Page 127 of Bloom

He doesn’t need the keys. He’ll take a damn Uber to his momma’s house. To get away from here, fromher, he’d crawl across broken fucking glass.

Keyless and unbothered, he wrenches open the front door, feeling Cheryl’s temper flare when she realizes her last-ditch attempt hasn’t worked the way she intended—literally. A dull pain emanates from the center of his back as the keys collide with him, the sharp pang of them hitting the floor echoed in the high-pitched scream that leaves Cheryl, “Where are you going?”

He doesn’t waste any time scooping up the thrown keys before heading out the door, knowing she won’t follow him because how would that look to the neighbors? Her chasing him out of the house, half-dressed and screeching?

And he’s right; the only thing that follows him outside are incessant, angry yells.

When he reaches his truck, he tosses his bags in the backseat before turning to give her the attention she’s begging for. The last sliver of attention he’ll ever give her. Feeling lighter than he has in a long time, he says his parting words, “None of your fuckin’ business.”

His momma is waiting for him on the front porch of the house he grew up in, built on the land he honestly thought he’d die on.

She’s always called the fresh air out here ‘a balm to the soul.’ As he starts up the steps towards her, he’s never understood that phrase more. He breathes in great big lungfuls of it, tinted by the scent of fresh bread and pure comfort as his momma wraps him up in her arms. “My boy,” she croons. “How are you?”

Practically bent at the waist to embrace the parent he most definitely did not inherit his height from, he murmurs, “Okay,” against the top of her head, and he means it.

He doesn't feel like he just walked away from a marriage, from a life. He feels… like he said, okay. Perfectly okay. And he thinks that unsettles him more than walking in on his wife straddling another man did.

“Your daddy never liked her.”

He stifles a snicker. “He barely knew her.”

They weren’t even dating yet when his daddy died. To him, Cheryl was just a girl who visited the ranch a few times andcomplained about the stench of horse shit. Though, he supposes that would be enough to piss off a third-generation rancher.

Nevertheless, Momma insists, “He was an excellent judge of character.”

Yeah, well. If only he’d been as excellent at sharing his opinions. But that was his daddy, he guesses. Not much of a sharer—or a talker.

Following Momma inside the house, he’s not even a little bit surprised to find a home-cooked meal waiting on the dining room table, the same hearty food he grew up on, and he’d bet all the money in his wallet there’s a peach cobbler keeping warm in the oven.

“There’s work for you to do after supper,” she tells him, making him smile—how predictable. “You know everythin’ breaks this time of year.”

That, he does. He used to compare the short, busy days of winter to a stint in hell.

“I made up your room for you. But—Kelsey,” she yells the latter up the staircase before ushering him into a seat. “But there’s room in the bunkhouse if you’d rather stay there.”

He’s never considered himself a particularly prideful man, but the idea of staying with the other ranch hands, most of whom he grew up with in some way or another, and having to explain why he’s back makes his stomach roll. “I don’t know how long I’ll be stayin’, Momma.”

She doesn’t pout, exactly; she just dishes mashed potatoes onto his plate with a little more gusto than necessary. “You’re not goin’ back there, are you?”

“No,” he quickly confirms, even quicker to snag a dish of green beans from her grip before he ends up with one in his eye.

Momma makes a littleharrumphas she settles across from him, and he’s saved from more questions he doesn’t have the answer to by his sister bustling into the room. “The prodigalson returns,” Kelsey hollers, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind and squeezing in a way that feels dangerously close to a strangulation attempt. She kisses his cheek before taking a seat beside Momma. “I can’t believe she let you leave.”

Her comment earns her a whack on the back of her hand with a spoon and a brisk, “Kelsey May.”

His sister just grins, mumbling about honesty as she reaches for a bread roll only to be whacked again. Clucking her tongue at her, Momma takes her outstretched hand and holds her other out towards him. Like with every meal he can remember, she closes her eyes and starts to say grace.

Like with every meal he can remember, he peeks at Kelsey through one squinted eye and swallows a laugh when she pulls a face their momma would calldevilish.

And when they start to eat, it strikes him that this is the first normal, peaceful meal he’s had in a long, long time.

A couple of weeks after crossing the border into California, he ends up in a tiny town nestled beside Sequoia National Park.

He’s not sure how. The Golden State wasn’t exactly his goal destination, and when he says Haven Ridge is tiny, he really does mean it. It’s not really the kind of place you just happen to stumble upon, but somehow he did.

And as he drives down Main Street—the only street, as far as he can tell—something in his chest… settles. Like a puzzle piece slotting into place, accompanied by an overwhelming wave of relief after months of hopping from one state to another, from one ranch to another, from barn lofts to bunkhouses to the backseat of his truck.

Pulling into the first parking spot he finds, he grabs his wallet from the center console and gets out of his truck. As he locks it, he’s struck with this weirdly soothing thought that he probably doesn't need to—that this is one of those towns where kids play in the street safely and front doors are left open.

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