5. Small Town, Big Heart
Chapter 5
Small Town, Big Heart
I 'd just figured out the coffee maker (a victory I was unreasonably proud of) when the knocking started. Not polite, getting-to-know-you-again knocking, but full-on someone's-being-chased-by-an-axe-murderer knocking.
“Jimmy Reed, I know you're in there! Don't make me use my emergency key!”
I opened the door to find a tiny woman in a floral housecoat wielding what looked like the world's largest casserole dish.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, proud of recognizing her from Liam's descriptions. “What a... surprise.”
“Nonsense, I always bring you tuna noodle surprise on Thursdays.” She bustled past me into the kitchen. “Though I suppose you don't remember that, poor dear. But your taste buds will! The body remembers what the mind forgets, that's what my Harold always said.”
I eyed the casserole dish warily.
“Now,” she settled at my kitchen table like she owned it, “tell me everything. How are you feeling? Are you sleeping well? Have you seen that handsome Ethan jogging this morning? Not that I was watching, mind you, but Sarah from the diner said he runs at dawn. In very fitted athletic wear.”
My brain caught on two things: the fact that Mrs. Henderson was apparently monitoring the local jogging scene, and that strange flutter in my chest at the mention of Ethan.
“I haven't been up that early,” I managed.
“Shame. The view is quite...” she fanned herself dramatically,
Then she launched into what felt like a complete history of my involvement in town life.
“...and then there was the Christmas pageant crisis of last year, but you sorted that right out. Always know exactly what to say to people, that's your gift. Why, just last month you helped young Sloan with his proposal to Sarah - the diner Sarah, not watching-joggers Sarah...”
I nodded along, building a mental picture of what I’d been before. Apparently, I am some kind of small-town superhero who organized charity events, solved relationship crises, and had strong opinions about holiday decorations.
“And of course, everyone's wondering if you'll still handle the Harvest Festival this year, but Nina says we're not to pressure you about anything.” She patted my hand. “Though if you did want to take it on, I have some thoughts about the pumpkin contest judging criteria...”
“I should probably check on Melody,” I said quickly, before I accidentally committed to revolutionizing the local pumpkin-judging scene.
“Oh yes, your therapy horse! Such a clever idea, getting a horse specifically for stress relief. Though we all knew it was really because you're a softie who can't resist a rescue case.”
I found my way to the stables, armed with treats Liam had left in a labeled container (Past Jimmy was really into labeling things). A gruff voice stopped me before I could figure out which end of the horse to approach.
“You're holding those all wrong, son.” An older man in well-worn ranch clothes approached. “She'll take your whole hand if you feed her like that.”
“I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was just testing a new treat-holding technique?”
He laughed, the sound as weathered as his boots. “Hank,” he introduced himself, showing me how to properly offer the treats. “And I figure you've had enough people tiptoeing around your memory loss for one day.”
The lack of pressure was like a physical relief. “That obvious?”
“Mrs. Henderson's casserole mission isn't exactly subtle.” He scratched Melody's nose while she delicately took a treat from my now-correctly-positioned hand. “Don't worry too much about what you can't remember. Town's still here. People still care. Rest'll come or it won't.”
“That simple?”
“Nothing simple about it. But making it complicated won't help.” He leaned against the stall door. “Want to hear about the time you talked down Angry Bruce?”
“Angry Bruce?”
“Meanest bull this side of Texas. Got loose during the spring roundup when you were still new to town. Everyone's panicking, running around like chickens, and there you are, cool as anything, just walking up to him playing that weird humming thing you do when you're thinking.”
“I stopped a bull with humming?”
“Calmed him right down. Said it was just like handling drunk customers at the bar - you just had to project the right energy.”
I stared at Melody, who was now gently headbutting my shoulder for more treats. “I'm starting to think Past Jimmy was some kind of wizard.”
Hank laughed again. “Nah. Just someone who cared. About everything and everyone. Never met a problem you didn't want to help solve.” He pushed off from the stall. “That's why this place feels like home, even if you can't remember it. You built that feeling yourself, one small kindness at a time.”
He wandered off, leaving me with a horse who apparently knew me better than I knew myself, and the strange certainty that for the first time since waking up in the hospital, someone had told me something true about who I was.
“So,” I told Melody, offering another treat. “Any other secrets about me you'd like to share?”
She just bumped my shoulder again, apparently satisfied that even if I couldn't remember our history, I could still be trained to provide snacks on demand.
I was still puzzling over Melody's feeding schedule (who knew horses needed such detailed meal planning?) when Caleb found me in the stables. He watched me squint at the whiteboard full of notes for a moment before clearing his throat.
“You know,” he said carefully, like someone approaching a spooked horse, “we could use help with the bookkeeping. You were always good with numbers.”
The offer was so carefully casual it almost hurt. Everyone walking on eggshells around me, trying to find pieces of Past Jimmy I could still handle.
“I did notice Past Me was weirdly organized,” I said, gesturing at the perfectly labeled feed bins.
“Past You?” Caleb grinned. “Is that what we're calling him now?”
“Well, it's better than 'That Guy Who Was Way More Competent Than Current Me.'”
