Page 132 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

And weirdly, it was.

I curled into the corner of the couch while she plated food, watching the snow fall outside the big front window. The quiet was different here, softer.

Back in LA, Christmas was just another day to perform. Show up. Smile. Post a curated photo and pretend it wasn’t hollow.

Here, I didn’t have to pretend.

Here, I could just be.

Lucy flopped down beside me with a plate in her lap. “My parents used to throw these big, chaotic Christmas brunches,” she said between bites. “People everywhere. Food everywhere. I’d always end up in the kitchen with flour in my hair and my aunt fighting someone about mimosas. But it was loud and weird and full of love.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mine was a little different.”

She looked over, curious but not pushy.

"My mom always cared about appearances, even in our small town. She treated Christmas like a chance to impress. Coordinated outfits, perfectly arranged decorations, and a tree she’d fuss over for days. Everything had to look perfect for the neighbors or for whoever might stop by. It was never about the actual day. Just the show."

Lucy’s expression softened. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “It did.”

“And you just wait for Christmas lunch with my brothers. That always gets wild.”

I tried to smile, I really did. But every time Lucy mentioned her brothers, a heaviness weighed on my chest.

It was never the right time to tell her everything, even if I wanted to.

“You take the pen back. You stop letting other people write the story.”

Asher’s words hadn’t left my mind, not since he spoke them.

But I hadn’t acted yet.

It might not be the right moment for everything, but it perhaps was the right moment forthis.While I was feeling so great.

“I’m actually going to get dressed for that,” I said quietly as I rose to my feet. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Once alone in my bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, I did something I hadn’t done in a long-ass time. I connected to Lucy’s slightly shoddy WiFi, and I opened up my Instagram.

With a sigh, I looked at the screen that was once so familiar to me, but now seemed like a stranger.

Could I really do this?

I wasn’t writing for the clicks. Not this time.

Not to fix my image. Not to win a PR war.

I was writing forme.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I began.

Hi.

I haven’t known how to say this. Maybe I still don’t. But after months of silence, of hiding and second-guessing, I think it’s time to tell the truth.

Not the version people spun. Not the headlines. Just mine.

I made mistakes. I trusted the wrong people, and I lost myself somewhere along the way. But I’m not here to point fingers.

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