Page 25

J oe’s white Bronco is waiting for us in the parking lot and the familiarity of it is comforting. It’s an older model that’s been in my family since it was new. My dad spent hours working on the thing with Joe when he was a teenager. I would bring jugs of ice water to the garage for them and find their legs sticking out from under the engine while they worked. This thing has a lot of my dad in it. If I close my eyes after I’ve buckled my seatbelt it almost feels like a hug. The engine roars to life and Joe turns in the direction of my condo.

“Can you take me to Mom’s, actually?” I need the feeling of home and some space from Mercer. I love her. She’ll always be my closest friend. I just need to sort through my feelings before we sleep under the same roof.

My brother doesn’t answer, just makes a quick u-turn. His warm voice breaks through the noise of the rumbling engine a few minutes later. “How are you coping, Sis?”

“I’m…” How am I? I’ve felt hollow and robotic all day. It’s like the emotional side of my brain closed for business and only the essential employees came in to work—heart pumping, lungs breathing, eyes seeing .

But now that I’ve taken in the damage from the fire, my feelings are slamming around inside me like debris in a tornado. I feel guilty that I wasn’t there to stop it. Angry at Mercer for letting it happen. Annoyed at Anders for being flippant about it. Equally frustrated and terrified that the only thing in my life that I have any control over—our home and our family legacy—is a sooty, soggy mess because I left for one weekend. Still somehow pining for Anders. Disappointed in myself for pining for Anders when my life is embers.

“I’m okay.”

Joe doesn’t respond, but I sense his scowl coming from the driver's seat. He makes a turn or two in the wrong direction despite my protests, before pulling into a familiar driveway. He parks under a story-high neon sign of a guy carrying a hamburger and wearing roller skates.

“You need to eat.” He cranks down his window and the breeze coming into the cab is chilly. “And I’m going to take a little treat to Indie. She’s been alone all day.”

A familiar ache pinches in my chest. Joe and Indie are so perfect for each other. They support and encourage each other. They make each other better. They think about each other’s needs. Is it unreasonable to want what they have? I don’t think I’m asking for much, Universe.

“Geez. You doing okay?” Joe asks with a sidelong look.

“What?”

“That sigh. That’s the sigh of someone who needs a punching bag, or like I’m going to be your punching bag,” he jokes with his usual crooked grin.

I didn’t even realize I had sighed. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Joe has always been a fantastic listener, sometimes against his will. It’s one of the many perks of having a bunch of sisters. That’s lucky for me, because the words start spewing out of me like he dropped a Mentos in a bottle of Coke.

“My life. It is such a wreck. I accidentally fell in love with Anders, even though we’re completely wrong for each other. We’re opposites. He wants kids, and—well, you know. Plus, his life is too chaotic for someone like me. We just don’t make sense.” I unbuckle my seatbelt to make room for the fried food I’m about to annihilate. “That’s mess number one. On top of that, the only thing in my life that I have going for me, Nizhóní, literally caught on fire when I left it alone for one weekend. I feel like a failure for that, even though logically I know that’s ridiculous. And you know what?” I’m picking up steam now. “I finally did something fun for myself for the first time in my life, and I liked it. I had fun. Sunny Pratt did something crazy, and out of the ordinary, and fun . And look how it turned out.”

“Mom said you tiled a bathroom.”

“I took a plane to tile a bathroom in Minnesota.” My loud voice echoes under the neon hamburger man.

He laughs. “Minnesota? Wow. In that case…”

While he’s laughing at me, a skinny teenage boy skates up to the window to take our order. We get a lot of food—I think we’re both comfort eating tonight—and when it arrives, I munch my hamburger in silence while Joe drives me home. He won’t eat without Indie, which is both sweet and irritating. I’m working through the last of my fries when he pulls in front of my mother’s house.

“All right, I’ve been thinking.” He wrangles the gear shift into park. “Do you want my input?”

I swallow and take a long swig of my Coke. “Of course.” I appreciate that he asks and doesn’t just dump his opinions all over me this time. His fiancée has been good for him.

“I won’t weigh in on Anders because I hardly know the guy, except for what I’ve heard. You’re smart. Trust your instincts on that.” I can tell the words are a challenge for him to say. He slings his hand over the steering wheel and turns to face me. “But as far as the stuff with Nizhóní goes—”

Here we go. I brace for the lecture. All of the mental flogging I’ve done today runs through my mind: I’ve been irresponsible, I’m ruining the family business, I should be delivering hamburgers on roller skates, and repeat.

