Page 13 of Broken Roads
"First meetings are the worst. I puked in the bathroom during mine."
I whirl around, startled by the voice that materialized beside me. The woman from inside—the one with the blonde curls—stands a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest. Up close, she's a riot of contradictions. Her hair falls in unruly spirals around a heart-shaped face. Her clothes look like she raided three different thrift stores—floral vintage dress under a worn leather jacket, paired with red cowboy boots and oversized turquoise earrings that don't match. One is a crescent moon, the other a star. Somehow, on her, it works.
"I wasn't—" I start to deny that it was my first meeting, but she waves away my words.
"First meeting here," she clarifies. "Still counts. New people, new energy, same old demons staring you down." She steps closer, extending her hand. "I'm Tessa Morgan. Local baker, single mom, and five years sober as of last month."
I take her hand, surprised by the firm grip. "Hailey Monroe."
"I know. You introduced yourself inside." Her eyes—bright blue, lined with smudged eyeliner—scan my face with uncomfortable precision. "You looked like you were having a rough time in there. When Matt started talking about his accident."
I stiffen, my hand dropping away from hers. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are." She snorts, the sound so unexpected it momentarily jars me out of my spiral. "And I'm the Queen of England. Listen, we all have our triggers. Mine's wedding receptions. Can't handle them, even now. All that champagne, people saying, 'Just one glass for the toast.'" She mimics a high, wheedling voice. "Makes me want to throat-punch someone while simultaneously diving headfirst into the nearest bottle of bubbly."
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "That's... specific."
"Trauma usually is." She leans against my car like we're old friends, not strangers in a parking lot. "So, you're new in town. Where are you staying?"
The question is casual, but something in her eyes tells me she genuinely wants to know. It's been so long since someone looked at me with simple curiosity instead of judgment or pity that I find myself answering honestly.
"Walker Ranch. I'm working there as a financial consultant."
Tessa's eyebrows shoot up. "No shit? Bradford finally convinced his son to get help?"
"Not exactly. He still thinks he doesn’t need me." The memory of Bradley's cold eyes and dismissive words surfaces.
"Ah." She nods knowingly. "Bradley Walker. Town's most eligible hermit bachelor. Great ass, greater trust issues."
Heat rushes to my face. "I wouldn't know about his... I mean, I just met him today."
"And he was a total dick, right?" Tessa grins at my startled expression. "Small town. I know everyone's business. And Bradley's been wound tighter than a two-dollar watch since his ex left."
I shift uncomfortably. The conversation has veered into territory I'm not prepared to navigate. "I should probably get back. It's getting late."
"Sure." Tessa straightens, but makes no move to leave. Instead, she looks at me with sudden seriousness. "Do you have a sponsor here?"
The question catches me off guard. "I just moved here today."
"That's not what I asked."
Suddenly exhausted, I run a hand through my hair. "No. My sponsor's back in Chicago."
"That's what I thought." She nods decisively. "I'll do it."
"Do what?"
"Be your sponsor." She says it like it's already decided, like there's no possibility of refusal. "You need someone local. Someone who knows this town, knows the triggers hiding around every corner. I've been where you are—new place, fresh start, same old demons packed in your suitcase."
I stare at her, this bright, chaotic woman who's inserting herself into my life with the subtlety of a freight train. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." Her voice softens slightly. "I know you flinched when Matt talked about his accident. I know your hands shake when you think no one's looking. And I know that living out at Walker Ranch, surrounded by cowboys and cattle and probably a whole lot of isolation, isn't the easiest place to stay sober." She meets my gaze directly. "Sobriety's a bitch, but it beats the alternative."
The simplicity of that truth hits me harder than any of the flowery speeches I've heard in meetings. It's raw and real and exactly what I need to hear.
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." She cuts me off gently but firmly. "Everyone needs someone, Hailey. Especially us."
