Page 45 of Broken Trails
“Well,” Imogen cuts in, taking the words straight out of my thoughts, “small town after all.”
That makes Isla laugh. “Can’t escape anything, really.”
She’s not wrong. People here collect history like pressed flowers—tucked away but never forgotten. The thought leaves me uneasy.
I shift the focus. “So, do you have any kids?”
“Yes!” Her face brightens instantly. “I’ve got two beautiful girls—Callie and Gracie.” Her voice softens. “Callie’s named after my dad. He passed away suddenly a few years ago. And Gracie’s named after Xavier’s mum, Grace. She’s done so much for me. For our family.”
My stomach dips at the thought of her having lost her dad—and, I assume, her mum too. My mind flickers to my own parents. The tangled mess of it. The distance. The unspokenthings that fill every gap between us. And I wonder, just for a second, if that’s something you ever stop feeling. Isla must catch whatever’s flickered across my face, because she offers a small, steady smile. “It’s okay. I’ve grown through it. If I didn’t have Xavier through all of it… I don’t know where I’d be.”
Imogen reaches over, rubbing her shoulder in a way that seems familiar. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I just listen. Between sips of coffee, I learn more. Like how Imogen eloped with Harrison two years ago, their start anything but smooth.
“God, I hated his guts,” she says with a laugh, biting into a croissant. “But I also wanted to jump his bones. It’s the Price effect. The price you pay, being around them. Pun intended.”
I keep my face still, but the words stick. Is that what’s happening to me?
No.Absolutely not.
Imogen continues to talk, now mentioning her kids, Joseph and Hope. “Joseph’s all me. Hope? That girl’s her father through and through. And she’s already giving him a run for his money.”
“They were destined to be girl dads,” Isla teases.
“Amen to that.” Imogen grins.
The conversation thins. They keep tossing questions my way, but I let most pass. Isla tilts her head. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”
Imogen smirks. “Starting to think you might outshine Amelia in the shy department.”
My eyes narrow slightly. I remember Amelia from the race—quiet, sweet, almost unassuming. “I’m not shy,” I say, sharper than I mean. “I just don’t talk unless I have something worth saying.”
The room pauses. Just long enough for discomfort to settle over my skin.
Then Isla smiles. “Fair enough.”
“Absolutely,” Imogen agrees, and just like that, they move on. No awkward laughs. No side-eyes. No flinching at my tone. They just… let me be. They talk about the town’s market day next weekend, a bonfire on Saturday night, and the bakery on Maple Street, where the jam drops apparently change lives. And it throws me. Because even when I’m being blunt—maybe even bitchy—they don’t pull away. They lean in.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I mean, it’s not like I don’t have caring friends. Jeff and Dani have always been my constants, my safe people. But this feels different. These women don’t know me. And still, they act like they want to. Like they’ll stand outside the fence even when it’s lined in barbed wire.
Like they’re fine with waiting, unbothered by the risk of getting scratched. At that thought, my phone buzzes beside me.
Michael: How’s your girl time?
I roll my eyes. Of course, he set this up.
Me: I don’t really appreciate you sending people to my house unannounced. Sweets and coffee aren’t incentives to invade my space just because you think I need company.
Michael: I’ll take that as “Thank you, Michael, for suggesting the girls visit me. You’re such a great friend.”
Michael: I didn’t send them FYI. And they brought the stuff on their own accord.
Michael: FYI means ‘For Your Information.’
Zoe: Gee. Thanks, Einstein. I’m not that old.
Michael: Not implying you are. I don’t actually know how old you are.