“The fire was not your fault. It had nothing to do with you leaving and everything to do with Mercer being a bonehead. You’re allowed to take a weekend off. We’ll fix it and be up and running in no time. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“You sound like Anders,” I say with an immature eye roll.

“Well, he’s right. It’s repairable. No one was hurt.”

“Yeah, it’s repairable. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” My voice cracks and I can’t say anything else. I don’t want to cry, but my eyes are hot and my throat feels tight.

“Why does it hurt?” Now he sounds like the bossy older brother I remember from my childhood.

The frank question rattles me so much, I spit out an answer before I think about it. “Because it’s all that’s left of him!” I don’t remind him that since I won’t have a family of my own, this is it for me. “It’s all I have. And I’m failing.”

“Sunny.” His hand lands on my shoulder, and his voice is firm. “The place isn’t Dad, and you are not a failure. Do you think Mom and Dad never made mistakes or had setbacks? They did. Do you think they never took time off? They did. And do you think Dad would want you to beat yourself up like this?”

He’s right , a quiet voice in my head says, so much like my dad that the lump returns to my throat. Of course he’s right, though I’m not ready to admit it. My big brother doesn’t need to know that he’s actually helping me right now. I have to protect what remains of my stupid pride. He interrupts my thoughts while I’m crafting the perfect zinger in response .

“Anyway, I gotta get this food to Indie before it gets cold. We’ll talk tomorrow. You good, Sis?”

He means well. I know he does. “I guess so.” I gather up my trash with a sigh, slamming the door behind me. “See ya tomorrow,” I shout through the closed door. He doesn’t care. He has a hot fiancée to make out with.

I’m stomping up the walkway to my mother’s front door when my phone dings with a text from Oliver of all people.

DARTH OLIVER

We’ve found a replacement nanny to take over care of Imogen for the duration of filming.

“Why?” The word shrieks through the cool night air just as another text comes in.

DARTH OLIVER

You’ve done an excellent job with Imogen. We assume that your focus needs to be on the resort now and are attempting to plan ahead. Your assistance has been much appreciated and as previously discussed, your paycheck will be electronically deposited.

Assistance . That word is wholly inadequate to describe the attachment I’ve formed with that little girl. This hurts, just like I knew it would. I crash through the front door and shove my trash into the bin in the kitchen. I stomp up the stairs to my bedroom, frustrated at the world.

This day started way too early, and the weight of it pulls me onto my old bed face first. I smash my fingers onto the screen of my phone looking for the thumbs up emoji. That’s all Oliver is getting from me. After all, he lit my family legacy on fire and had the nerve to fire me as Imogen’s nanny. I push send and open my text chain with Anders. Nothing. Our text chain has gone dead since we were together all weekend. I’m a little sick about how I walked away from him tonight, so I type out a short apology.

ME:

I’m sorry I was short with you when I left tonight.

Maybe it’s good that I’m not taking Imogen tomorrow. I’m not in the right place mentally to be around Anders. The effects of the fire are as consuming as the fire itself and I need to tap into the wisdom of pre-Anders Sunny. I need to behave like my normal, old self until I fix everything at the resort. Comfortable, reliable, somewhat depressing normal —that will get me through this. Back to the status quo, for now at least. We have a dozen decisions to make to get the place repaired and I need my mind running at full capacity to handle it—which means no deliciously distracting men. Hopefully Anders will understand.

I read and reread old texts from him and nod off sometime in the middle of the night.

Normal.

This is good. I’m running from my mom’s house to the resort, something I used to do all the time to burn off steam. It’s a quick four mile route through the desert that I’ve taken at least a hundred times. When I get to work, I’ll shower in the spa and change into the clothes I’ve stashed in my compact backpack, along with a sensible, high-protein lunch. Then, Joe and I will meet with the insurance guy about the fire. That part is not-so-normal .

I pick up my pace, grateful for the tailwind and an activity to channel my stress into. My running has been inconsistent recently, and even though it hurts more than usual, my mind needed this. Joe’s reminders from the night before are echoing in my head, and I realize with more than a little relief that he—and Anders—are right. The fire is awful, but the damage is fixable. I can’t take responsibility for it. It’s a setback. I’m not a failure.

The more I repeat those thoughts, the lighter I feel.

Dolly Parton is singing about working nine to five through my earbuds as I jog around the last bend before I reach the resort. I sing along as I run because Dolly gets me. I am going to kick today in the butt. I’ve got this. I won’t have a handsome movie star around, throwing me off balance. I groan, thinking about Anders.

He texted me after I fell asleep last night and again this morning. When I missed a phone call from him on my way out the door for my run, I texted back a quick, “Things are hectic. Glad you found someone to take care of Im. We’ll talk soon!”

