NINE

CAMbrIA

Some skeletons refuse to stay buried.

It’s been a full week since I’ve seen the black SUV. Seven days—each one a gift I don’t fully trust, but can’t help savoring. I almost expect the shadow to come crawling back at any moment. My mind’s grown so used to danger, it’s suspicious of the peace. But with every dawn, the space between heartbeats grows quieter.

I miss my mom. I worry about her. But I don’t reach out. Being able to sleep, really sleep at night changes the way I view my old life. I promise myself to never go back to that situation again. I hope one day she will want to make changes. I hope one day she will have the courage to take the risk and try the unknown. This has been the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but the most rewarding to be able to sleep in peace and not fear or worry.

Frankie’s presence has haunted me for so long that his absence feels like a trick. Every time a car drives by, every time I hear gravel crack under tires, I have to resist the urge to duck down, to count the seconds before the world explodes again. But nothing comes. Just the wind in the pines, and occasionally the low whine of a lawnmower somewhere down the road.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m starting to believe in stillness. In mornings where the air is sweet with a small breeze, where the sky stretches wide and blue, and my only job is to exist—to breathe, to feel the sun on my skin, to not be afraid. I never knew stillness could be a kind of luxury, a thing you could earn just by surviving long enough.

I stick close to the house, mostly. At first, it’s habit. Later, it becomes choice. Inside these walls, nothing can get to me. The trailer is older, but updated, with only a few floorboards that groan and windows that rattle in the wind. But it holds me in a place of contentment. The kitchen smells like coffee and lemon, the den like old leather and dusty sunlight. Each of the rooms are stacked with history—family photos, little trophies, the faded quilt draped over the back of the couch. I’ve never felt more at home and more like an outsider at the same time.

Little Foot heads out to work most days. Sometimes it’s at the club garage, fixing up bikes or helping Toon with the fleet. Sometimes it’s the truck—long hours spent in the cab, music low, his hand gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. But he never leaves without pressing a kiss to my temple, murmuring, “Back before dark, promise.” He always is. No matter how tired he looks, he always brings me something: coffee in a diner cup, a chocolate bar, a wildflower he’s pressed flat between the pages of his notebook. His gestures are quiet, but they’re the loudest love I’ve ever known.

He doesn’t have to say the words. I’ve never trusted words, anyway. Actions are a different language—one I’m still learning, but crave all the same.

Today is slow, a Sunday kind of quiet, even though it’s a Thursday. The sky is low and hazy, the sun draping itself across the porch like it knows we need softness. The world feels muffled, safe, like a thick blanket pulled up to my chin.

This morning, Drew dropped me off at his mom’s since she invited me to spend the day with her baking. It’s just me, Tessie, and Acadia in Tessie’s kitchen. Tessie’s peeling apples—she does it with the kind of grace that comes from years of feeding a family, her hands steady and sure. The peels fall in long, green ribbons, piling up on a paper towel at her feet. Acadia’s next to her, knees hugged to her chest, sketchbook propped against her thighs. She draws without looking at the page, like she trusts her hands to remember what her eyes have seen.

Me? I’m just breathing. Letting the quiet seep in, fill all the old, hollow places that used to ache with fear. There’s a rhythm here—a slow, gentle thrum. Tessie’s knife slicing through apple flesh, Acadia’s pencil scraping paper, the porch swing creaking with every shift of my weight. Even the birds seem to be keeping time, flitting through sunbeams that cut the dust into gold.

Tessie glances over at me, eyes bright, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You know," she says, tossing another apple peel into the pile, "I don’t think I’ve seen you this still since you got here."

Her words startle me, and I laugh—really laugh, the sound strange and wonderful in my mouth. “That obvious, huh?”

She nods, lips twitching. “Sweetheart, when a girl carries tension in her shoulders like you do, it’s a miracle you haven’t cracked in half.”

Acadia snorts, not looking up from her drawing. “She means you always look like you’re waiting to bolt.”

She’s not wrong. The truth is, I’ve been waiting to run for as long as I can remember. I grew up learning to watch the exits, count my steps, keep my back to the wall. Even now, surrounded by warmth and safety, the instinct lingers.

