Chapter 2
Dwight
I t had been a long journey.
I stepped off the bus, stretched my legs and back. The bus had been uncomfortable, but that’s not the reason I was aching. Nope. The ache never left. Hadn’t since I’d been discharged.
I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, and hit the pavement with a thud. Boots solid on the ground, I froze. Damn, it was pretty here. I’d toured the world with my band, but I never found any place that quite compared to Small Falls. Place looked like something Norman Rockwell dreamed up. Main Street stretched ahead of me, lined with those same squat buildings from years ago, but newer signs hung in the windows. Some old, some fresh. Change slapped me across the face harder than I expected.
"Alright," I muttered under my breath. "Let’s do this."
The weight in my chest twisted and settled, like a damn anvil lodged there. Maybe the reason I’d never found anywhere like Small Falls was because it wasn’t just a place, not to me. It was home . Or at least it used to be, before I burned every bridge I could find and disappeared. Now? It felt like stepping into someone else’s memory—a little too clean, a little too perfect, like I didn’t belong anymore.
I shifted the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and took a deep breath. My pulse hammered, my fingers twitching for a cigarette I’d quit smoking a year ago. Hell no. Not gonna start that again. Instead, I focused on the smell of coffee wafting from somewhere down the block and the chatter of a couple walking past me. They didn’t even glance my way. Good. I didn’t need anyone recognizing me.
I walked to the corner, boots scuffing the sidewalk. Across the street, there it was—Wilkins Hardware, Marcus’s place. Just seeing it made my stomach churn. A fresh coat of paint covered the brick, and a new awning stretched over the entrance. Looked good. Solid. Like everything my brother touched turned out fine while I was busy fucking up my life.
I stopped, rolling my shoulders to shake the tension creeping down my back. I caught my reflection in the window of some boutique I didn’t recognize, and it stopped me dead.
The guy staring back at me looked like he’d lived three lifetimes since he last walked these streets. Lean face, sharper angles. The hair was shorter now, closer to the tight military cut I’d worn in the army, not like my band days. Still, it looked as if I hadn’t quite decided who I wanted to be yet. My jawline had lines that weren’t there ten years ago, creases carved by mistakes I couldn’t undo.
And my eyes? Hell. They were the worst part. Haunted, shadowed, like they’d seen too much but still carried it all anyway.
My hand went to my chest before I even thought about it, right over the spot where my dog tags used to hang. Just leather there now—and guilt. That old ache twisted sharp. I could almost hear Marcus’s voice, low and steady, trying to keep calm while I tore him apart in front of everyone. “Didn’t peg you for a perv, big bro,” I’d spat, drunk and mean as hell. I’d said it loud enough to carry across the bar, loud enough to make him flinch, louder than I needed to ruin something I didn’t understand back then.
"Shit." The word slipped out under my breath, but it didn’t do anything to dull the memory. I rubbed my sternum like that could erase it, but all I felt was the empty space where those tags should’ve been.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and turned down Main Street, heading toward the building I signed the lease for last week. In the past it had been a grocers. Now, I was going to rebrand it as “Sweet Surrender.” I’d come up with the name during one of my late-night baking marathons, half a joke, half a challenge to myself. Now, walking up to the place, it felt . . . fragile. Like any second the whole dream might break apart at the seams.
The windows were bigger than I remembered, bright and open with sunlight cutting through the grime. I was going to need to paint the place, probably fill some cracks to make it smart and appealing. I couldn’t wait to get going.
I fumbled with the keys for a second before the lock clicked and the door creaked open. The air inside hit me first—stale, dusty, and cold—but it wasn’t bad. It smelled like potential.
"Alright," I said to no one, stepping inside and flicking on the lights. They buzzed faintly before humming to life, casting a soft yellow glow over the bare counters and unfinished walls. Dust motes floated through the beams, swirling slow and lazy, almost hypnotic.
The space was definitely workable. Counters along the left side, room for ovens in the back, a little nook near the window where I could set up a display case. Nothing fancy—just simple, functional, honest.
I ran my fingers along one of the counters, leaving a clear streak through the dust. My mind raced ahead, filling the silence with imagined clatters of mixing bowls, the hum of an oven, the scent of cinnamon rolls wafting out to greet customers.
"Not bad," I murmured.
The quiet settled deep in my chest, soothing the anxiety that had crawled up my throat since I stepped off that bus. Here, surrounded by nothing but possibilities and a whole lot of work, I could breathe. Flour, sugar, butter—it was all simple. No judgment, no expectations. Just ingredients waiting for someone to make them into something good.
That’s what I was here for. To make something good. To prove I could.
I was crouched low, imagining where the oven racks might fit best, when the sound of a cough behind me froze me in place. Sharp. Deliberate. The kind of sound someone makes when they want to be noticed but aren't thrilled about it.