I’ve missed a few more texts from him, but I can’t talk to him yet. I still have too many things to think through. I need a clear mind and a solid plan for this mess before I’m around the man. He’s all-consuming and I don’t trust myself to be smart in his presence. I still wish I could see him and Immy today, though. Just for a minute. I push harder, making my lungs burn and my legs ache. Maybe I can run off the heartsickness.

The wind gusts into my face like a slap, blowing around a cluster of tumbleweeds in the distance. I squint to keep the sand out of my eyes, but it stings my bare legs and arms. This is getting gnarly. It’s a good thing I’m almost done with my run. I spot a medium-sized tumbleweed on the path ahead, rolling right toward me. I leap over it in time with Dolly Parton and laugh at how insane I must look. I’m glad it’s barely dawn so I’m alone out here .

I push through the wind until I’m almost at the resort entrance. Then I spot the final boss: A tumbleweed roughly the size of Jabba the Hutt, rolling toward me on the path. I’ve lived in the desert my whole life. I’m familiar with tumbleweeds. Honestly, I don’t usually think about them much. This one is different, though. I swear I hear a deep, villainous laugh as it rolls my direction.

“ Huhhh huhhh huhhh ,” the tumbleweed throat-laughs as it crashes toward me on the path, seemingly in slow motion.

My senses are on high alert. I push down the volume on my music. “Hang on, Dolly,” I whisper, keeping a sharp eye on the tumbleweed as I slow to a jog. I track its direction given the wind, calculating where to run to avoid it rolling into or over me. Finally, it tumbles past and I’m safe.

I crank up the volume and resume my pace, but the wind changes direction sharply. Something large and extremely scratchy crashes into my bare legs from behind. Between the powerful wind and Jabba the Tumbleweed, I lose my balance and land in a gangling heap in the spindly sagebrush. “Aaaaack!” I holler to no one, while Dolly Parton continues to trill in my ear.

I scramble to my feet, brushing bits of shrubbery off my legs and red running shorts. I make a quick examination and find a few scratches on my thighs, but nothing terrible. I’m fine, just humiliated. Situation normal.

“Are you okay?” a melodic male voice calls from behind.

I know that voice.

This cannot be happening.

I whip around and discover that this is, indeed, happening. Micah Watson jogs up behind me on the path in all of his tall, dark, and handsome perfection. He’s shirtless, breathing heavily, and wearing a very small pair of olive green running shorts. How long has he been back there?

“Are you okay?” He repeats, louder and slower this time .

I pull out an earbud. “Uh…” I blink. Am I okay? Why is he asking me that? I can’t get over the shorts.

“That looked like a bad fall.”

Ah, yes. That.

He pauses to inspect my legs, then my arms. Now he’s looking at my waist, and his eyes move up, up, up until they land on mine. They’re dark and unblinking like shark eyes.

I don’t want shark eyes on me. I want icy blue ocean eyes. I fold my arms over my chest and take half a step back. “I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed. I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” I say over the wind with a dumb little wave at the surrounding desert.

“I’ve been running out here almost every morning.” His breathing is already normal. “I move my body every day. Consistency is key.”

I bite my lip. Of course he does. “That’s true.” Why are his shorts so small, though? They’re essentially two flimsy flaps of fabric per leg, both blowing precariously in the wind. I need to look away, but it’s like I’m at the circus and those shorts are the bearded lady. I can’t stop staring. When I finally drag my eyes to his face, he’s smirking like he caught me.

“I could go with you, if you’d like. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, and there are some minor changes you could make to your form that will make a huge difference.” He checks his smart watch with a frown.

There are some minor changes I could make to your shorts that will make them cover up your biscuits , I snark internally. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, but he’s right. I should be more consistent. And what does Micah Watson have to talk to me about? My curiosity wins.

“Sure.” It’s just a run, right? Harmless. But wait. “How do you get past the paparazzi, though?” It’s strange to me that he’s just out here on his own without a crowd of photographers chasing him. “Or did you outrun them?” I laugh at my joke .

I don’t think he heard me. “I’ll be out here tomorrow morning at six if you want to join.” he says, tapping something on his watch. “Glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks?” I call to his retreating form as he sprints away. Huh. Weird. I guess I’m going for a run with Micah Watson. Should I try to be excited about this? A few weeks ago there would’ve been fireworks, squealing, and texts to everyone I know. Not anymore. All I can focus on are Micah Watson’s little shorts, barely concealing his family heirlooms, as he lopes away.