Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nina

I sit alone at the tiny bistro table in my kitchen. The sunlight streams through the windows, no curtains to keep the light from blinding me. My coffee sits untouched in front of me, likely cold. Like my heart. The house is silent, save for the clicking clock on the kitchen wall, keeping time with the passing of the day.

I haven't changed my clothes in a week, haven't visited a store in two, and I should probably invest in DoorDash stock with the amount of to-go bags piling up in the corner. I haven't talked to anyone in three weeks, since I kicked both Brayden and Jordy out of the house. Not even when she swung by the next day to retrieve her things. I remained in my room the whole time, not even caring if she took anything of mine. There was nothing left to take, anyways. I don't give a fuck about any of it.

I've avoided the outside world as much as possible, except to check the mail every few days. Bills. Junk mail. And my final check from the ranch .

I haven't opened that last one. I can tell it's Angie's handwriting on the front, and it brings another wave of shame over me. What if she knows too? What is she thinking?

Are they all laughing at me, about what a fool I've been?

I abandon my coffee on the table, my eyes sweeping over the crusty coffee cups that have accumulated on the counters alongside forks and plates, dirty napkins, and more containers. In the corner, my trash can is overflowing. I haven't even taken the trash cans to the curb, and I'm sure my neighbors will complain to the city any day now.

I don't care. Nothing matters. I just exist to wake up, force myself to eat, then go back to sleep. Repeat.

If anyone is checking on me, I wouldn't know. I've put my phone on do-not-disturb to avoid talking to anyone. Besides, who would call? Not my mother, unless she needs something. Maybe Brayden, but his number is still blocked. Definitely not Jordy, who would probably prefer to nail my heart to a stake than talk to me ever again.

So it's just me, existing in a house that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

Which is why, when my doorbell rings, I instinctively freeze. I turn slightly toward the door, as if whoever is on the other side can see me. But through the etched stain glass, no one can. So I sit on the couch, waiting for my unwanted guest to leave. They knock and I hear my name.

It's Maren, and the sound of her voice makes me crave the presence of a human being. I place my hands on the arm of the couch, ready to stand. But then I look down at what I'm wearing, becoming aware of my unbrushed teeth and rat's nest hair. I realize how awful I look and how I can't let anyone, not even Mare, see me in this condition.

With horror, I hear a key applied to the lock, and the door opening. I dive onto the couch and hold my breath .

"Nina? Are you—what the fuck is that smell?"

I grimace but stay hidden on this horribly uncomfortable couch. Seriously, how could any store sell this as something to sit on?

"Wow, things have changed since I lived here." I hear Maren's boots clod down the hall and approach the couch. "Come on, get up."

"No." The sound of my voice is almost shocking to me. Slightly raspy. I guess that's what happens when you haven't said a word in three weeks.

"Get up and help me clean this place now, or I'll take photos of you and post them all over Instagram."

"Bitch," I mutter, sitting up. My hand flies to my hair, noting the greasy mess under the fading lavender tangles. Maren looks me up and down.

"Okay, plan B. Claire and I will start cleaning while you go take a shower."

"You brought your annoying friend here?"

"Present!" Claire sings out, and I groan, sinking back against the couch. "And I brought sustenance!"

I glance in her direction, and my stomach rumbles when I see the label on the bag—Sunset Sourdough, home of the best deli sandwiches in the world.

"We got you the Brooklyn Bridge," Maren says with a smile, and I nearly pass out with need. The Brooklyn Bridge is basically every Italian meat there is, with buffalo mozzarella, roasted red pepper, pepperoncinis, and Italian dressing on a crunchy sourdough roll. It is literally the best sandwich in the world, and this might be the first time I've felt any sense of craving in three weeks.

"But you can't eat until you've showered," Maren says as I eye the bag.

"Yes, Mom," I mutter, then drag myself to my room while Claire and Maren get to work cleaning.

The shower feels incredible—more incredible than it has any right to feel. It's like every part of my body has been craving the feel of soap and water, from the dry skin on my face to the wiggles in my toes. Even though my belly is crying out for that sandwich, I take my time in the shower, washing my sorrow down the drain. Afterwards, I brush my teeth—and wow—who knew brushing your teeth could feel like self-care?

When I look in the mirror, I see a slightly fresher me staring back. My roots are starting to show, and the purple color of my hair is practically grey. My cheeks are flushed, but my skin is pale. My cheeks appear gaunt, and when I weigh myself, I see I've accidentally lost ten pounds. That's on top of the other ten I've lost since I started working at the ranch. But I've never lost weight accidentally, and now my sweats are hanging off my hips.

When I pad down the stairs, I'm greeted by the smell of lemon cleaner and candles. Then I see the house and realize just how long I've been in there. Maren and Claire have made quick work of cleaning. Everything is sparkling from the weird modern furniture in the living room to the counters in the kitchen. Even the garbage is gone, and when I peek out the kitchen windows, I see the cans are at the curb.

"You guys," I say, and there's a catch in my throat. Maren comes over and gives me a side hug. She's not a hugging person, so I immediately realize something is up.

"Ethan said we should check on you," Claire explained. Which reminds me of the invitation on the fridge. A wedding between my cousin and Claire that's happening in two weeks, where I not only have to leave the house, but likely face Brayden since Jordy is invited with a plus one.

"Are you two ready for the wedding?" I ask, because that's the polite thing to ask. She waves her hand in dismissal .

"Never mind about us, how are you? What's going on?"

"I'm fine, obviously," I say, then grimace because I'm obviously not okay. "How would Ethan even have known?" I ask. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know. "My mother."

Claire nods her head in confirmation.

"She's been trying to reach you for weeks. When she couldn't get a hold of you, she tried Jordy, who basically said you could rot in hell."

"Sounds about right."

