Page 162 of The Lonely Road

“We ordered like we have six more people coming.” She does not remotely sound apologetic.

Last comes the cake—boxed carefully, handled with care.

When she opens it, the scent shifts again, darker now—rich chocolate, something dense and expensive, the kind of dessert that doesn’t pretend to be anything but indulgent.

“This”—Joy lifts the lid fully—“was non-negotiable.”

Dr. Sarah Kirk comes in looking like she’s lived through a war, which, judging by the blood on her sleeve and the way she drops into the nearest chair, she probably has.

“It’s fucking crazy,” she explains. “Had to reposition a calf that came in sideways, and the mama cow tried to kill me for it. Then a colt got into a fence and opened himself up like a zipper.”

She’s been part of this circle since she and Cade sorted themselves out and shows up to these evenings with the slightly dazed warmth of a woman who still can’t quite believe she lives somewhere that does this.

“Wine. And lots of it.” Sarah doesn’t drink in public, which I have learned is because she was assaulted by Cade’s brother when she was a teenager.

Yeah, sometimes Wildflower Canyon feels like a telenovela.

Bree hands her a glass of champagne.

Elena arrives twenty minutes later, which is late for Elena, who is punctual the way horse people are punctual—which is to say obsessively. She’s looking flustered, which is also not on brand for her.

“Well?” Aria looks pointedly at Elena.

She waves a hand. “I need to process.”

“Elena Rivera Wilder! Process what?” Joy demands. “Spill.”

Elena takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her stomach.

We all squeal, and then there is a whole lot of hugging.

“How far along?” Sarah asks, already in doctor mode.

“I don’t know…I just took the test this morning. But I have an appointment with Doc Ellsworth tomorrow.”

We carry the food, wine, glasses, silverware…everything outside the kitchen and onto the patio. Here, the view opens wide to the west—the Rockies stretched like the spine of the earth, purple-shadowed and immense. It’s quiet except for the soft rustle of the citrus trees near the porch and the low hum of wind rolling down the mountain slopes.

There’s an outdoor fireplace, though we don’t need it today. The sun is doing its job.

The table is solid wood—blonde, worn, the edges smoothed by time—surrounded by sculpted white chairs Joy insisted on because they look like branches. They do, in a way. Delicate until you realize they’re not.

Aria, Mav, and Joy live here together. I know Joy had planned to move out when her brother got married, to give them space, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

They’re not just sharing a house—they’re a unit.

We settle quickly, eating, drinking, sharing.

This is the thing about women who trust each other—the settling takes approximately four minutes, and then everyone is somewhere comfortable, and the conversation finds its own level the way water does.

Joy hands out plates as we pile them up with the greasy food. Aria puts music on—something low and warm, the kind that doesn’t demand anything.

“Okay,” Joy asks, once everyone has food and drink and a place to be. “Who’s most miserable?”

“Me,” Bree and I say simultaneously.

We look at each other.

“You should go first,” I urge. “Your situation is, at least structurally, more recently detonated.”