Miles—the fancy city chef.
I imagined egging his car. Maybe wrapping it in toilet paper—just enough to send a message. But the thought of that level of petty brought more exhaustion than satisfaction. Drawing attention to myself would only fan the flames of small-towngossip. A twenty-something woman vandalizing a car because of a parking spot? Yeah,thatwould go over well.
Still, my anger simmered just beneath my skin, hot and sharp. And the fact I still couldn’t find a damn place to park only made it worse.
Iwantedto love this town again. I wanted to feel grounded here, proud of the place where I’d planted roots. But with everything, my patience had been worn down to threads. Nothing felt right. I couldn’t find my footing no matter how hard I tried.
Maybe I came home too soon. Maybe coming back at all was a mistake because every time I thought I could handle the way I felt about this town, little things like this set me off.
A scream ripped out of me—raw and harsh and entirely unplanned. The sound echoed inside the cab of my truck, cutting through the morning air like a blade. I was this angry over aparking spot?
What the hell was wrong with me?
The thought hit hard, and with it came a rush of emotion I couldn’t stop. A single tear slipped down my cheek, then another. This wasn’t about the car. Or the spot. It was everything, piled up and weighing down on me like a boulder I couldn’t lift.
I needed a second. Just one. To breathe. To stop crashing out.
The shop could wait. I was early anyway.
I looped down a side alley and turned toward the old baseball field, parking where no one could see me. It was early enough that the field was still and quiet, the way I needed it to be. I killed the engine and let the silence settle around me.
Bringing my legs up, I tucked them close to my chest. I wrapped my arms around them as I rested my head on myknees. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing.
In for four.
Out for four.
I felt irrational—unhinged, even—but the anger twisting inside me wasn’t just about a parking spot. That was surface-level. Beneath it was a storm.
Hurt.
Shame.
Sadness.
Anxiety.
Disrespect.
Anger was just the sharp tip of the iceberg; underneath floated the weight of much more. I sat with it, letting it settle and sting, forcing myself to name each emotion so it couldn’t sneak back into the shadows.
How was I supposed to heal in the very place I’d been cracked open?
Sure, I was fine around my friends. I laughed with my family. But in the in-between moments—at the coffee shop, in the grocery store, walking downtown—I felt exposed as if the whole town still saw me asthatgirl.
The one who had been too naïve, too in love, too blind to notice her boyfriend was cheating.
Did they still whisper about me when I passed by? Did my name taste like gossip on their tongues?
I felt exposed.
I often wondered why I cared so much about people's perceptions. Why couldn’t I let it go and move on as a normal person would?
I hoped one day I could, but what would it take?
Healing only works in safe places. And deep down, I didn’t know if Faircloud was the safety I needed.
But ithadto be. Because this was my home. The people I loved were here. My roots—tangled and stubborn—ran deep in this soil. And if I couldn’t find peace here… then what?