Chapter 9 - The Unwritten Page
By the time spring returned to Texas, painting the meadows along the Trinity River in blankets of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes, my life had assumed a rhythm so steady and secure that it felt almost miraculous.
I had spent my thirtieth birthday quietly, not with a lavish, expensive party designed to impress people I barely liked, but with a small dinner party on my back patio. Just my parents, who looked ten years younger without the stress of watching me try to fit into a broken mold; Victoria Vance, who had transitioned from my attorney to a genuine, formidable friend; and Maya, who brought a homemade peach cobbler that burned around the edges but tasted like heaven.
As we sat around the rustic wooden table under a string of fairy lights, my father raised his glass of iced tea.
“To new foundations,” he said, looking at me with a warmth in his eyes that made my throat tight. “Built to last.”
“To new foundations,” we all echoed.
Later that night, after everyone had gone home and Oakley was curled up soundly on his rug by the hearth, I walked out onto the front porch in my bare feet.
The night air was warm and smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Down the street, a few neighbors were walking their dogs, their laughter carrying softly on the breeze.
I looked down at my left hand.
May you like
My ring finger was completely bare. There was no gold band, no diamond pendant, no heavy chain resting against my collarbone. There was only the clean, unencumbered skin of a woman who had walked through fire and refused to let the smoke define her.
I smiled into the dark, starry Texas sky, took a deep, steady breath of the cool night air, and stepped back inside, locking my front door behind me with a firm, satisfying click.
