Chapter 1
Sierra
The air was doing that thing again—not quite cool, but no longer heavy with summer’s stickiness. Somewhere between seasons, like the world couldn’t decide if it was done sweating or ready to pull on a sweater and exhale. I understood that indecision.
I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket, the thin kind that looked like fall but felt like wishful thinking, and kept walking. My therapist’s words followed me like a shadow.
“You don’t have to be fearless to move forward. Just don’t let fear decide the direction.”
I hated how she could effortlessly punch me in the gut with such zingers. She was right— I just had to convince myself to let go. The art festival was two weeks away and the studio opening a month after. My name was printed in programs. My work had a space of its own. I should’ve been riding that high, soaking up the badassery. But all I could think about was my dad.
He’d poured everything into his furniture restoration shop. Built it from nothing, carved out of blood, sweat and pride. The name still etched into my mind like the shop sign he’d hand-carved. He mounted it on the wall behind the front desk, where it caught the afternoon light and cast soft shadows over the counter. Bold letters and clean lines, he’d chiseled into a slab of walnut.
The shop was warm and simple, but full of life. It smelled like sawdust, lacquer and the drip coffee he made too strong. Music drifted from a battered old speaker on the back shelf—sometimes blues, sometimes rock, depending on his mood. I used to sit on a stool in the back corner, swinging my legs and watching him work. His hands were steady, patient and skilled. He started the business with restoration in mind, but eventually he was building custom pieces. Delicately carved jewelry boxes, headboards with intricate inlays, tables with hand-carved legs. He treated each piece like it had a soul and story of its own.
But during my sophomore year of college, everything started to shift. A private equity firm began quietly buying up the buildings on his block. At first, he refused to sell, said Legacy Revival was his home. But one by one, the neighboring shops disappeared. Less foot traffic meant slower sales. By the time he agreed to sell, the value had plummeted—and the street was unrecognizable.
He never said it broke him. But I saw it. The way he moved slower. The way he took the sign down with careful hands, as if it might shatter if he let himself feel too much. The way his standard, colorful word choices faded into quiet inner turmoil.
After the shop closed, his health went downhill—fast. He’d been saving, but he wasn’t ready for retirement. Not like that. Stress, the kind that doesn’t show up on scans but slowly ravages your insides, was wreaking havoc on his body. The weight of it all led to heart failure. He was gone in less than a year of his beloved shop closing. It was the most devastating moment of my fucking life.
Now, every time someone congratulates me, a voice in the back of my mind whispers, Don’t get cocky, Sierra. What if it all goes to shit again?
I turned the corner onto a quieter street, the kind with antique shops and boutiques that always smelled like cedar or cinnamon, depending on the month. The golden-hour light gleamed in one of the storefront windows, and I caught a glimpse of myself. I paused. It wasn’t that I didn’t recognize myself—it’s just that I didn’t brace for what I saw. The breeze had worked a few curls loose from the messy bun at the top of my head, and when I caught my reflection in the glass, I almost kept walking. But something made me pause. Maybe it was the light, or maybe the way my body filled the frame—tall, broad-hipped, unmistakably curved—like the glass wasn’t trying to slim me down or tuck me in. My waist had carved itself a little tighter lately, thanks to yoga and a steady undercurrent of stress I hadn’t been able to shake. But everything else—my chest, my thighs, my ass—refused to shrink for anyone. Not that I hadn’t tried. For years, I’d treated my body like a fucking math problem to solve. Something to whittle down, make smaller, more manageable. But today… I didn’t flinch. My dark eyes looked steady, not wary. My hair had puffed into a soft halo from the humidity, catching the auburn undertones in the setting sun. And to my surprise, I didn’t feel like I needed to apologize for any of it.
The buzz of my phone pulled me out of the past and into something far more urgent–Maya. Her words came out in a rush. None of her usual boss bitch energy, just tired and deflated.
“Hey, okay, so before I forget—are we still good to finalize signage on Friday? I’ve got the proofs back and they’re clean, but I want your eyes on ‘em before we go live.”
“Absolutely. But… What's going on? You sound off.”
”What? No, I’m fine. Just… tired.”
“Maya. You don’t do tired. You do ‘power-lunch while emailing three clients and fixing someone’s crisis over text.’ What’s up?”
There was a pause and then Maya sighed, defeated. “It’s dumb. I had a meeting this morning that went sideways, and now I’m second-guessing everything. Like, maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. Maybe I’m all flash and no follow-through.”
“Whoa, whoa, pause. One rough meeting does not undo the fact that you literally built a whole damn PR firm from scratch. You’re a powerhouse, Maya. You’re sharp, strategic, and terrifying—the good kind.”
“The good kind of terrifying, huh?” Her tone lifted a little.
“Absolutely. You got a stubborn city official to approve a permit by quoting his own words from a previous interview. Who does that?”
“Okay, fair. That was kind of badass.”
“It was legendary. You’ve got this. Everyone has an off day. It doesn’t mean you’re not the best in the game.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Maya replied with a giggle.
“And right.”
Sighing again, but softer, “Okay, I’ll try to believe you. You free for lunch tomorrow? I could use a distraction and maybe… a pat on the ego.”
“Done. Noon? I’ll even let you steal my fries without complaining too much.”
“Deal. Thanks, babe.”
“Always. See you tomorrow. And Maya?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not all flash. You are the spotlight.”
“Shit. Okay, now I’m crying. Bye.”
“See ya, boss lady.”
I was still smiling when I reached the storefront of my studio. Even after six months, it didn’t feel real. Maya had been the force behind making it happen—cheering me on when I doubted myself and calling me a “furniture artist” long before I believed it.
After a few uninspired years in graphic design, I’d started flipping furniture—part hobby, part desperate attempt to feel close to my dad after he died. At first, it was all traditional restoration, working in a rented garage on weekends. But one lonely night, needing color in my beige apartment, I painted an old jewelry box magenta and worked gold leaf into the busted carvings. Something clicked. Suddenly, I was scouring thrift stores for discarded pieces I could resurrect with bold paint and unexpected texture. That damn side hustle became my escape.
When the orders picked up online, Maya was the one who pushed me to go all in. I laughed at the idea, she didn’t. I said yes. I called it growth, called it healing. But if I was honest? It was fucking veneer—pretty on the surface, but completely unfinished underneath.