But the way they say it—gentle, teasing, but not unkind—makes me feel seen. Not judged. Not pitied. Seen.

“I guess I’ve always had a reason to run,” I admit, voice low, honest.

“Not anymore,” Tessie says, her voice warm and iron-strong, like honey poured over steel. There’s something final in it—a promise, not just a hope.

I want to believe her. I want it more than I want anything.

There’s a long, golden pause. The porch swing creaks outside, a bee drones lazily past, the window and my heart feels like it’s finally found a steady rhythm. I close my eyes and let the quiet wash over me.

“So,” Acadia says, glancing up from her sketchbook, “what are you doing about school?”

The question knocks the air out of me. I open my eyes, blinking. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, doodling a swirl in the margin. “Like… college. Or anything. You’re what, nineteen?”

I nod, the old shame curling in my gut. “Almost,” I say, suddenly feeling like the youngest, smallest version of myself.

Acadia keeps drawing, her voice casual. “I’m just curious. I’m looking at programs, but Mom says I have to finish high school first.”

Tessie laughs, that warm, bubbling sound. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

But I don’t laugh. College is a word that never belonged to me. It belonged to kids with packed lunches, with moms who packed backpacks and checked homework. Not to girls who learned to stay invisible, who counted bruises instead of report cards.

“I never really thought about it,” I say. I’m not embarrassed—not exactly—but I’m exposed. I pick at my finger nails in a nervous habit waiting for the world to shrink.

Tessie pauses, knife in mid-air. “Why not?”

I shrug, eyes on my bare feet. The wood is warm under my soles, solid. “It just wasn’t… an option.”

There’s a careful silence, thick but not awkward. Tessie sets the apple aside, wipes her hands on her apron, and stands. She gives me that look—half stern, half heartbreakingly tender, all mama bear. “That’s bullshit.”

My head snaps up. “Excuse me?” Oh no, what have I done?

“You heard me. You’re smart, Cambria. You’ve got a fire in you. Don’t let the life you came from decide the one you build now. You deserve every chance. Every dream. Don’t let anyone—especially not yourself—tell you otherwise.”

I don’t know what to say. No one has ever talked to me like this. Not with conviction, not with faith. Not with belief in me.

She softens, her voice quieter. “You don’t have to decide anything today. But you should know—there’s nothing you can’t do, if you want it.”

The words fill up in my belly. Part of me wants to protest, to run, but the bigger part—the hungry, hopeful part—wants to reach out and hold on.

“Tell you what,” Tessie says, brushing her hands together. “Tomorrow, I’ll drive you over to the community college. No pressure. Just walk around. See if it sparks anything.”

Acadia grins, triumphant. “Their arts building is gorgeous. I sneak in there sometimes—totally worth it.”

I open my mouth to object, to spill the truth, but the words tangle in my chest. Finally, my truth tumbles out. “I… I’m not able to take those kinds of classes. I don’t have a GED. I didn’t finish high school. Missed too many days.”

Tessie waves me off. “Then we start there. One step at a time. That’s how anything real gets done.”

Her words are gentle but unyielding. I nod before I can stop myself. “Okay,” I whisper. The word tastes dangerous—like hope.

The next morning is bright and crisp, the world rinsed clean. I wake before my alarm, nerves humming under my skin. Drew drops me at his mom’s with a kiss that leaves me craving more. Tessie’s waiting in the kitchen, pouring tea into a travel mug, humming under her breath. She hands me a biscuit wrapped in a napkin, her smile reassuring.

“Don’t worry,” she says as we climb into her Chevy. “We’re just looking. No pop quizzes, no pressure.”

The drive is quiet, the sun spilling over the trees, the world waking up around us. I rest my head against the window, watching the fields roll by—yellow grass, fence posts leaning at odd angles, cows grazing slow and steady. Everything feels new and possible, like the day is unfolding just for me.

We pull into the college parking lot, and my heart stutters. The campus isn’t big—just a handful of buildings scattered beneath massive oak trees, their branches shading the cracked concrete walkways. Students cluster in groups, laughing, earbuds in, backpacks slung low. They move like they belong, like the world is theirs to claim.