"So your mom called Ethan, and here we are."

"When you didn't take my calls either, I figured something big was going on." Maren looks at me carefully. "Is something big going on?"

I look at the ground, then nod. "I mean, it's not what Jordy thinks," I say. "I kicked her out because she decided to make my house her personal design project while I was gone." I gesture to the living room. "She took out all of Nanna Dot's things and brought in a bunch of modern furniture and art. She even painted the walls, and she took down all the curtains."

"It looks nice," Claire says, and Maren and I both glare at her. At least Maren remembers whose side to be on.

"It doesn't look like my house," I say. "She didn't even ask. I mean, how would you feel if someone decided to redesign your whole living space without even talking with you."

"You have a point," Claire says.

"It's the only point." Damn, she can be so clueless.

"Not the only point. What is the big thing Jordy doesn't know."

"I slept with Brayden." I pull the Band Aid off quick, then brace myself for the reaction?

"What?" Claire says at the same time Maren laughs, "You slut!"

Claire gives Maren a look that clearly shows they're on separate sides about this too. And honestly—surprisingly—I'm siding with Claire.

"It shouldn't have gotten this far," I admit, sinking onto the couch.

"Hold up. I'm starving, and by the amount of to-go bags we just threw away, I know you need some quality food. Let's sit in the kitchen and talk about this over sandwiches."

I think of the impracticality of the tiny bistro table in the kitchen.

"Better idea. Let's huddle around this ugly ass living room table and talk here."

"Just don't make a mess," Maren warns, setting the sandwiches and some napkins on the table. I knock the napkins to the floor, just because I can.

Over sandwiches, I tell them everything. About the horseback rides, the weeks of flirting, and then the convention with only one bed that led to a weekend away on the coast.

"One bed, huh? That's how it always starts," Claire says with a smirk. Fair. She's read enough romance novels to know.

"But this isn't a romance novel," I say. "It's my life, and his, and my cousin's. Now I've done something unforgivable to her, but still kicked her out of my house just for redecorating."

"She shouldn't have touched your things," Maren says.

"And I shouldn't have touched hers."

She tilts her head, agreeing ... but not.

"When I saw everything Jordy had done, I lost it. But honestly, the place isn't that bad. I mean, I would have liked to have had a say in this, and maybe picked some more comfortable furniture. But it was time to let go of the past. It's just that when I saw the house, it's like all my guilt, plus how badly it hurt to see Brayden just re-enter his old life like none of it mattered… I had to put my anger in something. So I kicked her out and told both of them they couldn't come back. I quit the ranch too. "

Maren places her hand on mine. "Oh sweetie," she says, and her sympathy spills tears onto my cheek. Damn it, I was trying so hard not to cry.

"So, what will you do now?" Claire asks.

"I'm doing it," I say, wiping my tears and then sweeping my hand over the place. "I'm existing until I wither away and die."

"You could work for me," Maren says. "Between recording and lessons, I hardly have time for the administrative stuff. You could help me keep track of my calendar and bookkeeping."

"Obviously my organizational skills have impressed you," I laugh, wiping away my tears. But really, I can't bear the thought of my friends playing charity. Besides, I don't need the money, I just need something to do besides look at these four walls.

"Point taken," Maren says. "Well, have you considered Insomniacs? I heard the owner canned Susan after she ran that place into the ground, and hired a new manager who's now running a respectable coffee shop, free of garage bands."

"Tempting. But I don't know. I think that chapter has passed, especially since you don't work there anymore."

"I haven't been back since I quit," Maren confessed.

"Same," I say. "That place could catch fire and I'd fan the flames."

"Face it," Claire says. "They lost their soul when they gave you your last paychecks." Then she looks at me. "Have you thought about investing in a business?"

I tilt my head for a moment. I usually dismiss Claire as some ditzy blonde, but time and time again she proves me wrong. I'd never tell her as much, but the girl has brains, and right now, her idea is interesting.

"I know you inherited a lot of money a while back," she continues, then wrinkles her nose in apology. "Ethan told me. But it's also kind of obvious, with this big house on a coffee shop paycheck."

"Yeah, so? I don't use that money if I can help it."

"But what if you could make that money work for you? Like, invest in a business or some other financial opportunity that lines up with your interests. What are some things you like to do or that you're good at?"

"Fashion," Maren says without hesitation.

"Wait, what?" I look down at my clothes now—purple sweats with a lime green crewneck sweatshirt, and some hot pink socks decorated with scenes of goat yoga. "Excuse me while I laugh, because this is the first outfit I changed into in a week, and this is what I chose."

"A bold, colorful statement," Maren says. "Point is, you have a unique style that makes people happy. What if you were to start a clothing boutique that specialized in colorful clothes that inspire joy?"

"You mean, I'd be the Marie Kondo of the fashion industry, sparking joy everywhere."

"Well, kind of," Maren says.

"It's brilliant!" Claire exclaims. "We can work on consignment for now, pulling pieces from small designers who are looking to make a name for themselves. I see them all the time on Etsy, and I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have a storefront." She turns to Maren. "Can you talk to Mac, see if he knows any businesses for sale?"

"Wait, hold up. I haven't even said yes."

Both Maren and Claire turn to me. "Well?" Maren asks.

I breathe out a sigh, my heart racing as I consider the possibilities. Honestly, with Claire's business sense, Maren's boldness, and my crazy fashion style, this could actually become something.

But do I dare? I've only ever known what it's like to work for someone. I've never been the kind of person who tries new things or even leaves the comfort zone. Risk is foreign to me.

I look around the house, at the rooms that no longer feel like Nanna Dot—that still have a sense of home, but maybe not mine. Then I look at my friends. I have an opportunity most people don't have, and maybe I'm ready for a change.

"Let's make this happen."