It was exactly that bad.

Sophia looked out the car window dubiously. She didn't know what she had expected upon leaving Calgary Airport, but it certainly wasn't three hours of fields, hay bales, and grain towers. All of which were growing disturbingly more frequent as they neared Bashaw.

At least Sophia had spotted a few cellphone towers.

Civilization still existed.

She glanced at her phone. One missed call from her mother, two messages from Ophelia, and a voicemail from Callie reminding her that she wanted content by this weekend. "Something wholesome featuring our Estrella perfume," Callie had mused, "with organic elements. Think flowers and sun-drenched patios."

Oh, and a short text from Kit.

Sophia, he'd written. Just wanted to apologize again about the launch party. Going to announce our split today on socials.

Sophia sighed, pocketing her phone. She'd gone to see Kit yesterday evening; he'd been standing on a chair in his apartment, dressed in grey sweatpants, snapping pictures for a gym wear haul. Kit had been three t-shirts down before he seemed to register that Sophia was breaking up with him.

"But why?" He'd sounded truly baffled. "We're good together, babe. Our followers love us."

That had been the nail in the coffin.

Sophia had gathered her things (toothbrush, moisturizer, morning gut cleansing tea), taken an Uber to her apartment, and packed for Bashaw. And now she was here. In Tabby's truck, which smelled faintly of hay and nail polish remover.

"So," Tabby said cheerfully. "I saw the photo."

Sophia lunged for the handlebar on the roof as Tabby swerved erratically around a pothole. Then again, Sophia thought wryly, everything about Tabby was erratic: her driving, her spiky blonde hair, and even her nail polish, which changed more often than the weather. Today, it was painted a bright highlighter yellow.

She was exactly like Sophia remembered.

"It really wasn't that bad," Tabby added, entirely unconvincingly. "Your hair looked great."

"Thanks."

"Anyways," Tabby said, swerving jerkily around a slow-moving tractor with blinking hazard lights, "I'm sure nobody saw it."

Sophia sighed. "Just all of North America."

"You can't even tell it's you."

"Yeah, well," Sophia said wryly, "I always did want to be in People. So I guess my dreams have finally come true."

To her surprise, Tabby grinned. "Remember that summer we did a whole photo shoot and then sent the pictures to the magazine?"

"Obviously."

Sophia would never forget it. Firstly, because at fifteen, they had no idea that sparkly blue eyeshadow would never look good. And secondly, because it had been the summer after Sophia's father died; Tabby came to visit them in Niagara-On-The-Lake, and they spent a summer filching wine from the barrels outside vineyards and terrorizing the locals by ripping around town on their bicycles.

Tabby was taller now, but she still had the same sort of infectious energy. Like sunshine trapped in a bottle.

Sophia was grateful for it. Then, and now.

A cellphone rang. Tabby lunged for her phone, wedging it under her ear in a way that Sophia suspected was highly illegal.

"Hello?" Tabby said.

Someone spoke frantically on the other end of the phone, and Tabby's face paled.

"Uh-huh," Tabby said. "Yup. I can get it." She motioned for Sophia to grab the pad of paper in the console. "You want some rope?"

Sophia paused, her pen hovering over the paper. Clearly, Tabby's boyfriend Leo had peculiar tastes.

"And chains," Tabby added.

Yup. Definitely kinky.

"Also a few restraints."

Oh, god. Sophia felt her cheeks warm. They made shopping lists for this? By the time Tabby hung up the phone, Sophia's eyebrows were at her hairline. "I don't know what you and Leo get up to," she said slowly, "but I hope you have a safe word."

Tabby rolled her eyes. "It's not for me."

"Really?" Sophia capped the pen, looking at Tabby curiously. "I never pictured Leo as the submissive one."

"No, that's not what I—" Tabby broke off, looking torn between horror and amusement. "One of our horses is sick, Soph. The vet needs her restrained while she works on her."

"Oh."

Tabby shook her head. "You really thought it was for Leo and I?"

"No," Sophia lied, and Tabby grinned.

"You really are a city girl," she said. "Come on. I'll drop you at a coffee shop in town while I run to the hardware store."

Twenty minutes later, Tabby pulled over in what she had identified as the center of town, and Sophia stared at her surroundings. Horror gnawed at the pit of her stomach. No. Surely not. This had to be a mistake.

"I don't get it," Sophia said. "Where's the town?"

"You're looking at it," Tabby said,

Sophia turned back to the street, her sense of horror growing.

Oh, god. There definitely wasn't a Zara here. Hell, she would be lucky if there was a clothing store at all; Bashaw seemed to be composed of a single street dotted with a fire station, a grocery store, a butcher shop, a hardware store, a diner, and two coffee shops bookending the road.

And that was it.

"Tab," Sophia said, her throat dry. "How many people live here?"

Tabby flapped a hand. "Oh, a couple hundred."

"But where are the houses?"

Tabby gave her an odd look. "Well, Pat and Randy's place is just across the street. See the blue one? And everyone else lives nearby."

Sophia looked around at the endless stretches of dirt roads dubiously. In Toronto, "nearby" meant a Starbucks about 300 meters away. She was pretty sure that rule didn't apply here. Still, Sophia squared her shoulders.