I follow Tessie across the lot, feeling awkward and invisible at the same time. She points out the library, the student center, a little coffee hut that smells like heaven. I barely hear her. My eyes keep darting to the students—how sure they look, how unafraid.

“What if I’m too far behind?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Tessie stops walking and turns to face me, her hands warm on my shoulders. “Cambria, look at me.”

I do, and I see nothing but certainty in her eyes.

“You are not behind. You are exactly where you need to be. You’ve survived things that would have broken most people. And you came out stronger. I know about that. I see it in you.”

My throat tightens. I want to believe her—God, I want to.

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” she says. “You just have to believe it.”

Something in me—small but stubborn—does believe it, because she believes in me.

Inside the admin building, a kind woman at the front desk gives me pamphlets and a patient smile. She explains the adult learning program, the GED course that starts in three weeks, the financial aid available, the support systems, the counseling services. It’s overwhelming, but for the first time, the overwhelm isn’t fear—it’s possibility. My hands are full of paper when we leave. My heart is full of something fragile and dangerous: hope.

That night, Tessie’s house is a group of voices and laughter and food. I sit at the long, scarred table, surrounded by a family that has chosen me. Tessie, Shooter, Acadia, Axel, Yesnia, Drea—Drew’s twin, Alex, and even Te. Some nights, it feels like too much, like I’m intruding on a secret I’ll never understand. But tonight, there’s a place for me, right in the center.

Tessie brags about me, her elbow nudging my ribs. “She walked those halls like she owned the place,” she crows.

Little Foot smiles, a slow, proud grin. “Proud of you, Cam. Seriously.”

Acadia lifts her glass, her voice theatrical. “To Cambria! Future genius!”

Everyone cheers, raising their drinks. I blush so hard I want to disappear, but instead, I let it happen—I let the love in. It’s new and strange, but I want it. I want all of it.

After dinner, when the plates are cleared and the kitchen smells like soap and lemon, I slip outside. The air is cool, heavy with pine and woodsmoke from the firepit where Axel, Shooter and Alex are. The stars are pinprick bright, scattered across the black velvet sky.

I sit on the porch steps, knees pulled up, breathing in the night. For a moment, I let myself believe that the danger is gone for good. That this could be my life, day after day—quiet, safe, full of laughter and the ordinary magic of being loved.

The screen door squeaks. Little Foot joins me, lowering himself onto the step beside me. His body is solid and warm, his presence a comfort I never expected to crave.

“How you feeling?” he asks, his arm sliding around my waist.

I lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Like the ground isn’t falling out from under me anymore.”

He laughs softly, kissing the top of my head. “Good. That’s how it should be.”

I turn to look at him, searching his face for any trace of doubt. “Thank you. For all of this. For believing in me.”

His eyes go soft. “You don’t have to thank me, Cam. You’re not a guest here. You’re home.”

The words settle deep, anchoring me. For the first time in my life, I believe them. I am home.

We sit together, wrapped in the hush of the night, the future stretching out before us—uncertain, maybe, but ours.

Once home, Drew settles in to bed easily after his long day of work. I can’t sleep. I pad through the darkened hallway, past creaky floorboards and half-shut doors. I stand at the window, watching moonlight spill across the fields, feeling the old ache of loneliness and the new ache of hope collide in my chest.

My life hasn’t been easy. I’ve been left, lied to, used, and forgotten. I know what it means to survive. But for the first time, I’m starting to believe I can do more than survive—I can thrive. I can choose.

I press my hand to the glass, cool and smooth beneath my palm, and make a promise to myself. One step at a time. One breath at a time. I will build a life here. I will take the chances offered. I will let myself be loved.

Tomorrow, I’ll sign up for the GED program. Maybe after that, classes. Maybe after that, art. The path is foggy, uncertain, but it’s mine. For the first time ever, I’m not afraid of the unknown.

I turn away from the window, drawn by the soft, steady heartbeat of the house. I slide back into bed, the sheets warm from where Little Foot waited for me. He pulls me close without waking, his arms strong and sure around me. I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in, letting myself believe that this is what home feels like.

As I drift toward sleep, I think about the future. About quiet mornings, and golden evenings, and the slow, steady healing that happens when you let yourself belong. For the first time, my story feels like it’s just beginning.

And this time, I get to write the ending.