Page 26 of The Back Forty
The passage of time feels non-existent in California without the changes. The first time I experienced a true fall, with the trees on the Blue Ridge Mountains that surround our small town bursting into reds and oranges, it felt like I’d stepped into a postcard.
Winter came with the occasional snow that shut everything down and gave kids the gift of a surprise holiday and my first Christmas spent here I put up a tree with Isla and watched flurries from the window of her living room.
I’d never felt so grounded in a place before. And now? I’m not sure I could picture myself living anywhere else. Which is a crazy thing to think about.
“I told you,” I nudge her with my shoulder, grinning as she rolls her eyes playfully. “It’s almost... charming, wouldn’t you say?”
She glances around, taking in the rustic wood beams, Edison bulbs, and mismatched chairs that somehow work in the restaurant and brewery I've come to think of as my own personal kitchen where me and my new girlfriends have spent countless brunches over the past year catching up whenever I'm not on the road with Lawson.
“I can see how small-town life appeals to Isla,” she says, jutting her chin toward our baby sister, who’s currently making the rounds at the bar like a local celebrity—hugging people, catching up, laughing like she was born here.
That’s Isla. The golden child. The youngest, the favorite of our parents, the bookend, the one who got all the love without the pressure. Catalina and I were built to achieve. To aim higher, work harder, carry expectations like bricks on our backs. Isla got to grow up with space to breathe. Maybe that’s why she chosethe most relaxed path of all—working remotely as a software engineer for the city of Raleigh, but choosing to live here in Whitewood Creek, a place that she found on Instagram of all things, where she could sleep until ten and still be the most cheerful person in any room.
“Hi, I’m Alyssa, I’ll be your server today. Can I get y’all something to drink?” a chipper voice interrupts, our server appearing beside the table with a notebook and a ready smile.
“I’ll have a whiskey sour,” I say, glancing up. “And can we get an order of loaded fries and the eggs Benedict?”
She smiles, scribbling it down. “You got it.”
“Eggs Benedict? At eight o’clock at night?” Catalina arches a brow.
“It’s their thing. They use eggs from the Marshall egg farm. You’ll thank me later. They’re to die for. And the whiskey’s from the distillery. All in the family.”
She shrugs. “Alright, I’ll try it.”
We hand off our menus, and as Alyssa walks away, I catch the shift in Catalina’s expression. It’s soft, curious and just shy of suspicious.
“Well,” she says slowly, studying me, “I haven’t seen you in over a year, but this is… new.”
“What is?”
“You look happy.”
I blink. “I’ve always been happy.”
She levels me with a look. “You were always stressed. Last time I saw you, you were laid out in a hospital bed with heart monitors beeping and a nurse hovering to make sure you didn’t crash out.So, I take it you’ve finally gotten things under control? No more near-death episodes I’m going to be called in to monitor?”
I laugh. “No panic attacks. I’ve cut back on coffee—er, sort of. All other caffeine is gone. I’m managing my stress the best I can.”
She narrows her eyes. “The best you can?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’ve been working hard to prove myself to Lawson and the Marshall family. And it’s paid off now that I’ve been promoted. You know how it is.”
And she does. That bone-deep, built-in drive to excel. The voice in your head that tells us nothing is ever enough. It’s in our DNA, probably coded right next to our shared intolerance for mediocrity.
But still, I’m better than I was the last time she saw me. No more heart palpitations or panic attacks, even if I keep my meds in my purse just in case. I take breaks. I breathe. I listen to my body. I have methods of coping with the stress, and I use them liberally.
“I see,” she says, and I can tell she’s not entirely convinced.
But there’s nothing to be suspicious of. When I first moved here, it was meant to be a pause. A breath. A soft landing after my body betrayed me and my mind couldn’t keep up. I was supposed to stay with Isla, recover, help a small-town family business as a marketing assistant in a serious demotion, and then move on.
But then I started to like working for the Marshalls. The rhythm of it. The way the work felt personal, the way the people remembered your name and the whole company felt like family. I found new friends and not the superficial ones like I had back in California. Women who didn’t feel like competition: Lydia, Molly, Regan, Rae, and Georgia. I got promoted. I found footing.I enjoyed the travel, the need to not compete against anyone but myself.
It feels good. It feels right.
“So… your boss,” she says, swirling her drink like she’s testing the water.
My brows lift. “What about Lawson?”
