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Untethered:Lacy Blake

Book cover of "Untethered: A Story of Becoming" by A.S. Haynes, featuring a silhouetted figure embracing the sun's warmth, symbolizing liberation and transformation amidst a dreamlike landscape.

The quiet rumble of the moving truck faded into the distance, leaving behind a loaded silence that clung to the sleek apartment building like mist.

Lacy stood still in the middle of the parking lot, keys in hand, heart racing under the weight of what she’d just done.

A new apartment. A new city. A new life.

And somehow, it all felt both terrifying and exactly right.

It wasn’t far from Oakland, where she grew up—barely an hour’s drive—but it felt like another world entirely. The old life she’d outgrown no longer had a place here. And maybe, just maybe, neither did the broken pieces of the woman she used to be.

She drew in a deep breath, the kind meant to center her, but it snagged halfway down her throat.

Behind her, a car door slammed.

"Okay, okay,  how many symbolic deep breaths are you planning to take before we actually start carrying boxes?" Bree's voice rang out, all dry humor and sisterly challenge. She rounded the front of the car with a messy bun, an iced coffee, and enough sarcasm to power the entire block.

Lacy cracked a smile, the tension loosening just slightly. "Can I have one dramatic moment without you narrating it like an intervention?"

Bree raised her cup. "That depends. Are you about to monologue about rebirth and fresh paint? Or are we still pretending this is just a job change?"

Lacy just glanced toward the building. It still felt more like someone else’s life than her own.

Bree’s voice softened. "Hey. You did it. You’re here. And no offense, but my couch was one bad wine night away from collapsing under us."

Lacy let out a breathy laugh. "Facts."

The thought of the girls—their group chat, their chaotic energy, their endless support—made her chest tighten in the best way.

"Come on," Bree said, popping the trunk. "Let’s get this last carload upstairs. The real movers already handled the grown-up stuff. For once, it’s starting to look like you own actual furniture."

Lacy smirked. "I do own furniture. Real furniture, thank you very much."

Bree snorted. "A couch, a bed, and a patio throne do not a mansion make, Beyoncé."

"Hey," Lacy laughed, grabbing a bag. "It’s curated minimalism."

"Mhmm," Bree said, already hauling a box toward the elevator. "Minimalism, or broke with good taste—you decide."

Lacy grinned. "I prefer ‘charming and resourceful.’"

"You keep telling yourself that, MacGyver."

They moved in tandem, effortlessly synced in the way only lifelong best friends could be—boxes, bags, and bits of a fresh start in tow.

Halfway through juggling bags, Lacy’s phone buzzed against her hip—the familiar, chaotic rhythm of group texts exploding all at once.

"Uh-oh," Bree said, eyeing the screen lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Let me guess. The girls?"

Lacy pulled her phone out, laughing. "Group chat’s on fire. Probably arguing about brunch or inventing a reason to drink mimosas at noon."

"God forbid we miss a dress code crisis," Bree said, shaking her head but smiling.

More buzzing.

More gifs.

More all-caps mayhem.

Lacy smiled wide, slipping the phone back into her bag. "Same circus, new location."

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Bree said, bumping her shoulder.

Later that night boxes lined the hallway like cardboard reminders of everything she hadn’t unpacked.

Bree had managed to find the wine glasses—well, mason jars—and now lounged dramatically on the couch, a throw blanket draped around her shoulders like a queen in exile.

"Okay, it’s almost time," Bree said, sipping from her jar. "You sure you’re ready for this?"

Lacy eyed the laptop, the Zoom link already open, and tugged her robe a little tighter around herself.

"I mean... it’s not a court hearing," she teased, smiling despite the nerves fluttering under her skin.

Bree raised a brow. "You say that now. Wait until they start roasting your Wi-Fi setup."

Lacy laughed, the sound bubbling up naturally. "As long as no one calls me a caveman, I’ll survive."

The familiar chime of someone joining the call filled the room.

One by one, the screen bloomed into tiny windows of chaos and love.

"Look who finally decided to move her cute little behind outta suburbia!" Janelle’s voice rang out first, her laugh loud and bright enough to shake the walls.

Her toddler peeked into the frame with a stuffed dinosaur, waved, then vanished like a magician.

"This new background better come with a soft launch caption and a fresh eucalyptus bundle, sis," Janelle added, grinning.

Lacy cracked up, tucking her knees under her chin. "Girl, I’m just trying to find my socks, let alone my aesthetic."