"Well, shit," I muttered under my breath, straightening up too fast and nearly knocking into the counter. Turning around, I found Brett standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight across his chest like he was holding himself together. His eyes raked over the dusty room before landing on me. Same old Brett—stiff shoulders, jaw set so hard it could snap steel.
"Hey," he said, flat as an untouched can of soda left out for days. "Figured I'd find you here."
"Hey yourself." I wiped my hands on my jeans even though they weren’t dirty. Habit, maybe, or just nerves. It had been years. My heart pounded in my chest. "You gonna come in, or are you planning to stand there like a bouncer?"
He didn’t move. Not at first. Just lingered there, leaning slightly against the doorframe, his face unreadable except for the faintest twitch near his right eye. Finally, he stepped inside, boots scuffing against the old wooden floorboards. It felt like the room shrank with him in it, the air heavier somehow.
"Place looks . . ." He let the word hang, glancing at the bare walls, then at the counters coated in dust. "Interesting."
"Yeah, well. I’ve got a lot of work to do," I said, crossing my arms to mirror him. If he wanted a standoff, I wasn’t gonna make it easy for him. “What brings you by?”
"Well, I’m the fire chief, so I thought I’d check out this place, see if it’s up to spec.” Seemed crazy that my little brother was the town fire chief. Brett paused for a moment. “Plus, I figured I should see if you’re really back," he said, voice clipped. "If you're planning on staying."
"That why you’re here? To check if I’m serious?" I bit back the sharper edge in my tone before it cut too deep. But still, it slipped through in pieces. "Guess it’s fair. Can’t blame you for being skeptical."
"Don’t need your permission to doubt you, Dwight." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a busted drill he couldn’t decide whether to fix or toss. "But yeah. Kinda curious what the hell you’re doing here. I get that you’re here for Marcus's wedding, but . . . a bakery? You? Really ?"
"Yeah," I said, holding his gaze. "A bakery. And yep, it’s not just for the wedding. I’m sticking around."
"Since when do you bake? Last time I checked, you barely knew how to boil water without setting off a smoke alarm."
"Things change." My words came out firmer than I expected. "People change."
"Do they?" His eyebrow arched, the skepticism thick in his voice. "Or is this one of your half-assed plans that'll fall apart in six months?"
"Damn, Brett." I swallowed hard and glanced away, pretending to study a crack in the wall just so I didn’t have to see the judgment etched into his face. "Look, I know I screwed up before. Plenty of times. But this . . . this isn’t some impulsive thing, okay? I’ve been saving for this for over a year. Planning it. Working my ass off to get here."
"Uh-huh." He shifted his weight, his arms still locked tight across his chest. "So the bakery’s not just your latest escape hatch, then? Not just another way for you to run away?"
"Not this time." I met his stare again, refusing to flinch. "No more running.”
“Heard you had some problems with the band.” That was the understatement of the year.
I nodded. “Yep. That was bad—the split. But things have been better since. I’m sober now. Been clean for a year. I was drinking too much. Never again. Surprised you heard about that."
"Hard to miss it," Brett said, his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Your drunk ass made the local news once or twice."
"Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly my finest hour." My throat tightened, but I forced the words out anyway. "I’m not proud of it. But I’m trying, Brett. Trying to do better."
"And this bakery’s supposed to prove that?"
"Something like that," I said quietly. "It’s . . . I don’t know. A way to start fresh. Build something real. Something good."
His jaw clenched, the muscles twitching under his skin. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else—maybe something sharp—but it never came. Instead, he nodded once, a curt little dip of his chin.
"Well," he said finally. "Guess we’ll see how that pans out."
"Okay, so picture this," I said, motioning toward the empty counter space in front of me. "Pastries right here. Croissants, danishes, muffins—fresh out of the oven every morning. Over there"—I pointed to the far corner—"a display for artisan breads. Sourdough, focaccia, maybe some rye. And if things go well, a small breakfast menu. You know, egg sandwiches, coffee to-go. Simple, but quality."
Brett leaned against the doorway, arms still crossed like a damn fortress. His eyes flicked from the counter to the walls and back to me. “Sounds ambitious.”
"Ambitious, yeah. But not impossible," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve thought it through. Saved up for over a year. Got plans for everything—equipment, suppliers, even marketing.”
"Marketing." He snorted, almost under his breath. "Big word for a bakery in Small Falls."
"Look, I know how it sounds." My palms were sweating, and I wiped them on my jeans. "But this isn’t some half-assed idea I came up with on a whim. I’ve put the work in. I’m ready to do this.”
"Right," Brett said, and his tone cut sharper than I expected. "And when it doesn’t work out? What then?"
