Page 18 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Iris: Still on for our vid call later?

Shit. I totally forgot.

Maeve: Raincheck? Colt asked me to hang out and I figured it’d be nice to get to know him a bit more.

Iris: Oooooooooh. Cowboy Chronicles: Chapter one??? Get it, gal!

Maeve: FFS. We’re just friends.

Iris: Oh yeah, I forgot your vagina is calling out for the Cowboy Red Flag with the “DO NOT TOUCH” sign nailed to his backside. Not the cowboy prince charming.

Maeve: That ‘do not touch’ sign applies to both Carter men, thank you very much. I won’t be going there with either of them.

Iris: You keep telling yourself that. Anyway, talk tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which isn’t much. If you do, BE SAFE. No surprise cowboy babies, please.

I roll my eyes and send her the emoji to match, smiling despite myself.

God, I miss her. I just want to be curled up on her sofa with takeaway and a bottle of wine, chatting absolute rubbish until one in the morning.

But I need to remember why I'm here.

I'm here because I'm tired of dipping in and out of places. Tired of spending a little time somewhere, seeing all the nice bits, taking the photos, and then hopping on a plane back to London still feeling lost and empty.

That's been my story for years now. Going from city to city, country to country, hoping somewhere would click.

Not that I even know exactly what I'm looking for. I'm not sure it's a place, necessarily. Or at least, I don't think it is.

It's more of a sense of knowing where you fit. Waking up in the morning and having somewhere to be. Having people who notice when you're there and when you're not. Being part of something instead of just passing through it.

I think that's what I'm chasing.

I don't know if this is it. It's only been three weeks. But in those three weeks, I've felt more hopeful than I have in a long time.

Part of that hope is currently waiting for me downstairs.

With full gremlin-mode activated—old oversized tee, comfiest sweats, and fluffy slippers that have absolutely no grip left—I shuffle-slide my way to the kitchen where Colt is waiting, two beers in hand.

“Thought you bailed,” he teases.

“Got distracted texting Iris,” I admit. “I wouldn’t dare bail on you.”

He grins and gestures outside. “Come on.”

I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve stepped out in the back garden. It stretches wide, framed by the weathered wooden fencing that is apparently a Meadow Bell Ranch staple. There’s a giant oak in the distance with a faded treehouse and a makeshift rope swing. It feels… strangely homely. Like someone love this place once.

To the left of the patio doors, a soft orange glow flickers from a fire pit made of mismatched brick. It crackles gently, giving the space a kind of intimacy I wasn’t prepared for.

Colt sinks into one of the cushioned deck chairs by the flames and hands me a bottle. We sit. Silent and slightly awkward, neither of us quite sure how to start the whole hanging out as friends thing.

Naturally, me being me, I word vomit.

“So… where’s your mum?”

Colt stiffens slightly; his eyes locked on the fire.

“Shit, I guess that wasn’t the best icebreaker,” I wince. “You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in, voice quieter than usual.