Chapter 7 Everly
Chapter 7
Everly
By nightfall the day after the Bake-Off, I still can’t stop thinking about Beckett.
I ran out on him, scared of being hurt again, and by the time I made it to the library, I couldn’t focus. Every book I looked at felt like a distraction from what was really on my mind.
I came back to Rose under the pretense of covering the Kiss Lottery, but the truth is, I needed to know who sent that invitation.
It feels bigger than just an anonymous valentine.
I close my eyes for a second, my lashes fluttering. Deep down, I want it to be from him. A sign that he still cares, that he’s pulling me back to Rose, to him.
Maybe, to him, the invitation is like my diary was all those years ago—a silent message, a way of communicating what he couldn’t say out loud.
But he didn’t admit to it.
And now I’m left wondering if I’m reading too much into everything or if there’s something he’s still too afraid to tell me.
I sigh and wander into the kitchen of the house I grew up in.
I gaze around at the stainless steel appliances and laugh. I clearly recall an old white stove that only had one working burner. And a dishwasher? Please. Me and Mom washed everything by hand.
The house has four bedrooms, two baths, and a new hot tub outside. Nestled in a valley next to the Smoky Mountains, it’s pretty. My mom inherited the house and several hundred acres from her parents. I sold most of the land when I was in college to cover what my scholarship didn’t. With the leftover money, I renovated the house and started renting it out. It’s been a steady income stream. It’s funny, or maybe ironic, that the place I ran away from became the foundation that supported me throughout the years.
My bedroom, which I keep locked when renters are here, looks mostly the same. My bed is covered in a quilt my mom made. I run my fingers over it, touching the textures. She died in a car accident on her way to work, and this house has never felt the same. This town.
Do I belong anywhere at all?
Not in New York. Damon ruined it for me.
And not here with Beckett, even though it’s what my heart desires the most.
I shake off the lonely feeling and set up my microphone, pop filter, and laptop on the wooden desk by the window. My headphones dangle around my neck as I adjust the mic stand, making sure everything is just right. There’s only one way to quiet my inner thoughts, and that is working.
I click the record button and lean into the mic. “Hey, everyone! It’s time for Travels with Everly , coming to you from my hometown of Rose, Tennessee.”
I recount the diner run-in to build some excitement, explain who Beckett is and about his book. “I even heard a rumor that they’re going to make a movie about it. Funny enough, I actually went to high school with him. He wasn’t that great. He used to forget where he parked his car every other day. He even had dandruff.
“But let’s get to the main event. The reason I’m back in Rose: the Kiss Lottery. For those of you who don’t know, the lottery is a little tradition where names are drawn and—voilà!—instant date night. It’s like romantic Russian roulette. I’ve decided to throw my name in the hat, and I can’t wait to share the details. Later in this series, I’ll be showcasing some of the citizens in town and their experiences with the—”
I pause when a clunking noise from the back porch catches my attention. I stop the recording, pull off my headphones, and listen intently, trying to figure out what it could be. The rain has mostly stopped.
I peek out the window to the backyard, but it’s too dark to see anything. I think back to Summer Moon and her ghost story. “Lily? I swear to god, if you lived in this house before, please leave.” I’m mostly kidding. This house isn’t quite that old, but a trickle of unease dances down my spine.
I leave my room, walk down the hall, and go toward the back-porch door in the den.
I grip the doorknob, take a deep breath, then swing it open.
In the glow of the porch light is a scrawny yellow tabby kitten in a cardboard box. It looks up at me with wide pitiful eyes. My heart melts instantly.
“Oh, you poor little thing,” I croon, scooping the kitten into my arms. It immediately starts purring.
A ribbon is tied around its neck loosely, with a note attached. I read it.
Roses are red, violets are blue, Valentine’s Day sucks, but this kitten is for you.
It’s unsigned.
It’s not written in calligraphy like the invitation was, but the “Roses are red” line gets my attention. Sure, it’s a cliché, but ...
I smile widely as I scan the backyard. The trees rustle in the wind, but no one is there.
My gaze goes to the hill and to the house on the other side. Beckett’s. I wonder if he’s home. If he misses his mom like I miss mine.
If he left the cat.
He knows I love them. Mom and I had at least three running around the yard when I was growing up.
The kitten meows, and I pat it gingerly. “Let’s get you inside.”
I close the door behind me and head toward the kitchen, the kitten purring. My phone rings as I place the kitten gently on the counter and grab my phone, checking the caller ID.
“Hey, Tabby,” I answer.
“Are you settling in okay?”
“Not too bad. Mrs. Spence stocked the fridge for me. The only thing missing is beer and vodka. But this is weird. Someone left me a kitten in a box on the back porch. Was it you?” I know how she and Fritz were worried about me being alone in the house after all this time.
“Nope, people drop cats off at places all the time around here.”
I use my phone to take a pic of the kitten, then send it to her. “I didn’t see any balls, so it’s a girl. Isn’t she cute?”
“Poor skinny kitty,” she coos. “Okay, I just wanted to touch base and thank you for covering my shift at the Bake-Off. Hey, didn’t you set up cameras outside? Maybe check those.”
“Will do. Night, Tabby.”
“Night.”
I hang up and look down at the kitten, who’s now exploring the counter. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” I say, scratching her behind the ears. “You need a name, but I’m too tired tonight. Let’s see how you do.” I open a can of tuna for her. While she eats, I assemble a makeshift litter box from the box she came in and strips of a magazine, feeling content as I work.
I glance at the kitten again, warmth washing over me. She’s such a little thing, but somehow the place feels better.
“Welcome to my home,” I tell her.