Not that I’m ever in the mood. Why can’t my niece’s life-or-death cupcakes be handled by her parents or grandparents? Or another Tripp sibling? Or hell, a delivery service? Why does my day off become a family free-for-all of tasks when they all know I’d rather be home, alone, with the dogs?

They mean well—it’s a ploy to get me involved.

Mom’s last “emergency” trapped me at my nephew’s soccer match, with single moms fishing for dates at one ear and pet owners looking for free advice at the other. It creates an unwelcome predator-versus-prey vibe, making me the helpless, irritated bunny in such situations. As I explained to Mom in a huff before finally leaving, “I prefer involvement at a distance.”

Or not to get involved at all, if I’m honest. I love my family. I’m there for my family. But I need boundaries. If I’m the cupcake delivery boy today, what will that mean for tomorrow?

I groan, my grip on the steering wheel tightening as I imagine myself as Mom’s substitute pickleball partner or Zach’s soccer team’s gator-costumed mascot. In a small town like Seagrove, horrifying annoyances are limitless.

Still, my valid arguments fade behind lazy resignation. It’s easier not to argue.

I voice-answer with a terse

fine

But it’ll be a drop-off situation, done begrudgingly. No getting suckered into conversations about Fluffy’s mysterious drooling problem. Or talks with single teachers over Seagrove’s very absent nightlife. I’ll limit myself to four words: Here are Zoe’s cupcakes. And maybe a “Hey, Zoe,” if she notices I’m there.

The afternoon sun heats the interior of my truck’s cab, softening my irritation with quiet warmth, and my mind slips back to the colt.

Sometimes, nothing can be done. No matter how hard you try. No matter how much you hope, pray, bargain, work, or want a different outcome, certain things cannot be altered. Or made better. Hell, or even made sensical. Life is just shitty like that. It’s a universal truth that exhausts and angers me.

But I was in a shit mood before the colt. I’m always in a mood, like general irritation is my default response to every situation this town and my family offer me. Even after two years, I can’t shake it.

Afternoon light flickers through the trees, making me blink. The truck’s warning system alerts me as I drift over the middle lines.

I correct myself, sitting more upright and fisting the steering wheel. I crack the window, letting in the crisp chill of February. I turn the radio up, and Chappell Roan’s voice mixes with the wind. The upbeat melody of “Good Luck, Babe” fills the interior. “You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.”