"Your chaos is showing," Nina said dryly from her book-filled office, sipping tea with regal judgment. "But I respect the vibe. Minimalist breakdown chic."

"I’m calling it ‘New Apartment Nervous Breakdown,’" Lacy shot back, laughing harder.

"Very exclusive," Kayla chimed in, glowing under what had to be a ring light. "Ten outta ten would repost. And if you need those shelves styled, I will fly out. Content, baby."

Chrissy popped on next, baby snuggled to her chest, typing one-handed like a legend.

"I’m just glad Lacy didn’t change her number and ghost us after the move," she teased.

"I thought about it," Lacy joked, winking. "But then who would send me fifty Pinterest boards labeled ‘Grown Woman Energy’?"

"I curated those boards," Ava said, raising her glass with a mock-solemn nod. "With intention."

"You made three charcuterie boards for a book club none of us finished," Lacy shot back, giggling.

"Presentation always matters," Ava replied smoothly, unbothered as ever.

"I’m just saying," Bree cut in, swirling her wine, "I deserve a medal for carrying this girl emotionally and physically all day."

"I’ll ship you a batch of sea salt scrub tomorrow," Janelle said. "And some lavender oil for whatever’s making Lacy look like she’s been fighting ghosts."

"Thank you for your concern, you loving sharks," Lacy deadpanned, grinning.

But then Chrissy leaned in a little closer to her screen, her voice soft. "But for real, Lace—how are you? Really?"

The teasing faded into something gentler, warmer.

Lacy let the question sit for a beat, feeling it unfurl inside her chest like a slow sunrise.

"I’m... figuring it out," she said finally, smiling shyly. "This move wasn’t just about work. It’s about finally choosing myself. And it’s scary. And lonely. And... freeing."

Nina nodded, her voice a steady hum. "The good kind of scary."

"Yeah," Lacy whispered. "It feels like I finally exhaled after holding my breath for years."

"I’m proud of you," Kayla said, flashing a bright, easy smile. "But seriously—get some curtains. That lighting is a hate crime."

Lacy burst out laughing, wiping at her eyes. "On it. Curtains first. Socks second."

"And your peace," Ava added, lifting her glass.

They stayed on the call for another hour—laughing, venting, tossing out life advice and terrible memes like confetti.

When it finally ended and the screen faded to black, Lacy looked around her apartment—the scattered boxes, the faint hum of the laptop still cooling on the coffee table—and for the first time all day, the space didn’t feel so empty.

Bree caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. "Feeling better?"

Lacy nodded, a real smile tugging at her mouth.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

"I think... I’m gonna be okay."

The sun spilled through the half-open blinds like it had something to prove, landing squarely on Lacy’s face. She groaned, dragging the comforter over her head. Her body protested the unfamiliar mattress, but after months of crashing in temporary spots, it still felt like luxury.

From the living room came the soft clatter of pans—or maybe plastic takeout containers—and Bree humming something off-key.

Lacy groaned louder. "You’re up already?"

"Someone had to rescue this apartment from its cardboard kingdom," Bree called back. "Also, your couch is aggressively mid. I need a chiropractor and a priest."

Lacy smirked into her pillow. "It's not the couch's fault you snore like a lawn mower."

"Bold of you to say when I risked spinal injury to help you unpack."

By the time Lacy made it to the kitchen, Bree was standing at the counter in an oversized t-shirt and pineapple-print socks, scrolling on her phone and sipping coffee from a chipped mug they'd unearthed the night before.

"Please tell me that’s from a working outlet and not black magic," Lacy mumbled, reaching for her own lukewarm cup.

"Little bit of both," Bree said, wrinkling her nose after a sip. "This coffee’s tragic. We deserve better."

They exchanged a look—the kind only years of friendship could translate.

Minutes later, they were pulling on hoodies and joggers, grabbing keys and wallets.

Bree, already tapping away on her phone, grinned.

"Good news—there’s a bakery two blocks over. I may or may not have Yelp-stalked the entire neighborhood yesterday while you were setting up Wi-Fi."

Lacy laughed as they stepped into the bright morning air. "Of course you did."

"Hey, someone had to prioritize survival."

Ten minutes later, breakfast sandwiches and iced lattes in hand, they were heading back toward the apartment when Lacy’s phone buzzed.

Group text. Ava.

Ava:

Event flyer into the chat.

"Global Ventures & Innovation Expo — Miami 🌴

Mark your calendars. 👏🏽 Would be an epic girls' trip and networking gold."

The flyer was a glossy little masterpiece—sleek fonts, palm fronds, minimalist gold accents.

