn't a woman whose life had just gone up in flames—and the next, the suitcase her mother gave her for her high school graduation, which was held together by a bungy cord and a prayer, caught the doorframe. The case teetered when the cord gave and the whole ancient baggage gave up and burst open like an emotional piñata.

Lacy bras, travel-size shampoos, and one rogue pair of yoga pants shot across the floor, scattering under tables like confetti at her own humiliation party.

How had she ended up in a one-stoplight town?

Her life-coach app had challenged her to do something terrifying. Instead of adulting and facing her problems head-on, she'd hopped on a plane—then a bus—then walked to the nearest open shop. Which was how she, a woman staring down thirty without an exit strategy, ended up in Bridlewood, Montana instead of Singapore with her not-quite-an-ex-boyfriend.

"Well," she muttered, crouching to gather her life off the tile. "Nothing says 'fresh start' like flashing your underwear before caffeine." She stood and gave a self-conscious wiggle of the fingers, like Elvis himself had entered the building. "Am I right?"

The patrons sat in utter silence. Even worse, the place appeared to be a gathering spot for locals because it was bustling with after-work patrons. Maybe she should just call an Uber and go directly to the Airbnb, where she could crawl into bed, throw the covers over her head and pretend this entire day never happened. Between the last-minute decision to come, the layover in Dallas and the time difference she was spent anyway.

"Everyone, mind your own business," a barista said and the chatter resumed.

Vivi dragged her suitcase to the Order Here line.

"Thank you," she said to the barista.

The barista was tall and willowy like a model but carried herself like someone who broke up bar fights for fun and moved like someone who wasn't afraid to jump into a rushing river. Her black hair was pulled into a messy ponytail that peeked out from beneath a Rule #1: Don’t annoy me ball cap. Her long black sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal an intricate black-and-white tattoo of a peony covering her entire forearm and a smaller one on the inside of her wrist that looked unfinished.

"Name's Joanna Blue, but you can call me Jo," she said. "I have zero tolerance for bullshit, zero fucks to give, and zero time to act like your therapist."

"My phone is my therapist." Vivi held up her trusted companion and the app that was supposed to change her life, Glow. Or at least change her enough to get her life in order and have her own Eat, Pray, Love moment.

"Then we're on the same page. Now, what can I get you?"

"An iced pumpkin-spice latte, half-caf, nonfat, with a whipped cream topper. Today is special so I'm going big."

Jo didn't seem even slightly interested. "Black it is. Cream? No. Sugar? No? Great."

"But—"

Vivi stopped talking because Jo was already headed toward the back counter.

Sitting on a nearby barstool, a man with Einstein hair, Scorsese brows, and biceps like Paul Bunyan pointed to a sign hung beside the menu which listed coffees by region.

House Rules

Don't waste even a drop.

Pumpkin spice is a four-letter word.

Whipped cream is for pies.

You want fast, soulless coffee? Go to Starbucks.

Don't want your barista to judge your life choices? Good luck.