Though she knew death found many good people that same way, so it was probably just a random occurrence.

It comforted her to think otherwise.

When he’d died she’d believed that maybe she and her mom could...that maybe with the enemy gone they could find a way to having a relationship. But no.

Paula Marshall had proven that while she hadn’t made the particular kind of misery she’d found with her husband, she hadn’t wanted to find anything else in life, either.

And she was angry at Sammy for leaving. For walking out on the abuse.

I wouldn’t do that to my child.

She hadn’t said it to her mother earlier, but she thought it now in defiance.

She would be a better mother. She knew she would be.

And she could change at any time. She wasn’t frozen the way her mom was. Her mom was still in that house. Like she was tied to it.

Sammy wasn’t like her. She could...she could do whatever she wanted.

And that feeling in her chest, that insistence, expanded.

Without thinking, she turned to Ryder. “Can I talk to you?”

Ryder looked at her, one brow arched. “Sure.” He stayed rooted to his seat, as if he didn’t understand that she was clearly asking to speak to him alone.

“Outside,” she said.

He was going to tell her she was crazy. She totally knew that. But she really wanted to talk to him about this. About her idea. About what she wanted to do to move her life to where she wanted it to be.

She was thirty-three years old. At some point there had to be more than just sponging off her best friend’s family, using his kitchen and parking on his land. At some point she had to make something for herself. Something of herself.

She didn’t want to be her mother.

Never changing.

Tied to something that had no real power to hold her anywhere anymore.

What if she wasn’t destined to be like her mother at all?

That had been itching at her brain now for a while, a restlessness in her soul she hadn’t been able to define.

Until today.

And even though she knew that Ryder would tell her she was crazy, she wanted him to know what she was thinking.

Because his opinion mattered, even if she didn’t ultimately do what he suggested. It just mattered. He mattered. He always had.

“If you’re asking me my opinion on any of the guys out on the dance floor, it’s grim.”

She laughed, reaching out and placing her hand on his shoulder, the connection instantly soothing her. “No. I already told you none of them were in the running for my particular brand of friendship.”

“Good thing.” She laughed at his stern mouth. Honestly, he could be such a...brick wall.

“I’m not asking you to help me pick out my date for the evening. I am not asking for your opinion on my choice of bra.”

He shook his head. “Thank God.”