It hit like a punch to the gut, though I tried not to let it show. I swallowed hard, meeting his skeptical stare. "It will work out."
"Sure," he said, the word flat. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. He wasn’t buying it—hell, I wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the old hardwood floor. My stomach twisted. I could feel the question hanging in the air, unspoken but loud as hell: Are you really different, or is this just another crash waiting to happen ?
"Listen," I started, the words sticking in my throat. “I know I messed up before. When I left—and all the stuff that happened after—I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t in a good place.”
"That’s one way to put it," Brett muttered, his arms tightening across his chest.
"Yeah, well, I’m trying to own it now," I said, pushing past the lump in my throat. "I shouldn’t have left the way I did. Shouldn’t have said—" I stopped myself. The memory of Marcus’s name sat heavy on my tongue, too sharp to spit out. "I was wrong. About a lot of things."
His expression didn’t shift, but something in the room cooled. Like the air itself got thicker, harder to breathe. Brett’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a second, I thought he’d say something. Instead, he straightened, uncrossing his arms.
"Well," he said, his voice clipped, "guess we’ll see if this sticks. Good luck, Dwight."
"Thanks."
"So, uh, you spoken to Marcus yet?”
“Nope. Just got into town. Gonna go round his place now to say hello.”
He nodded. “Good. Don’t screw it up," he said as he turned toward the door. The old wooden door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dim, hollow space.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and sank onto one of the stools by the counter. My hands shook as I rubbed them together, trying to force some calm into my system. It didn’t work—not at first, anyway.
"Get it together," I muttered under my breath.
I closed my eyes, pulling in a deep inhale through my nose. Counted to four. Held it. Exhaled slow. Again. And again. Just like they taught me back in therapy. It wasn’t magic—it didn’t erase the knot in my chest—but it kept it from choking me.
"Pastries, bread, breakfast," I whispered to myself, grounding in the plan, the vision. Something solid. Something real. The bakery was more than a business; it was a lifeline. A chance to build instead of destroy, to nurture instead of burn bridges. To prove—to them , to myself —that I wasn’t that reckless bastard anymore.
One more breath. Then I stood, glancing around the empty space. Dust floated in the beams of light streaming through the windows, settling on the countertops like a challenge.
"Let’s do this," I said quietly, clenching my fists. I had a hell of a lot to prove. But first, I had to see Marcus.
I locked the bakery door behind me and shoved the keys deep into my pocket. The weight of Brett’s guarded stare still sat heavy on my chest, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not if I wanted to get through this day without losing my damn mind.
I made my way to Marcus’ place. The town felt small, but comforting. To my surprise, I recognized most of the people I passed. Was I the only person who’d ever left this place?
About halfway there, I spotted The Daily Grind . The sign was new—sleek, modern script against a weathered wooden board—but the smell drifting out? That was pure nostalgia. Rich coffee, warm cinnamon, maybe a hint of caramel. My stomach tightened.
Marie.
Her name hit me like a sucker punch. I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the café. Sunlight bounced off the windows, making it hard to see inside, but I didn’t need to. The memory of her was sharp enough—freckles across her nose, that wild mess of blond hair she could never quite tame, and a smile that made everything else disappear.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move again, but my feet felt heavier with every step. Marie had set the café up a few years ago. It was my first time seeing the place, and I was tempted to head in, to see if she was there. But I didn’t.
What did she even look like now? The question stuck with me until I rounded the corner, shaking it off. I wasn’t here for her.
Marcus’s house came into view, tucked neatly behind a picket fence that looked freshly painted. Flowers spilled out of the garden beds along the walkway, bright and cheerful, like something out of a magazine. Someone was in the front garden. It had to be Lucy, Marcus’s fiancée.
She was kneeling by a patch of what looked like daisies, her hands buried in dirt. Her auburn ponytail bobbed as she worked, completely focused, until the sound of my boots crunching the gravel drew her attention. She turned, and the moment her eyes landed on me, her whole body stiffened.
"Hi," I said, raising a hand awkwardly. "You must be Lucy."
Her mouth opened, her eyes widened. She stood slowly, brushing her palms on her apron. Her face was pretty, but her expression was anything but welcoming. "That’s right." Her voice was cool, clipped. "And you must be Dwight."
"You recognize me?”
“Sure. You look like Marcus and Brett.”
I tried a smile. It didn’t stick. "Figured I’d stop by, see Marcus."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "He’s not here right now."
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, rocking back on my heels. "Right. Well, I’m not here to cause trouble or anything. Just trying to reconnect, y’know?"
"Reconnect?" The word came out like it tasted bad. She tilted her head, giving me a once-over that felt like being scanned for weapons. "Funny. Didn’t seem like you cared much about that before."
