Page 85 of California Wild

She had everything she had ever wanted.

And she had never felt more lost.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

She glanced down. Caiden.

She let it go to voicemail.

She already knew what he wanted.

Keep going. Keep writing, keep recording, keep touring, keep pushing. Ride the high. Don’t stop. Don’t breathe.

But Hayley?

She just wanted to fucking breathe.

She gripped the strap of her backpack a little tighter, eyes flicking up to the hazy blue sky, the palm trees swaying lazily in the midday heat.

She had worked her ass off for this dream.

And now that she had it—

She wasn’t sure if she could have it all.

* * * * *

Hayley woke in her apartment in a blur of nausea and jet lag, her body aching like she’d been dragged through someone else’s life. The air in the room was still, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight—or maybe the dark. She couldn’t tell. The only illumination came from her phone face-down on the nightstand, screen flashing with a rhythmic pulse of missed notifications.

She groaned softly, rolling onto her back, limbs heavy and uncooperative. Everything in her felt out of sync. Like her body had landed hours before her soul had a chance to catch up.

Her head spun as she blinked at the ceiling.

What time was it? What day was it?

Her stomach churned in protest, that familiar rolling wave of morning sickness—or whenever-this-was sickness—rising from her gut like it had been waiting for her to stir. Sharp. Stubborn. Relentless.

She turned onto her side, breath shallow, hand reaching for the warm, half-drunk water bottle on her nightstand. She sipped carefully, swallowing past the dryness in her throat. Her other hand groped blindly for the sleeve of saltine crackers—half-crushed, half-forgotten—tucked beside her phone.

Water. Crackers. Deep breaths.

Her morning ritual. Her anytime-she-woke-up ritual, lately.

The price of her new reality.

She chewed slowly, carefully, bracing for her stomach’s verdict. It stayed down, for now. Her breath came a little easier.

Hayley glanced at the clock. 10:42. No AM or PM. Not that it mattered. Her internal clock had been annihilated by time zones and sleepless nights and a kind of soul-deep fatigue that wasn’t just physical.

Unpacking. Laundry. Empty fridge. She’d barely touched the guitar in the corner. It didn’t feel like hers right now.

Neither did this apartment.

It was hers, technically. But walking through it after tour, after everything, felt like revisiting an old life. Like slipping into a costume that didn’t quite fit anymore. A version of herself she was supposed to return to, but didn’t know how.

And underneath all that?

The pressure.

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