Bree peered over her sunglasses at the screen. "Of course Ava already has her next quarter mapped out like a campaign strategist."

Lacy raised a brow. "Doesn’t she always? I barely know what I’m doing Thursday."

"I love that she thinks we’re just gonna casually hop down to Miami in peak hurricane season."

"She’ll probably still book a rooftop brunch and close a deal in the middle of a tropical storm," Lacy chuckled, thumbing a quick thumbs-up emoji back into the group chat. A year ago, she would've hesitated to even dream about a girls' trip. Now? She was at least willing to let herself imagine it. "I’ll see if I have PTO by then. This is, what, six, seven months away?"

"Classic Ava. Give you ample time to pretend you’re going, cancel the night before, and feel no guilt," Bree said, pushing open the lobby door with her elbow. "Still... could be fun. Wine, networking, ambitious chaos."

"I’ll pencil it under ‘maybe, if I survive Q1.’"

Back upstairs, a breeze drifting through the open windows stirred the takeout napkins and rustled a half-unpacked moving box.

Lacy paused by the window while Bree plopped dramatically onto the couch with her sandwich and a sigh.

Outside, the city buzzed in vibrant colors—the pastel buildings, the hum of the street, the waves crashing somewhere just beyond sight.

Lacy wasn’t sure yet what this version of her life would look like.

But at least the coffee was decent.

And her best friend was here.

That night the city lights blinked like lazy fireflies beyond the balcony, and the air held that soft, salt-laced breeze only an ocean city could have.

Lacy leaned against the railing, wine glass tucked between her palms, while Bree stretched across the plush outdoor loveseat, a blanket draped over her legs and a half-eaten cookie abandoned beside her.

Lacy’s apartment, still echoing slightly with its newness, was beginning to feel lived in.

It was a one-bedroom dream she hadn’t known she needed until she’d walked through it—

Stainless steel appliances gleaming like a showroom.

Floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the sunrise like an old friend.

A balcony with a postcard view of the ocean and the bustling strip below.

The hardwood floors warmed under the late sun, and though she didn’t have much furniture yet—just a couch, a coffee table, and a few essentials—everything else was on its way, one tracking number at a time.

The building itself was sleek, modern. A rooftop pool. An open-air lounge. A life that felt more like the opening credits of a show about a woman finally figuring it out.

She could walk to work now—or drive with the music up and the windows down, just because she could.

New job.

New salary.

New everything.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like she was running from something.

It felt like she was running toward something. She tilted her face toward the salt-kissed breeze, letting it thread through her hair. It felt different now—like a welcome, not a warning.

Bree took a slow sip from her wine and gave Lacy a look that meant she was about to stir the pot.

"So... Thomas."

Lacy grinned. "Girl, you love that man and still want to body slam him twice a week."

"Twice? Slow week if I don’t want to throat-check him by Wednesday," Bree said, laughing. "But yeah. I do. I really love him. It’s weird."

"It’s not weird. He’s good for you," Lacy said, settling into the seat beside her. "You’re just not used to good things coming with imperfections."

Bree sighed dramatically. "You mean he’s not a Hallmark movie in a fitted tee?"

"Nope. But he’s real. And you don’t flinch when he calls you out. Which... growth, sis."

"Ugh, gross. Personal development," Bree muttered. "But yeah. He sees me. Even when I’m being a whole problem."

They clinked glasses—the quiet kind of clink that only lifelong sister-friends share, no need for speeches.

"Speaking of problems," Bree said, grinning wickedly, "you peeped Kayla’s Instagram lately?"

Lacy laughed. "She tagged herself at brunch in Paris, but there was clearly a palm tree in the background."

"She tagged Paris with a Palm Springs filter. I love her, but that girl curates her life like she’s pitching a reality show."

"And Nina’s been shady too. No poetry invites lately. I think she’s secretly seeing someone."

"Oh, a hundred percent. Either that or she’s in her brooding, artist-introvert era again."

They giggled over the group chat receipts, bad date flashbacks, and how Chrissy texted them both yesterday to ask what dry shampoo was.

"Three kids and a tech empire, but no clue what a Batiste bottle is," Bree said, shaking her head.

"Icon behavior," Lacy added.

By the time they called it a night, the city had quieted, and the wine bottle was empty.

Lacy lingered on the balcony a moment longer, letting the night air wrap around her like a promise.

The smell of fresh coffee drifted from the kitchen, mixing with the golden sunlight that poured into the apartment like it paid rent.

