Page 24

Images of my half-signed lease in Minnesota flashed in my head, followed by my townhouse in Fort Worth—now graciously occupied by Christine, my best friend and unofficial house-sitter.

Both were technically options… if the definition of “option” included several logistical nightmares.

Jon flopped down on the bed and looked at me with those big, thoughtful eyes.

“We can look at houses around here if you want.” I raised an eyebrow.

“You mean… in this town?”

“Tomorrow’s Vance’s birthday party,” he said, changing the subject, “and I’m barbecuing brisket.” Brisket, huh? That man knew exactly how to distract me.

“I’ll make sides,” I offered if only to regain a shred of dignity after being welcomed into what might be a makeshift commune.

We both nodded, like battle-hardened soldiers silently agreeing on a mission and sprinted to the bathroom to scrub off every layer of road trip funk.

Nacho, our loyal travel-weary pup, got a bath too.

He smelled like old car upholstery and mild regret.

Upstairs, Patricia was proudly slow-cooking what could only be described as a crime against cuisine—frozen meatballs dumped straight into a crockpot like they were performing a trust fall.

The smell alone could devalue a home. Nope.

I wasn’t going down with that ship.I hopped on Uber Eats like it was a lifeboat and ordered from a Chinese place downtown that I’d stalked online before we arrived.

Twenty minutes later, Jon returned from walking Nacho with a plastic bag of General Tso’s salvation in his hand.

And thank God, Jon’s room had a mini fridge and microwave.

I could survive in here for days. Maybe weeks.

All I needed were my leftovers, a Wi-Fi signal, and enough emotional distance from the upstairs circus.

We curled into bed with greasy chopsticks and muted TV, blissfully insulated from the outside world, when my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:

“Welcome to the cult… Delilah ??” Excuse me?

I replied, already dreading the answer:

“Who is this?” My phone dinged again—and again. And again. Four numbers replied at once:

Blake. Patricia. Lauren. Tory.Fantastic. I’d just been group-texted into a patchouli-scented nightmare. I texted back a simple:

“ok…..” Translation: Get me the hell out of here.

I put my phone on 'Do Not Disturb' and rolled over, praying that this was all an elaborate fever dream brought on by overexposure to secondhand sage smoke. But no. I woke up the next morning, and reality was still… real. Jon was already upstairs prepping his brisket like the culinary saint he was. I pulled on my jeans and wandered into the kitchen, determined to contribute something edible to this birthday barbecue before Patricia whipped out another crockpot tragedy. Potato salad. Fried okra. Zucchini fritters. Mashed potatoes. Mac and cheese. I created a Southern feast while Patricia’s kids ran around like unsupervised raccoons and Blake’s kids quietly observed me like I was the new zoo exhibit.

Eventually, Valentina, Blake’s sixteen-year-old daughter, struck up a conversation.

And to my pleasant surprise, she was an actual delight.

Smart. Grounded. Spoke like a well-read adult who’d already emotionally outgrown this entire environment.

I liked her immediately. She had the quiet wisdom of someone who’d watched a lot of people mess up and took notes.

Vance, the birthday boy, was glued to Jon like a golden retriever on Red Bull.

It was sweet. Jon had that kind of warmth that kids trusted immediately.

Probably because he didn’t talk down to them or fake a smile. He just was.

By party time, I’d met Blake’s mom and stepdad—Jade and Tony—who, against all odds, seemed normal. Sane, even. Which made me wonder: Did they know they’d entered the epicenter of Weirdsville, USA? I doubted it. No one willingly signs up for this unless there’s a massive inheritance involved.

At around 6:30 p.m., Jon’s expression shifted.

His shoulders tensed. That look washed over him—the one I’d come to recognize, the quiet weight of memories he never fully shared.

PTSD doesn’t always make a grand entrance; sometimes, it just softly taps him on the shoulder and says, “Hey, we’re back.

” He turned to me and said, “I think it’s time to head downstairs. ”

“Absolutely,” I whispered, already collecting our leftovers like a woman escaping a hostage situation with takeout and dignity.

We passed Lauren and Tory on the way down.

They were surprise surprise, still on the couch watching a documentary—this time about mushrooms. Of course, they were.

Probably planning their next hallucinogenic journey through spiritual awakening and unwashed hair.

Back in the safe haven of Jon’s room, we both collapsed onto the bed.

My mascara was slightly smudged from the grill smoke, or maybe just the emotional smoke of the last 24 hours.

I was just settling into the mattress when Jon turned to me and said the six most beautiful words I’d heard since “Your Uber Eats has arrived.”

“Wanna escape this and go to Vegas?” I blinked.

“Like… Las Vegas?”

“It’s only six hours away,” he said casually like he was offering to go get milk. I stared at him, grinning like a woman freshly reborn.

“Of course I do, Jon. Of course, I do.” Because if there’s one thing better than surviving a basement cult in Idaho Falls, it’s escaping it in style—with a man, a dog, and enough General Tso’s to make it across the desert.