Page 6 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Riley >>Okay. I’m booking the flight. Thank you. Like, for real.

Lucy >>Always, Riles.

I cried when she said it. Didn’t even try to pretend I wasn’t. I think that was the moment I realized how tired I really was.

Tired of being looked at.

Tired of pretending I was fine.

Tired of people who only loved the version of me that posted once a day and never flinched.

I didn’t even tell my parents I was hiding out. Not that it would’ve mattered. They never really understood me.

But Lucy did.

Or at least, she used to.

I couldn’t help but wonder if we would still connect in quite the same way. I’d definitely changed since I was in LA, but returning to her hometown and her family might not have had the same impact on her.

Guess I was going to find out.

So I took the one thing I had left—my bruised pride—and packed it into a carry-on.

No designer luggage, no PR-approved outfits. Just jeans, sweaters, hoodies, and the kind of emotional baggage TSA should really charge extra for.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant chirped, “we’ve begun our initial descent into Medford. Local time is 4:26 p.m. and the weather is a chilly forty-two degrees.”

Chilly. Small town. Off the grid.

Perfect.

I straightened up and checked my phone.

No new notifications. No texts. No emails.

Only silence.

And much to my own surprise, I didn’t hate it.

The Medford Inn smelled of lemon-scented cleaning products and pine air freshener, with a side of old carpeting that had definitely seen better decades. But it was clean, cheap, and most importantly, uncomplicated.

I dropped my suitcase by the edge of the bed and flopped back onto the too-firm mattress. For a second, I just lay there, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, wondering how I’d gone from penthouses and PR events to hiding in a motel where the front desk still used paper forms.

My phone buzzed with a text.

Lucy >>Ughhh, I’m so sorry, babe. Still stuck in this meeting in Eugene, total nightmare. Rain check on Lucky’s?

I stared at it, considering bailing on the night altogether.

I hadn’t worn real makeup in days. My hair was in some vague messy bun slash burnout hybrid. And I didn’t exactly feel in the mood for making small talk with people who probably thought a ring light was something you put on a tractor.

But then again… the Wi-Fi at the motel was glitchy, the TV only had basic cable, and I was rapidly spiraling into “doomscroll my own cancelation” territory.

I texted back:

Riley >>No worries. I’ll go anyway. Could use a drink after.

Lucy >>Okay, well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

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