Page 77 of Broken Trails
On the way back, I passed a narrow glass-fronted nail salon tucked between the florist and the bakery.Lulu’s Touch. The lettering was hand-painted in gold, a little crooked, but charming. I paused, stared through the window at a girl getting her tips dipped in lilac gel, then glanced down at my own neglected cuticles.
A fresh manicure might not fix my life, but it’d be something. I made a mental note to come back—if not for my nails, then just to feel a bit more like myself again.
After the call with Dani and Jeff, I needed the distraction.
I needed something—anything—that didn’t remind me of the life I’d built, then lost. So I drove back to the place I used to run from. The tyres crackled over the driveway gravel, the familiar creak of the gate catching the breeze as I pulled in. I cursed under my breath, again, at the piece-of-shit car I’d been lent. Each gear change sounded like a death rattle. Another reminder I needed to message Michael about those parts.
Mum was calm this morning. There was a steadiness to her that hadn’t been there last time. As though, beneath the clutter and the fog, something had clicked into place without warning.
I didn’t sit to stay. That wasn’t why I chose to show up—to drink tea and trade memories or hold hands like nothing had gone wrong. I came for proof of life. Hers. Mine. I needed to stand in that house and remind myself that I could.
That I still existed outside the shadow of everything I’d lost. The rest of the visit was brief. I still couldn’t bring myself to linger. Couldn’t risk the shift in tone, the unspoken rules breaking down into something too raw, too unprotected. I didn’t want her to ask questions I couldn’t answer, or worse, offer advice I never asked for. My legs were already halfway to standing when she spoke.
“Liam rang.”
My spine straightened in an instant. “What? When?”
“A few days ago,” she said, still calm. “I told him not to call again. To stop bothering us.”
The words hung between us, quiet but certain. It caught me off guard. A flicker of something warm bloomed in my chest. Not trust. Not exactly pride. But something small and fleeting. An invisible thread tugging at a bond that had been frayed toolong to name. I nodded, said nothing more, and left before the moment could turn into something too fragile to hold.
In the car, I sat with it for a while. That split-second of solidarity. The briefest moment of being on the same side. It wasn’t a fix. It didn’t rewrite the years between us. But it stayed with me. Even if it would never come again.
Now, sitting here in my rental, with Sprinkles’ long hair on my leggings, half a coffee left cold on the windowsill, I think of that. Of her. Of Liam.
Of Michael.
Because he’s there too. In the silence. In the space between distraction and clarity. He’s worked his way into my head with that crooked grin and those annoyingly gentle eyes. I hate it. I don’t want to be friends with him. Friends mean check-ins. Shared space. Emotional proximity. Friends mean frequency. And frequency turns into comfort. Into intimacy. And I don’t know what I’d do if I started craving that again. I regret agreeing to that truce. Regret every civil exchange since. But then again… self-sabotage and I are old friends.
I sigh, reaching for my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Scroll to his name. My thumb hesitates… then taps.
Me: This car sounds like it’s on its last breath. Can you let me know when those parts come in?
Michael: What’s wrong, princess? Not up to your standards?
Me: It shouldn’t be up to anyone’s standards. You said it’d get me from A to B. It’s struggling.
Michael: I’ll follow up for you, Freckles. Want me to see if we can get you a different car?
Me: No, don’t bother. I wouldn’t want to impose. I’m sure your job is busy enough.
Michael: Oh, you know. Another day of existential dread, greasy hands, a bloke named Dave yelling about his transmission. The usual. You’re not imposing, though. I’ll ask anyway.
Me: No need.
Michael: Whatever you say. So, how are you? And how’s my girl Sprinkles?
The message sits there, so simple, but weighty. Too much in too few words. Of course, it’d come now, when I’ve just finished telling myself that being friends is the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to.
Me: She’s currently squished between my lap and the pillow and refuses to move.
Michael: Cute. You didn’t answer my question, though.
I sigh, leaning back into the cushions. Sprinkles shifts against my hip, stretches her paws, then curls in tighter. A slow inhale fills my lungs. Then another. But it doesn’t settle the nerves that have started to dance in my stomach again. It’s not the idea offriendship I’m afraid of. I’ve had friends. I have friends. Ones who’ve seen me at my worst and still picked up the phone the next day.
The problem isn’t friendship.
It’s him.
