Page 33 of The Pilot's Good Girl
Today, Jake and I are officially opening the doors to the retreat we built together—our own haven for survivors, just like us. A place where people can come and lay down their guilt, their grief, their invisible weight.
People who need what we needed once: Hope. Healing. A second chance.
We have a section for accident survivors, another for military heroes. One for frontline responders, and smaller circles tailored to those battling private wars. It’s taken years of planning, grant-writing, sweat, and sometimes tears…but we made it.
Jake and I made it.
It hasn’t been easy. I don’t think anything worth doing ever is. But standing here, dressed in a soft champagne-colored dress, my heels sinking into the soil of the land we cleared with our own hands, watching people smile because of what we’ve built…I feel full. Happy. Fulfilled in a way I didn’t think was possible when I arrived in Sun Valley four years ago with a broken heart and more guilt than I could carry.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down at the screen as a new message pops up.
Mom:Congrats. I know Morgan would be proud.
It’s short. Clipped. There’s no emoji, no “love you,” no offer to call. But my heart still swells.
Because four years ago, she was barely even speaking to me.
We’ve come a long way, my parents and I. It’s not perfect, not like it was before Morgan died. But it’s better than the silence that used to sit between us like a tombstone. I’ve forgiven myself. I think, in her own way, my mom has forgiven me too.
Baby steps, Jake always says. And he’s right. We got here, one honest, painful, beautiful step at a time.
Speaking of my husband…
My eyes find him across the lawn, standing with a group of sharply dressed men who look like they belong in a boardroom, not out here in the Idaho wilderness. He’s clean-shaven tonight, looking fresh-faced and wholesome…well, mostly. The black button-down he’s wearing hugs his shoulders in a way that makes me think very unwholesome thoughts.
He laughs at something one of the men says, his head tilted back, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that boyish mischief I’ve come to adore. He looks so alive. So magnetic.
Even now, four years later, he still manages to take my breath away.
As if he can feel me thinking about him, he looks in my direction and our gazes clash. Everything else fades away—the crowd, the music, the gentle clinking of champagne glasses—until it’s just him and me. Still. Always.
He holds my gaze for a moment, then murmurs something to the group and starts walking toward me. My heart skips excitedly.
It’s time!
I dip my hand into the cooler just beside the dessert table, my fingers brushing against the stash I asked one of the teen volunteers to hide for me. I pull out a water balloon, cold, plump, perfect, and press my lips together, hiding the grin that threatens to give me away.
It’s been four years of plotting. This time, I get the drop.
Jake slows down, narrowing his eyes at my suspicious behavior. “Ruby…” he warns.
“Jake,” I reply sweetly, chucking the balloon.
It smacks him in the chest, dead center, with a satisfying splat. He gasps, drenched and stunned, a crowd of guests around us bursting into laughter and applause.
“I owed you one!” I yell over the noise, grinning like a kid.
He shakes his head, water dripping from his shirt, but he’s smiling, his eyes brimming with mirth. “You little menace.”
“You love it.”
“Damn right I do.”
When he reaches me, his hand slides around me to cup my butt possessively. “I missed you,” he whispers huskily, arching his eyebrows suggestively.
“Can’t stay away, huh?” I tease, despite the warmth spreading across my cheeks. “Little obsessed with me, aren’t you, fireman?”
He smirks. “Takes one obsessed person to know another, sweetheart. I saw the way you were ogling me across the lawn like I was a dessert on display.”