“Come on.” He nodded toward the office. “Let's see if spreadsheets trigger any memories.”
Surprisingly, the ranch's books did feel comfortable. Numbers were straightforward - they didn't look at you with disappointed recognition or try to remind you of shared memories you couldn't access. I was deep in a satisfying rabbit hole of feed costs when a voice cut through my concentration.
“Working already? That's definitely going in the article.”
I looked up to find a lanky guy with a press badge and an alarmingly knowing smile leaning in the doorway.
“Riley Stanton,” he introduced himself, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. “Local paper. And before you panic, this is a totally casual, friendly visit. The coffee's just because I'm nice, not because I'm hoping for an exclusive about the handsome tech billionaire who keeps staring at you at The Watering Hole.”
“I... what? Who’s the billionaire?”
“He means Ethan,” Caleb supplied helpfully, then immediately looked like he regretted it.
“Who is apparently terrible at subtle observation.” Riley set a coffee cup in front of me. “But don't worry, I won't print anything about your star-crossed whatever-it-is.”
“There's nothing to print,” I said, but my voice sounded uncertain even to me. “I barely know him.”
Both of them got that look - the one that meant there was a story there I couldn't remember.
“Right,” Riley said after a moment, his journalist's instinct clearly warring with friendly concern. “Well, enjoy the coffee. And if you ever want to make a statement about anything... or anyone...”
“Out,” Caleb pointed to the door, but he was fighting a smile.
The coffee was perfect - exactly how I apparently took it. Another detail about myself I had to learn from others.
“Supply run?” Caleb suggested, probably sensing my mood shift. “The feed store's usually pretty low-key.”
He lied.
Buck's Feed & Supply was many things, but low-key wasn't one of them. The owner, a bear of a man with a beard that probably had its own zip code, practically vaulted the counter when we walked in.
“Jimmy! My fellow warrior from the Battle of the Bands!” He caught my blank look and quickly added, “Right, the memory thing. Well, let me tell you, you've never seen anyone play bass like you did that night. Totally destroyed those hipster kids from the city.”
“I play bass?”
“Played. Past tense. After The Incident.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
“What incident?”
“We don't talk about The Incident,” Caleb cut in smoothly. “Doctor's orders.”
Buck was already loading up our usual order - apparently Past Jimmy had a standing arrangement involving specific brands and quantities I'd never remember on my own. He tossed in extra treats for Melody with a wink.
“On the house. That horse of yours got my daughter through her breakup last year. Something about her 'gentle energy' or whatever.”
The line at the register brought its own adventures. A young guy in paint-splattered coveralls practically bounced over to shake my hand.
“Jimmy! Man, I have to thank you again. Sarah loved the proposal setup - the fairy lights in the gazebo, the timing with the sunset, everything you suggested was perfect.”
I managed what I hoped was a congratulatory smile. “Glad it worked out...”
“Sloan,” Caleb supplied under his breath.
“Sloan! Right. And Sarah is...”
“Diner Sarah,” Sloan grinned. “Not watching-joggers Sarah.”
When I tried to pay, Buck waved me off. “Just put it on your tab. You know the system.”
I didn't know the system. I didn't know anything about this town where apparently I played bass, dispensed relationship advice, and had mysterious tabs everywhere. But everyone else seemed so certain about who I was, even if I wasn't.
“You okay?” Caleb asked as we loaded the truck. “I know it's a lot.”
I watched Sloan help an elderly woman with her bags, remembered how genuine his gratitude had been about the proposal advice.
“Past Jimmy seems like he was a good guy,” I said finally.
“Past Jimmy is still you,” Caleb said quietly. “Even if you can't remember it yet. The core stuff - caring about people, wanting to help - that's not memory. That's just who you are.”
“Yeah?” I thought about mysterious incidents and battles of bands and handsome billionaires who apparently stared at me when I wasn't looking. “Then why does it feel like I'm playing a part in someone else's life?”
“Because you're trying too hard to be exactly what everyone remembers.” He started the truck. “Maybe instead of chasing Past Jimmy, you should figure out who Current Jimmy is.”
“Current Jimmy is very confused,” I offered.
“Current Jimmy is doing just fine,” Caleb grinned. “Even if he does talk about himself in the third person.”
On our way back from the feed store, Caleb's phone buzzed. “Liam's done with his morning radio interview. Want to swing by and grab him for lunch?”
“He does radio interviews?”
“Local station loves him. The whole indie-artist-makes-good story.” Caleb turned toward the town's entrance, where the wrought iron arch announcing 'Welcome to Oakwood Grove' looked like something from a Hallmark movie. “Plus, he always gets the request lines going crazy. Especially when he plays that song about-“ He stopped abruptly.
“Let me guess - another thing I'd know if I could remember?”
“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Still working on the whole 'not constantly referencing your past' thing.”
We found Liam leaning against the arch, guitar case at his feet, chatting with what appeared to be a small fan club of local teenagers. He waved them off when he saw us pull up.
“How'd it go?” Caleb asked as Liam climbed in.