Lacy padded out of her bedroom, hair wild, hoodie swallowing her whole, and found Bree already at the door, overnight bag slung over her shoulder, a to-go cup in hand.

Bree turned, grinning. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Before you ask—no, I didn’t fix your tragic excuse for a coffee maker. And no, Amazon didn’t air-drop you a new one overnight."

Lacy blinked, confused, until Bree held up the cup proudly.

"I got up at the crack of dawn and scaled a mountain of pure chaos to find a place open this early. Risked life, limb, and bad Yelp reviews—so please, savor this coffee like it’s a national treasure."

Lacy laughed, shuffling toward the counter where a second cup waited like a peace offering.

Bree tossed her a wink. "I fluffed your throw pillows, alphabetized your spice rack—you’re welcome—and ate all your snack food. Basically, I’m a live-in fairy godmother."

Lacy raised her cup in salute. "I owe you my firstborn."

Bree smirked. "I’ll take payment in mimosas next time."

Lacy crossed her arms, trying not to look too sentimental. "You’re really leaving me already?"

Bree smiled, stepping closer to pull her into a tight hug.

"You’re ready. Even if you don’t feel like it yet."

Lacy exhaled against her shoulder, a small laugh escaping. "Thanks for coming. For everything."

"Always," Bree said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. "You’re my sister. My ride-or-die. You survived the hardest part already, Lace. Now it’s time to actually live."

Lacy blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes and nodded.

"Guess I better not screw it up, huh?"

Bree smirked. "You won’t. But if you do... I’ll still be here. Probably with snacks."

Lacy laughed, her voice catching just a little. "Seriously. Thanks for walking with me through this."

Bree squeezed her hand. "Always. Now go be the main character of your life, okay? But like… don’t get so dramatic you forget to eat."

"Deal."

Bree gave one last hug before walking out the door, Lacy closed the door slowly, her fingers lingering on the handle longer than necessary. The faint scent of Bree’s citrusy body spray clung to the air. She stood there for a moment, missing her already, but breathing easier than she thought she would.The apartment was still half-unpacked.

The balcony held nothing but the oversized loveseat she couldn’t resist buying before the move.

Boxes lined the walls. Blank spaces stared back at her.

But the morning light poured in like a promise—soft, golden, stubbornly hopeful.

Lacy stood in the middle of it all, smiling to herself.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t finished.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like hers.

The first few days after Bree left were a blend of quiet bravery and little discoveries.

Lacy spent her time wandering the city like it was a living thing—equal parts intimidating and enchanting. With no set work schedule yet, she had freedom to roam, following whatever street, scent, or sudden curiosity pulled at her.

The neighborhood was a collage of contrasts: sleek cafés tucked between mom-and-pop delis, murals splashed across sun-bleached brick walls, bougainvillea spilling from wrought-iron balconies. Every block revealed a new surprise.

She found a bakery just a few blocks away, where the croissants were so buttery they nearly melted her stress at first bite. The owner, a French woman with a salt-and-pepper pixie cut, started slipping her extra pastries “just because.” Lacy had already memorized her name.

Down a narrow side street behind a flower shop, she stumbled upon a tiny independent bookstore—no bigger than her apartment—with books stacked in crooked towers. The owner and a lazy gray cat named Hemingway that was sprawled across his counter, had a knack for remembering people’s favorite genres. Lacy spent an entire afternoon there, lost in used poetry collections and battered travel memoirs.

The farmer’s market around the corner became another small miracle.

It buzzed with color, rich smells, and the hum of weekend chatter.

She bought fresh basil simply because it reminded her of her grandmother’s kitchen. A vendor convinced her to try passion fruit for the first time. She wandered with a canvas tote full of produce she didn’t entirely know how to cook—but she was determined to learn.

At first, the city had felt too big, too anonymous. But the more she explored, the smaller it felt—not in size, but in mystery. It began to feel like a place slowly inviting her in.

She smiled at baristas, nodded to dog walkers, traded quick conversations with shopkeepers who gave her insider tips about sunset beaches.

The anonymity that once made her feel invisible started to feel like freedom.

Each evening, she tried something new—Ethiopian, Jamaican, Moroccan. Every bite felt like a rebellion against the woman she used to be. Gone were the frozen meals and lonely takeout dinners. Here, food was an act of celebration. She ordered boldly, sipped wine at candlelit tables alone, and let new flavors tell her stories she hadn’t heard before.

Back at the apartment, the space was slowly taking shape.

