Aside from the jostling of my floating hitch and the bumps of the road, it’s so quiet I can hear my heart beating.
Ah, fuck.
“Mom, I didn’t mean to be a shit—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off. “Well, I think I better let you go so you can drive safely. We can talk more about this when you’re settled in.”
But I don’twantto talk more about this. I’m an adult. This was my decision.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I’ll text you when I get there to let you know I’m safe.”
“Yes, and tell me if it’s just as bad as those pictures made it look and I’ll send you money for a hotel tonight.”
“Mom, thank you, but I don’t need your money for a hotel. I have a tarp and a blow-up mattress with all my bedding.”
She tsks. “Does it even have a microwave? How are you going to eat dinner?”
Crazy-girl, please don’t take the wheel again.
“I’ll get some sandwich ingredients at the grocery store.”
“Is this really the best choice for you?” she asks, extending the conversation after carefully deflecting from the topic of my dad. “You don’t even know how to operate a business like this.”
I swallow down the fire in my belly. “Mom, I’ve been helping all kinds of businesses come back from the red for five years. I’ve got the experience and the money to do this.”
“But what if someone slips and falls? What if they die?” She gasps and I imagine her clutching nonexistent pearls.
“I’m sure there’s special insurance policies I’ll need to take out, and I’ll have a consent form for everyone who comes in—”
“But what if they sue!”
“Mom, I’m coming up on my exit and I need to focus,” I lie.
“Okay,cariña, I love you and I just want what’s best for you, take care,” she rushes out in a single, run-away sentence, then hangs up.
I take a few very deep breaths and then turn on my music and crank it up. The dulcet, new-age rock band Sleep Token blasts through the speakers and seeps into my bones, settling me. I shout the lyrics and point my hand at my imagined adversaries. My mother’s anxiety and disappointment, my ex—who I had to block oneverythingbecause he would not stop begging for another chance—and all the work that stands between me and a fuckin’ ballin’ hot spring resort.
When I finally spot the sign for Grizzlywood Springs, I’ve replayed the same song about three hundred times. The sun is creeping toward the crest of the mountains around the town as I wind through the turnoff. The road deposits me onto a bustling, well-lit Main Street.
String lights blink on between the lampposts and a banner waves over the entrance to the road reading, “Welcome to Grizzlywood Springs!” In smaller letters below the welcome is another line: “Visit the historic Silver Mountain Resort for the first time and get 10% off!”
Silver Mountain Resort.
My competition.
I did my research on the town after drunkenly blundering into my purchase. There are several hot springs in nearby towns, but this is the only one I’ll have to share the locals with. That’s all right. I’m not afraid of some friendly competition. And I’m surethere’s more than enough customers to go around for the both of us.
I take it slow as I peruse the businesses along the side of the road. There’s a sushi place and, next to it, a bar with karaoke Thursday through Saturday. A performing arts center that does mostly comedy shows is on the right, with a cute diner with a drive-up coffee spot beside it. There are loads of shopping opportunities, and much more.
The business listing really undersold the town. Then again, I didn’t really read it.
I pull off at the local grocery store and beeline for the deli section, finding the perfect little charcuterie board. A nice bottle of wine will finish it off. And for breakfast, PB&J. Just until I know the scope of things.
When I step out of the grocery store, the scent of roasted beans wafts toward me from across the street. My dopamine center activates immediately and crazy-girl demands a latte. I drop the groceries in the passenger seat and jog across the street.
The interior of the diner is just as cute as the outside, themed for the local hot spring, Silver Mountain. I look at the “Please wait to be seated” placard and see a little asterisk at the bottom that says, “Ask your hostess about Silver Mountain Resort packages!”
“What the hell?” I mumble, leaning in to read it again.
