Page 10 of A Hard Habit to Break

“Thinking out loud instead of talking… out loud,” he accused.

“You might be right,” Rachel snort-laughed, adjusting her designer sunglasses as her vehicle rumbled over the uneven asphalt. “Sorry.”

“You absolutely are not. But, because I pour love into the world, I offer you forgiveness.”

“I accept.” Rachel grinned, grateful she’d convinced her colleague to join her for this dreaded hometown visit, especially with his infectious laughter and impeccable style. Their friendship was a thing of beauty, much like the man. Even now, he wore a crisp linen shirt that somehow hadn’t wrinkled during their six-hour drive from Baltimore, where they’d flown in and then picked up her truck from the transport carrier. Completely immune to small-town charm, Benji was the perfect bufferagainst two weeks of wedding preparations, nosy neighbors, and—

“MRRRRROWWWWWWW!”A guttural, soul-piercing howl erupted from the soft-sided pet carrier in the back seat.

“Great, all your talking woke the fur baby. Good afternoon to you, ClamClam Johnson,” Benji said without looking up. “If you’re going to be catty, go back to sleep,” he added with a flourish of his pen. “YourMRRRROW, as always, is deeply insightful, and your exclamation point delivery, ever bone jarring.”

Rachel knew her kitty’s explosive vocals, hence the name, could rouse a vampire. Like her, Benji enjoyed engaging with outliers, especially the feline kind.

“She’s just angry that I haven’t landed that C-suite with a moleskin cat perch overlooking the San Diego Bay. And that I wouldn’t let her ride shotgun,” Rachel explained, checking the rearview mirror to glimpse her color-patch tabby, who stared back with what could only be described as feline diva disdain. She had earned the name not by holding her tongue. Just the opposite. Her purr baby had Mariah Carey’s vocal range with a Draymond Green attitude. The cat must have belonged to Houdini in a past life, as she used her claws like skeleton keys to escape every carrier. Rachel wondered how long this TSA-approved cat cell would hold up. “We’re almost there, you dramatic little monster. So you can stop filing through the bars like a wrongfully imprisoned first soprano.”

Service.Even the name felt ironic now. Thirteen years since she’d fled this place with nothing but a scholarship letter and the tatters of her broken heart. She’d built beauty from ruins. Made the unimaginable a tangible reality. Love gave way to mathematical equations, schematics, and walls, the taller, the better. Reinforced steel—why not? Thirteen years of building a life defined by movement—Boston, Chicago, Seattle, finally San Diego—designing spaces for other people while never quite settling intoone of her own. Four promotions, two awards from the Continental Architectural Institute, and zero permanent addresses later, here she was. Coming home felt like touching a bruise.

It was tender… and temporary, she reminded herself. Two weeks. Just long enough to see her father married, eat one bite of wedding cake, and escape before—

Noah Calvary’s face flashed across her mind. Those knowing hazel eyes, that infuriating dimple, the way he’d looked at her on prom night like she was already his, already tied to a life he’d planned without even considering what she wanted.

“Remind me again why I brought you?” she asked Benji, desperate to distract herself.

“Because I’m charming, I look fantastic in photos, and I promised to run interference with your high-school hot guy,” Benji replied, finally setting his tablet aside to survey a postcard view of downtown Service. “It’s beautiful,” he sighed. “Speaking of which, when do I, your chronic platonic, get to meet this fabled Noah? I need to evaluate if he lives up to the hype, FriendFriend.”

“There is no hype,” Rachel protested. “The last time I was home, he was on duty two days straight. That was a blessing that lasted five years.” She high-fived the air in delight at her past good fortune. “So, with any luck, you won’t meet him at all. He probably smells like bologna and stale beer by now.”

“Right. The man you’ve mentioned approximately seventeen times since we left San Diego. The man who must be avoided or we’ll unleash the devil in Georgia, who’s looking for a soul to steal, is a completely insignificant small-town ogre.”

“He is to me,” she insisted. “I was simply expressing my desire to avoid any and all small-town gossip while I’m here. Folks in Service have long memories for what was.”

“Mm-hmm,” Benji hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And those memories include, let me see if I remember correctly,‘shoulders that could carry a building beam’ and ‘hypnotic eyes that peel away panties faster than an electric saw.’”

Rachel swung her head away from the road to glare at her friend. “I was drunk on moonshine when I said that,” she blurted.

“Which means it was the truth. Or maybe a dare?” he mused, totally entertained at her expense.

Rachel gripped the steering wheel tightly, fixing her eyes on the winding road that would rewind time, leading her back into the heart of Service. In the distance, the green curtain of mountain pines stretched to kiss blue sky. Late spring sunshine painted long lines on Cattail Creek, with its crystal waters, glistened in greeting, welcoming her to the mile-high oasis she’d once called home. Despite herself, a wave of recognition, of belonging, washed over her. This landscape was written into her bones, these curves and rises as familiar as her own reflection.

“Two weeks,” she reminded herself aloud. “I’m here for Dad, not to reconnect.”

“Hoooly mother of—” Benji yelped as Rachel slammed on the brakes, sending them both lurching forward against their seat belts.

There, in the middle of the narrow country road, stood three goats. Not just any goats—goats wearing sandwich boards with hand-painted signs that readNO NURSE PRACTITIONER, NO PEACE, “WE DESERVE DOCTORS”—SIGNED THE SERVICE COUNTY OTTERS, andGIVE ME HEALTHCARE OR I’LL GIVE YOU HELL.

“Are those… protesting goats, FriendFriend?” Benji asked, his voice a perfect blend of amusement and disbelief, which was usually the case when he used her nickname. According to Benji, if her cat had to endure nine lives with the name ClamClam, her owner should share in the experience.

“Welcome to Service,” Rachel muttered, laying on the horn.

The goats didn’t budge.

“MRAAAAAAAAAAAAOWWWWWW!”ClamClam screamed from the back seat, apparently offended by either the horn or the goats, or both.

“Thanks for the input, sister,” Rachel called over her shoulder. To Benji, she added, “This is my father’s doing. Billy, Jean, and Diana belong to our farm. I knew they hired out for weddings. But activists?”

“I’m sorry, but what in the Michael Jackson, may he rest in pee-heece”—Benji’s voice mimicked the singer’s breathy, high-pitched tone—“is happening here? Activist goats named in tribute to the King of Pop? Is that a specialty breed?”

“Service is a whole lot of special. Last year, he had them protesting the price of feed at the General Store. I thought that was a one-off.” Rachel drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, surveying the roadblock. “What I don’t understand is, why? Service has a small medical clinic.”