Page 44 of Broken Trails
I close my eyes, the endearment settling over me like something I didn’t ask for but desperately need. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and Dani has been busting my balls to come see you. I’m quite fond of those, so for the sake of preserving them, just text me a time that works for you, alright?”
A soft laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Soon.”
“Good. We miss you.”
I hang up, and the sound has barely faded before a knock rattles the front door.
Every muscle in my body locks. My mind jumps to worst-case scenarios. It’s not Liam. He wouldn’t come all this way. He’s too fucking lazy. A keyboard warrior who fires threats from the safety of a screen. Sudden nervous heat bubbles up my throat at the thought of it being Michael again, showing up unannounced, standing there with that steady gaze I’m not ready for.
So, I move slowly. Peering through the curtain, I catch two familiar silhouettes on the veranda. I crack the door open.
What the actual hell—
“Hi!” Isla beams, eyes bright beneath oversized sunglasses. She’s holding a cardboard tray of iced coffees. Imogen stands beside her with a tray of pastries in hand.
“We brought sustenance,” Isla chirps, already stepping closer.
Imogen lifts her brow. “And thank goodness we did. You look like you could use some, babe.”
“I—uh—”
They don’t wait for an invitation. Imogen breezes past me into the living room, and Isla follows, pausing just long enough to offer me a soft, one-armed hug. I stand there stiff, both arms pinned to my sides, caught between surprise and discomfort.
“How did you—” I stop myself. I already know.
Michael.
Of course. The thought chews at me. What is his deal? It’s infuriating. He’s too nice. Too thoughtful. And it stirs something in my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely. I swallow hard, closing the door behind them. They settle in like this is their Sunday ritual—Imogen unpacking the paper bag of pastries, Isla setting down the iced coffees on the table, their voices threading together in easy conversation.
I hover by the edge of the room, unsure if I should sit, stand, or just… disappear. My hands can’t decide what to do, so I shove them into my pockets and take a seat on the lounge.
“Have you been into town much?” Isla asks, tearing off a neat bite of muffin.
“Not really.”
“You should,” she says with an easy smile. “There are so many cute nooks and shops to see.”
Imogen takes a long sip of her coffee, her gaze flicking over me before the two of them slip into conversation. They do most of the talking, but they keep me looped in as they bounce between topics—catching up about the race, the weather this week, and some mishap at the vet that has Imogen throwing her head back in a loud, unrestrained cackle. It pulls a smile out of me before I even realise it’s there .
“Oh, how’s the cat?” Isla asks suddenly, her tone warm. Who knows where she is now though. No doubt up to good somewhere, or hiding under my bed. She does that a lot.
“She’s… good,” I say, and the corner of my mouth twitches. “Bossy as hell, but I guess she’s settling in. She’s already learned to climb the curtains… just like you warned.”
“That sounds about right,” Isla laughs.
Imogen tilts her head. “So, no name for her yet?”
“No. Nothing’s really come to mind.” I shrug, though part of me hates admitting it. I should’ve named her by now. But somehow it feels like more than just picking something cute—it’s like committing to keeping her. To staying. “I’ll decide soon.”
“If you ever need anything for her, just let me know,” Isla says with an easy smile. “We’ve got half a pet store’s worth of supplies at home, and plenty more at the clinic.”
I mutter a quiet “Thanks,” and take a sip of my iced coffee. The conversation drifts, and I brace myself for the kind of questions I’ve learned to sidestep. But surprisingly, Isla starts light.
“You know, it really surprised me to hear I know your mum. When my mother was here, she used to go over for tea on Saturdays.” She tilts her head. “Does your mum still host that?”
Her phrasing lands in my stomach like a stone—when my mother was here. Has her mum passed? The thought lingers, but I don’t pry. It’s strange, picturing Isla’s mum and mine sitting at the same table, sipping tea and swapping stories. Then again, maybe it’s not so strange. This is a small town, after all.
