Page 23 of Meant for Mayhem

The Conway house was still silent, Lori asleep downstairs. Beckett would come over in a few hours to help her get ready for the day, like he’d done every morning since I’d given notice.

Part of me recognized I was a complete chicken shit to be sneaking out of the house like this, but I wasn’t built for goodbyes. If Lori hugged me one more time and thanked me for taking care of her, there was a real chance I’d sob.

After last night, I’d rather sneak out like a thief in the night than let anyone witness that kind of vulnerability.

With one last look behind me, I dropped a note for Lori on the front table, then eased the door shut and slipped into the crisp October morning.

The drive into town was short, the road twisting alongside the Eagle River. Aspen leaves blazed gold against the dark evergreens, the crisp fall air promising winter wasn’t far behind. Linwood came into view a moment later, a picturesque mining town nestled into the Vail Valley. Everything was a mix of the Old West and a Norman Rockwell painting—the hanging baskets outside Hudson Hardware had long since been traded for pumpkins and rust-colored mums, the storefronts dressed for fall beneath the mountains that wrapped around us on every side. We didn’t have much—a hardware store, a grocer, a coffee shop, a hybrid Mexican-Italian restaurant, an outfitter, and a bar.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the Lantern as I drove past, too many memories of dragging my drunk father home while he cursed at me the whole way.

For years, I thought I’d drown in all the bad memories this little town held. And yet somehow, the Pilates studio at the end of River Street had rewritten all of them.

I pulled the rental car into the first spot outside Elevation Pilates, looking up at the sign while four familiar faces crowded the front window, already watching for me.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Emmy said from the open door. “Everyone was early today, which is saying something since we don’t normally do breakfast meetings.”

Stevie stood behind her in an oversized Mayhem Hockey Club hoodie and leggings, covering her mouth while she yawned. “I haven’t even finished my first coffee yet, which is how you know I love you.”

Daisy snorted, her new foster son strapped to her back in a carrier. “I’ve been up since five with this guy, so I’m several cups of coffee deep. I’m prepared for whatever this party turns into.”

“Are you going to let her inside or are we all going to stand on the sidewalk the whole time?” Tate said from behind her. She towered over the other women, her red hair tied up in a ponytail and hanging down her back.

I grinned. “Finally. The voice of reason.”

I followed everyone into the building, tucking my backpack into a cubby on the left wall. The familiar scent of eucalyptus cleaner mixed with coffee and breakfast tacos, an unusual combination that only existed because this wasn’t our normal Tuesday night Pilates.

Beyond the front desk, purple LED lights glowed beneath the wall-length mirrors, reflecting two neat rows of reformers I’d walked between a thousand times. The bulletin board by the desk had long since stopped advertising Pilates specials and instead held Mayhem practice schedules, rink fundraiser flyers, and a crayon drawing Stevie’s daughter Harper insisted was me, despite it looking suspiciously like a potato with black hair.

I wasn’t much for nostalgia, but now every stupid little detail felt worth memorizing.

For the last year, I’d worked the front desk here, answering phones and scheduling classes while I chipped away at my classes online. It was supposed to be a paycheck—something flexible while I finished school. But instead, this place had quietly become home.

As if she could hear my thoughts, Emmy wrapped her arms around my torso, squeezing me. I wasn’t a hugger, so I settled for a quick pat on the back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she whispered low enough for only me to hear. “This is a lot. You don’t have to do it. It’ll be okay.”

“Secrets, secrets are no fun,” Stevie sing-songed as she went into the studio. “What are you two whispering about?”

“How much she’ll miss me,” Emmy said as she followed Stevie inside. “She didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“We’re not friends.” It must have been the hundredth time I’d said it since I’d met these women last fall.

Stevie nodded. “Keep telling yourself that. Now get back here before I eat all the queso.”

“Up!” Stevie’s daughter Harper said from near my feet, her arms stretched into the air for me. “Up! Up! Up!”

I reached down and picked her up, planting a kiss on her chubby cheek. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Harper?”

My most favorite two-year-old squeezed my cheeks between her hands. “Nannon.”

“She really brought queso,” Daisy said as she came up beside me with a tote bag full of juice and cups.

I glanced at the folding table set up in the corner. There was a tray of breakfast tacos on a green-and-black plate I recognized as Tate’s and what looked like a French toast casserole from Emmy. The only outlier was a wholesale-sized bag of tortilla chips and a slow cooker sitting in the center.

“Since when is queso a breakfast food?”

Stevie dipped a chip into the bowl, then shoved it in her mouth. “It felt wrong to have a Moms of Mayhem meeting without queso at this point. It’s tradition.”