“Played the new song, dodged questions about the album release date, and managed not to say anything too controversial about the Nashville scene.” He turned to me. “You hungry? Because you need real food. Mrs. Henderson's tuna surprise doesn't count.”
I watched him navigate the lunch crowd like a professional politician - gracefully fielding questions about my health, deflecting too-personal inquiries, and somehow making everyone feel heard while actually saying nothing. Past Jimmy had clearly rubbed off on him.
“Here we go!” Sarah appeared with plates we hadn't ordered. “Two Jimmy Specials.”
I stared at what appeared to be the world's most perfect sandwich. “I created this?”
“Three AM inspiration,” she grinned. “Something about how grilled cheese was boring and needed an adventure. You were very passionate about the caramelized onions.”
The first bite was a revelation. Past Jimmy might have been confusing as hell, but he knew his way around sandwich architecture.
“Oh god,” I groaned. “I'm a culinary genius.”
“And modest too,” Liam smirked.
An elderly woman in a colorful sweater set materialized at our table. “Jimmy, dear! How wonderful to see you out and about.”
“Miss Patty,” Liam supplied quietly. “Retired music teacher.”
“Such a shame about your memory,” she continued, patting my hand. “Especially with the talent show coming up. You always do such a wonderful job organizing...” She trailed off meaningfully.
“I'm sure someone else can-“ I started.
“Oh, of course, of course! No pressure at all.” Her expression suggested all the pressure in the world. “Though if you did feel up to it, I have some thoughts about the judging criteria...”
She was interrupted by a police officer stopping by our table. “Good to see you, Jimmy.”
“Officer Dawn,” Liam nodded.
“Just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on things.” Her gaze flicked to the newspaper on the counter - something about Ramirez's arrest that everyone kept trying to hide from me.
Before I could ask what exactly needed watching, Nina swept in with an armload of ledgers and a determined expression.
“Scoot over,” she commanded, sliding into our booth. “I know you're taking a break, but The Watering Hole's books miss you.”
“Do books have feelings now?”
“These ones do. They're very emotional about proper data entry.”
She spread the ledgers out, updating me on regular customers and upcoming events. The whole diner seemed to operate around our table like we were the center of some complex social orbit - Sarah appearing with fresh coffee before we could ask, patrons stopping by with quick greetings, even the group of teenagers in the corner showing unexpected respect.
“Marcus finally proposed to Kelly,” Nina was saying. “You called that one months ago. And the Thomson twins want to have their graduation party at the bar, which you usually handle but I told them-“
Movement outside the window caught my eye. Ethan walked past, his perfect suit at odds with the casual small-town scene. Our eyes met through the glass, and something in my chest did that weird flippy thing again. We both looked away quickly, but not before I caught the flash of something in his expression.
Nina and Liam did that silent communication thing they were so good at - a whole conversation in glances that I couldn't begin to interpret.
“The twins can wait,” Nina said smoothly, but her eyes were still on me. “No rush on any decisions.”
“Right,” I muttered, still feeling the phantom weight of green eyes. “No rush on anything.”
“Though speaking of decisions,” Sarah appeared with pie we definitely hadn't ordered, “you might want to decide if you're ready to hear about The Incident.”
“What incident?”
“THE Incident,” everyone at the table said in unison.
“With the bass guitar,” Sarah added.
“And the pickle-flavored vodka,” Nina nodded.
“And the mechanical bull,” Liam grinned.
I looked between them, trying to figure out if they were messing with me. “Are you all just making stuff up now?”
“You wish we were,” Nina patted my hand. “You wish we were.”
The diner hummed with lunchtime energy, stories and lives intersecting in ways I was only beginning to understand. Past Jimmy had been part of this tapestry - hosting events, solving problems, apparently creating chaos with musical instruments and questionable alcohol choices.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, there was Ethan, who kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. Which was ironic, considering I couldn't even solve the puzzle of myself.
“You've got that look,” Liam observed.
“What look?”
“The 'trying to remember everything at once' look.” He stole a bite of my pie. “Stop pushing so hard. Memory's like music - you can't force it. You have to let it flow.”
“That's very zen of you,” I said dryly.
“I learned it from you, actually.” He grinned at my surprise. “See? Some things stick around, even when you can't remember teaching them.”
Evening at the ranch painted everything in soft gold, the kind of light that made even feed bins look Instagram-worthy. I'd just finished attempting to make sense of my chicken-scratch notes from the morning's bookkeeping when Caleb knocked on the guest house door.
“Delivery,” he announced, hefting a sleek box with the Cole Innovations logo. “Though maybe 'gift' is more accurate.”
Inside was state-of-the-art accounting software, the kind that probably cost more than my theoretical car. A simple note accompanied it: “To help with the bookkeeping. -E.C.”
The gesture should have felt presumptuous - who just sends thousand-dollar software to someone they barely know? But instead, it felt...
“Familiar,” Liam said from behind me, making me jump. He was looking at the note with an expression I couldn't read. “You know, before... everything, you used to say that sometimes the universe has a weird way of giving people second chances.”
“Did I also say cryptic things about the universe often?”
His laugh was soft but held something heavy. “Only when it mattered.”