"So," she said. "Which coffee shop has better lattes?"

Tabby pointed her to the nearest one, and Sophia dragged her carry-on suitcase into the shop, wincing at the tinkling chimes. Fortunately, Sophia was certain that nobody else heard it, because the sound was drowned out by an elderly Irish woman with a pink apron, who was shouting at a young blonde woman.

"For feck's sake, Ava," the Irish woman snapped. "I won't have you gallivanting about town with some eejit with silly hair—" She broke off, her eyes landing on Sophia. "Oh. Hello, darling. You okay?"

Sophia blinked. "Er. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh, no," the woman said airily, securing her apron. "My granddaughter was just leaving." She shot the blonde a hard look. "Weren't you, Ava, darling?"

She gulped. "Yes, Granny."

"Good girl."

Sophia watched, alarmed, as the blonde girl — Ava — scurried past her, looking rather relieved to be out of the line of fire. Sophia turned back to the counter with mounting trepidation. And not just because a statue of Saint Patrick was glaring down at her.

"So." The Irish woman smiled. "What can I get for you?"

Sophia scanned the menu, oblivious to the tinkling bells behind her. "Er." She tried desperately to make out the handwritten chalkboard. "Well, I..." Oh, what the hell? She took a stab in the dark. "A matcha latte, please."

The Irish woman blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"A matcha latte."

"A what?"

"The green one," Sophia said slowly. "Made from tea." The woman's face was blank. "It's Japanese? Very trendy."

Someone made a choked laughing sound.

Sophia whipped around. A young man was whistling cheerfully, clearly pretending not to eavesdrop. His white t-shirt was splattered with mud, and his blue jeans were faded — not in the way that designers purposefully did it, Sophia thought, but in the way that suggested he spent a lot of time rolling around in the dirt.

"Yes?" she said coolly.

"Oh, nothing," he said.

"No, please go ahead," Sophia said, crossing her arms. "I'd hate to miss the joke."

His lips quirked. "You're not from these parts, are you?"

She bristled. "Did my suitcase tip you off?"

"No." His smile widened. "Your order did. Let me guess: Vancouver?"

"Toronto," Sophia said slowly. "I just moved here."

"Again, I can tell."

Sophia scowled. The stranger ran a hand through his mop of sandy blond hair, looking unperturbed. With his tanned skin and freckles, he would have been cute, Sophia thought, if he learned how to dress properly. And also if he wasn't so rude.

"No offense," he drawled, rocking on his heels, "but some of us have places to be, Toronto. Can you hurry it up?"

Sophia glared.

She deliberately took her time ordering a coffee, dallying over whether she wanted milk or no milk, sugar or no sugar. By the time Sophia was done, the young man looked ready to stab her to death with the Saint Patrick statue.

"The usual, Saoirse," he muttered, throwing a wad of bills on the counter. "Oh, and a scone for my sister, please."

The Irish woman — Saoirse — winked. "You got it, darling."

Sophia sipped her coffee in stony silence, glaring hard at the stranger. From her seat at the table, she had an uninterrupted view of his back. Or, more specifically, his well-defined back. She personally thought it greatly unfair that a man so rude should have such nice muscles.

The world was cruel.

He grabbed his drink. "See you around, Toronto."

"Not likely," Sophia said sweetly.

It was only when Sophia heard the tell-tale tinkling of bells that she relaxed again. Tabby waved cheerfully at Saoirse before dropping an arm around Sophia's shoulder.

"What did you get?" Tabby asked.

"A coffee."

Tabby stared at her. "No pastry?"

"I'm not hungry," Sophia lied.

Truthfully, Sophia hadn't touched a pastry in six months, after several trolls had commented on a post of her lounging poolside in Barbados. "Yikes," one person wrote. "Is she considered plus-size now?" Another fitness Instagrammer added, "Not trying to be rude, but have you gained weight? I love chocolate croissants too girl, but they are NOT a sustainable diet lol."

Logically, Sophia knew it wasn't healthy. It shouldn't matter what other people — let alone complete strangers — thought of her. But she liked being liked, and she craved approval from everyone. Her mother. Brands. Uber drivers. It didn't matter who it was; if they didn't like Sophia, then she only tried harder to make them like her.

So.

No pastry.

Tabby, however, looked at Sophia as if she'd just said that she kicked puppies for fun and secretly operated a drug-trafficking scheme out of Portugal.

"Two butter tarts, please, Saoirse," Tabby called, twisting to face the counter. "Actually, you'd better throw in a third, or Dad will be furious."

The Irish woman winked. "You got it, darling."

It wasn't until they were almost at Tabby's white pick-up truck that the other girl bumped Sophia's hip playfully, her eyes glittering.

"So?" Tabby demanded. "Did I miss anything interesting? Cute men? Good gossip? Saoirse chucking butter tarts at people?"

Sophia arched an eyebrow. "Does that happen often?"

"Just when her granddaughter's around."

"Well, you didn't miss much," Sophia assured her, swinging into the white pick-up truck. "Just a rude stranger."

Sophia sipped her coffee, wincing at the hot, bitter liquid. Fortunately, she would never have to see the stranger again.

Thank heavens.