The hardwood floors gleamed beneath her bare feet, and the sunlight poured in like a second heartbeat.

The balcony had become her favorite place—the spot where morning coffee tasted better and night felt less lonely.

She hung a few pictures: one of her and the girls laughing, one of her parents young and happy, and a framed print she bought from a local artist—a woman walking into the sea. It felt like her.

Furniture deliveries were still trickling in. There were curtain rods to install. A perfect reading chair to find. It no longer felt empty.

It felt like becoming.

And then there was Leo.

She found him on her third day, tucked under a bush near the park—skinny, dirty, full of scrappy defiance.

He hissed until she crouched down and offered him part of her tuna sandwich.

Now he slept curled up beside her on the couch like they'd always belonged to each other.

She named him Leo—for his ginger coat, but also for the quiet fierceness she recognized in him.

At night, Lacy would look around her apartment—still a little bare, still a little new—and feel something surprising:

Not fear.

Not loneliness.

Possibility.

The future wasn’t defined yet. And for once, that didn’t terrify her.

It felt like an open road she didn’t have to sprint down.

Just walk.

Step by step.

With Leo occasionally tripping her up.

Her new life wasn’t perfect. Far from it.

Some nights, shadows stretched too long across the walls. Old memories knocked at the edges of her peace.

Loneliness still crept in, soft and stubborn as fog.

But it didn’t own her anymore.

It passed—quiet, temporary—and left behind something sturdier.

Hope.

She was alone, yes.

But she was also free.

Free to choose.

Free to change.

Free to exist without apology.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t just surviving.

She was beginning.

And with that came something else she hadn’t expected:

Power.

The quiet kind.

The kind that showed up when she cooked dinner just for herself.

When she hung art on the walls.

When she walked home alone and took the long way, just because it was beautiful.

Optimism had settled into something better:

Resilience.

Rooted and real.

The journey was just beginning.

And Lacy was ready.

The first real test arrived before she even finished unpacking the last box:

A final, in-person formality for the Senior Editor position that had drawn her to the coast in the first place.

The position was already hers on paper—the meeting was just a final formality.

Still, Lacy smoothed her blazer and took a steadying breath as she stepped into the mirrored lobby of Seaglass Press.

The building felt like something out of a film: clean lines, endless glass, sunlight pouring in from every angle.

It smelled like polished wood, expensive coffee, and ambition.

She rode the elevator to the top floor, heart thudding once in her chest.

The interview blurred by in a swirl of practiced confidence and poised answers.

She remembered the office—warm, but intimidating. A mahogany desk so polished it looked lacquered daily. Shelves lined with first editions in meticulous color order.

And behind the desk: Eleanor Vance.

Ms. Vance didn’t rise when Lacy entered. She didn’t smile.

She just nodded sharply toward the chair across from her.

"You’ve come highly recommended," she said crisply. "But recommendations only go so far. I judge talent for myself."

Lacy placed her portfolio on the desk. "As you should."

Eleanor skimmed her resume, face unreadable.

"Editor at Harbor House. Freelance acquisitions. Managing editor internship at Whitmore Publishing."

"Yes," Lacy said, steady. "I worked directly under the Editorial Director. Manuscript evaluations. Workflow. Contract support."

"Hmm."

The resume was set aside. Eleanor steepled her fingers.

Then came the question:

"How do you define a story worth publishing?"

Lacy smoothed her palms against the fabric of her skirt under the desk, grounding herself. Then she looked Eleanor squarely in the eye and answered.  "A story worth publishing, is one that lingers. Something that doesn’t just entertain—it unsettles, provokes, heals. It speaks truth, even through fiction. It stays with you."

A flicker passed through Eleanor’s gaze—not approval, but not dismissal either.

"And if I told you truth doesn’t always sell?"

"Then I’d say that’s why editors exist," Lacy said calmly. "To shape the truth. To protect the heart of a story—and still find it a home."

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was meaningful.

Eleanor leaned back slowly, folding her hands.

"We’ll see if your instincts match your ideals," she said at last, standing to offer her hand.

"Welcome to Seaglass, Ms. Blake. Don’t make me regret this."

That evening Lacy stood at her kitchen counter, laptop open, wine glass half-full beside her.

There it was.

Bold.

Real:

Welcome to Seaglass Press.

It hit her like a wave.

This wasn’t just a new job.

It was her dream.

The kind of place she used to read about in publishing newsletters, daring herself to imagine.

It was real.

It was happening.

And next week, it would officially begin.

This is a preview of my debut book, Untethered A Story of Becoming