Page 28 of Where Roads Lead

“You never used to be like this. You, Ava, and Matthew used to be the best of friends. You were never without each other, don’t you remember?”

I felt Ava’s gaze on me, desperate to hear my answer. After all, it was the question she’d harassed me with ever since she married my brother.

We used to be friends before everything happened. Don’t you remember? Can’t we be friends again?

“Things change,” I told them.

And sometimes, what’s broken can’t be fixed.

Chapter Nine

Elsie

Iwas vaguely aware that I might be penned as certifiably insane as I paced the town square muttering to myself, but at the moment, I had bigger worries on my mind than what the town of Colbridge thought of me.

I was twenty-six years old and apparently extremely punctual for the quarter-life crisis I’d been so certain I was on track for avoiding.

I used to make fun of people going through this. The ones who broke up with their partners, or quit their jobs to travel, or worse, ‘find themselves.’ The ones who burned down their lives to find something new to do with their lives just for the hell of it.

Unfortunately, I was now forcibly living that reality. Minus the fun, exciting, adventure part of it where money didn’t seem to be a concern.

At least I had the freedom, I guess. My life was a blank slate, which for some might have been incredibly exciting. But for me? It might as well have been standing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing if I wanted to be pulled back or just fall over.

I liked plans. I liked knowing what was coming next. And despite my sometimes erratic behavior, I craved stability.

I was twenty-six with nothing to show for it. That number kept ringing in my head.

Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six.

Young, all things considered, but old enough to want at least a few accomplishments under my belt. What did I have to show for nearly three decades on this earth? Nothing.

Though I could always snap a photo of Colbridge’s scenic main street, post it to Instagram with some inspiring quote and let people think I, too, was seeking my destiny with arms wide open, instead of the ugly reality.

I was running.

And what’s worse, I was almost certain it was more due to the fear of what everyone would say back home rather than any real heartbreak on my part.

I hadn’t even taken down the engagement photos yet, but of course, everyone knew.

I opened the app, finding several direct messages that I absolutely refused to open. When tragedy struck in your life and people reached out, more often than not it wasn’t coming from a place of concern. It was from a place of interest. A new conversation-starter to share with their social circles, whether they knew me.

“Oh, how awful. Don’t you just feel terrible for her?” They would say with gleaming eyes as they shared the drama with everyone they knew.

Well, I refused to be known as the unfortunate girl with the broken engagement. It wouldn’t define me.

Navigating through the app, I found the deactivation button and clicked it with forceful aggression, as if it could delete the event in my life that led me here.

I needed to make something of myself. I needed tangible proof I wasn’t the screw-up, late bloomer I’d always assumed I was.

I had enough money to pay rent at Mr. Briggs’s house for three months, with just enough money to feed myself and pay for any other slight expenses that might come up. Maybe four months if I was stretching it, but I wanted to be gone after three.

Three months to write a novel, and then what? My savings would be drained. I still wouldn’t have a job, and it would still take months of editing and reworking before it would be in any shape to send to an agent.

What could I do in the meantime?

Go back home, live with my family, and follow the master dynastic plan? Find another job that sucked the life out of me and another fiance that looked better on paper than in reality? No way.

“Back-up plan,” I muttered, circling the square for the fourth time. “I need a back-up plan.”