Page 52 of Riding the Curve

“I don’t know!” I whine. They both fall apart with laughter all over again.

“I wish I had your problem,” Melody says, sighing deeper into her seat. “Damn, Hen, I love you, but I didn’t think you had something like that in you.”

Aiming the pillow toward her, I let it fly. It smacks her right in the stomach as she shrieks. A bit of wine sloshes onto her overalls, and she leaps up to wash it off.

“Me either, bestie.” Harper winks, shaking her head at my scowl. “I’m proud of you, though. You must admit, what you did was kind of hot as hell.”

I groan into my hands. “You two are not helping.”

“Honestly, it seems like a win to me, babe.” Harper shrugs as Mel returns to the living room and slides me over to sit next to me. Her small floral couch barely contains us all. “For a man who is usually all in on the throttle, it appears he’s learned that you don’t have to win a race on the first lap.”

“I agree,” Mel chimes in. “Thanks to the internet, we all know he’s been a little bit of a playboy over the years. It seems with you he’s trying to be more cautious. On a positive note, at least now you know for certain he has feelings for you still. Most men would have definitely cracked under the pressure last night. I think him not jumping in that spa shows he knows you're worth waiting for. Worth being patient, and taking his time with.”

“I agree. But he’s not doing okay right now. The last thing he needs is something messy, full of emotions. Something like a relationship.”

Their gazes bend around me. A look of concern lingers on their faces before they direct their attention back toward me.

“You’re not doing okay either, love,” Harper says, gently placing her palm on my thigh. “Maybe you both need a little bit of ‘mess.’ Something big enough to shake you both out of this rut. Something to remind you both what it’s like to feel alive again.”

Mel’s hand wraps around mine. “She’s right. It’s okay to give in and fall apart. Even through all the chaos and mess, we can create a masterpiece.”

Her eyes glide to her art space in the corner. It’s such a juxtaposition to the rest of her neat and tidy apartment. It’s the only small space in the entire house that shows a hint of disorder.

Pinned sketches cloud the wall behind her easel. A mess of brushes sit haphazardly in a jar. The drop cloth below is littered with every shade of paint imaginable. But through the chaos of it all sits the most stunning piece of art. Vibrant colors splay in a rhythmic pattern, each urgent stroke dancing along the canvas. It screams freedom. Unbridled, thrilling, and every inch of it bubbling with life. The feeling reverberates through my soul.

“It’s time for less overthinking and more letting go of the reins you’ve both wound around your life. It’s time to have a little fun,” Harper says before pulling me into her arms.

Mel joins in immediately and the weight makes us fall to the floor.

Laughter spills out of them while they try to wiggle free. I lie still on the carpet, soaking in their advice.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve never given myself room to breathe. Always setting one goal after the next. Striving for perfection at every turn. Mistakes were not an option, so when I made them, it gutted me. The perfectionist that lives in my head used those mistakes to make me feel ashamed. Remind me repeatedly that no matter how hard I tried to change myself, one thing would not change. How much of a failure I truly am.

My life is a battlefield. The war? Against myself.

Fight and fall. Attack and surrender. Each time I go down swinging, I dust myself off and keep charging forward. Trying to reach what feels like an unobtainable goal, proving my worth to others.

But, in these past weeks, there’s a new realization slipping through the cracks.

I’m surrounded by my biggest supporters, also the same ones I’ve been the most afraid of letting down. Where I’d thought they’d see me as a failure, it’s been quite the opposite. They’ve heard my stories, seen my faults, and still love me through it.

Perhaps now is the time I stop searching for my value in others. Time to stop setting impossible standards for myself. This is the moment when I need to start believing that I’m worthy enough for my own life.

Over the past three days, I’ve only observed Emerson in passing. Though we haven’t spoken to each other, it doesn’t mean there’s been a shortage of heated glances and tension-filled air.

I wake to rustling and hammering inside of the cabins beside ours. Realizing I won’t be getting anymore sleep, I throw on some clothes and make myself a cup of coffee before heading outside to work.

My eyes track Emerson as he carries the lumber back and forth, and I feel the burn of his stare scorching into me as I sit in front of my cabin and work on my laptop to finish the sample menus I had started for the ranch.

At night, it’s silent. His car is usually gone late into the night. Either at the shop or taking laps around the track. The rumble of his truck pulling in only in the early hours of the morning.

I’m only working three days a week with Harper, so the rest of my days I’m supposed to be working on getting Lane Ranch ready for guests. Since I didn’t have the courage to talk directly with Emerson after the spa night, I decided to go directly to the source, Preston Lane.

On my first day off, I invited myself over and cooked dinner while we caught up and he shared with me all of Autumn’s plans for the ranch. Just being at the dinner table with him and cooking in their kitchen again stirred up so many memories of our intertwined past. It had me wiping my eyes more than once while preparing our food.

The entire house still feels seeped in her warm presence, almost as if she was about to walk through the door at any minute. Emerson’s reluctance to want to stay inside the house became so much clearer.

After we ate, Preston gave me all of Mama Lane’s notebooks for her dream project. Each one was covered with cut-out magazine pictures for inspiration, all her hopes and ideas jotted down in the spaces in between. Each page I turned felt like a conversation. Like we were back sitting at the counter, and she was telling me exactly what she had envisioned.