That one hit harder than I expected. I wondered what Marcus had told her about me. Whatever he’d said was probably justified. I nodded slowly, swallowing down the urge to defend myself. "Well, fair enough, I think I deserve that," I said. "But I’m trying now."
Her gaze flicked to the side, toward the house, then back to me. "Look, Marcus has enough on his plate with the wedding coming up. He doesn’t need any added stress."
"Yeah, I figured." I sighed, shifting my weight. "I’m not here to make things harder for him. I just—" My voice caught, and I cleared my throat. "I just wanna talk to him. That’s all."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached down and picked up her gardening tools, wiping them clean with slow, deliberate movements.
"Well," she said finally, her tone still icy, "I guess that’s up to Marcus. He’s the one who invited you to the wedding, after all."
"Guess so," I muttered. Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, I forced out a weak, "Your flowers look nice," gesturing toward the bed of bright blooms around her knees. It was a weak attempt, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Lucy straightened up, dirt smudged on her cheek like war paint, and looked at me for a long second. Her jaw tightened just enough to tell me my effort hadn’t landed. "Thanks," she said flatly. She dusted her hands off on her apron, her movements sharp, deliberate. "I just want you to know . . . I’m a Little.” She said it proudly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. I know why she’d told me.
I nodded. “I figured. I’m glad. I said some very hurtful things about Marcus before I left. Did some awful things. I was a very angry young man. But I have changed.”
“I hope so. I love Marcus, and if you hurt him again, I swear I’ll—” she stopped herself. “I’ll just look after him, that’s all.”
"Right." I shifted awkwardly, scuffing the tip of my boot against the gravel path. Her voice wasn’t outright hostile, but there was something brittle about it, like a bridge ready to snap under too much weight. "I take your point. I’m not here for trouble, I swear. I’m here to fix things. Do you know when Marcus will be back?"
"Not sure." Her eyes flicked over me, guarded now. "Like I said, he’s busy with wedding stuff."
"Okay. Well, let him know that I called by." My throat felt tight, like every word had to claw its way out. “You seem like someone very special, Lucy. My brother’s a lucky man. I’m happy for you.”
She smiled, and for the first time, it seemed genuine. I was glad.
"Look," I started, fumbling over the words as soon as they hit my tongue. "I screwed up. With Marcus. With—" I stopped myself before saying more and took a breath, steadying my voice. "I’m not here to stir up old trouble. I just want to make things right."
"I’m glad he invited you to the wedding. He . . . misses you. He’s angry, but he still loves you. He’s been through enough already. If this helps him . . . if you can fix things . . ." She trailed off, her skepticism loud even in silence.
"Yeah," I said, nodding like a damn bobblehead. "I’ll do my best." It sounded pitiful coming out of my mouth, but it was all I had.
"Good," she replied, though her expression stayed unreadable. "Because he deserves better than what he got last time."
"Agreed." My voice cracked slightly, and I cleared my throat. "Thanks for your time. Sorry for . . . y’know, showing up unannounced."
"Sure." She didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t give me any kind of lifeline. Just stood there, watching as I turned and walked back toward the street, the crunch of gravel under my boots somehow louder than it should’ve been.
Every step away from that house felt heavier than the last.
I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, gravel crunching under my boot as I turned to look back at Marcus's house. A curtain shifted in one of the front windows—quick, almost like it hadn’t moved at all. Maybe it was Lucy checking if I’d actually left. Or maybe it was nothing. Either way, it didn’t matter. The house sat quiet and still now, blinds drawn tight like a "Do Not Enter" sign slapped across the front door.
I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and forced myself to move. Standing there like some idiot wasn’t going to change anything.
The street stretched out ahead of me, quiet except for the distant hum of someone’s lawn mower. Small Falls hadn’t changed much—not the cracked sidewalks, not the faded signs hanging over the storefronts, not even the way the air smelled faintly like pine and burnt coffee. Familiar and foreign all at once, like slipping on an old jacket and realizing it didn’t fit right anymore.
The motel wasn’t far now, just a few more blocks. I could already picture the sagging mattress waiting for me, the peeling wallpaper, the neon VACANCY sign buzzing outside the window like some kind of fluorescent mosquito. Not exactly home sweet home, but it’d do for now. Stepping stone, I told myself. Just another step toward being the guy I was supposed to be.
By the time I reached the motel, the weight of it all made me stop again, my hand hovering over the rusted metal railing by the entrance. I stared down at my boots, scuffed and worn from too many miles, and let out a long, shaky breath. I wanted this to work. Needed it to work. But wanting and needing weren’t the same as deserving.
"One step at a time," I whispered, dragging myself inside. And the first step would be Marcus’ wedding next week.