Chapter 2
Lauren
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath and lean my back against the wall, utterly exhausted.
My living room is one big mess. Unpacked moving boxes are stacked against one wall.
Another corner is stacked to the ceiling with empty, folded-up cardboard boxes that came with all my furniture parts.
Unpacked wooden boards lean against the opposite wall, with loose screws, nails and tools scattered on the floor. They’re supposed to become a bookshelf at some point.
But today is not that point.
With a frustrated scream, I lift myself off the wall and kick one of the still folded together empty boxes into the corner. In Amanda’s antique store, where I help out from time to time, I find the chaos charming, but in my own home, it’s driving me up the wall.
This is not how I imagined it. I thought building my own furniture would come with a sense of empowerment, self-confidence and triumph.
Not utter defeat and frustration. This whole DIY thing was supposed to be a gateway, my attempt at finding a new hobby and rediscovering who I am outside of acting.
I guess now at least I know that assembling furniture is not a hidden talent of mine.
I mean, why even include an assembly explanation if it doesn’t make any fucking sense? ‘Screw A into board B’—then why the hell wouldn’t they put a damned label on the screws and boards themselves? Now I’ve put the first board-screw-combo together upside down.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a deep breath. You’re okay, Lauren. The world is not going up in flames. Keep breathing.
I can’t deal with this chaos right now. I just can’t.
It’s too overwhelming. Too close of a visualization of the chaos that’s going on inside my head. Too much of a reminder that I’m failing at something as simple as putting together a damned bookshelf.
I exhale slowly, counting to ten, before I open my eyes again. Keeping my eyes way above the mess, I make my way to the hallway, careful not to trip over one of the boxes or tools lying around.
Luckily, my neighbor is my best friend. I swear, if I don’t get some distance between me and the frustration-turned-furniture in my living room, I will either cry or scream.
So, I pull on my shoes, throw on my coat, hide my face behind a way-too-big scarf, and grab my keys, storming out of my house.
Time to pay my bestie a visit and cuddle her cats until I feel better.
The chilly November air greets me like an old friend, bringing heat into my cheeks and turning my breath white in front of my face.
Tonight’s sky is covered with deep gray clouds, turning a dark purple as night approaches.
The air smells faintly of rain and pine, and the slightest breeze blows over the lake, swaying bare branches from side to side.
I tug my jacket tighter around me and exhale a deep sigh. The boards creak beneath my boots as I hurry down the three steps to my porch, replaced by the rustling of brown leaves when I reach the ground.
This is perfect. A perfectly gloomy fall evening. A worthy end to the season.
I’m more than ready for snow. It’s been years since I’ve had snow, even more years since I got to enjoy it. But God, do I adore it. Watching snowflakes dance as they fall, or trying to catch them. The way it forces the whole world to slow and buries every sound under an icy blanket of silence.
I’ve checked the long-term weather forecasts for Wayward Hollow repeatedly.
Hell, I checked them before I put my signature under the contract for my new home.
While every forecast predicted something slightly different, there was one thing, arguably the most important, that they all had in common: There will be snow this winter.
If I’m lucky, we’re even going to get a white Christmas. And I reckon the last time I had one of those, I was only five years old, high on sugar from hot chocolate, and Santa still took my requests.
I sigh a cold air cloud into the sky and kick a knee-high pile of leaves, watching as they flutter before returning to the ground.
Oh, how I miss those times when I didn’t worry about not being enough, when unconditional love was still a thing, and nobody had any expectations quite yet.
Those were the times.
I come to a stop when I pass the space where we buried Nic’s first, albeit short-lived cat only a few months ago.
It used to be a stick cross, just two thin branches, haphazardly tied together with painter’s tape to mark the spot.
Now there’s a small headstone, as dark as her fur was, that has her name and a cat silhouette engraved.
My lips tug into a soft smile as I kneel in front of it, memories of that day rushing through my head.
It was Nic’s second time meeting Henry and our first time meeting Caleb and Kieran. Even then, Henry had already looked at Nic as if she was his world.
I remember Kieran’s bickering. Caleb’s stoic calmness.
Dare I say the five of us make the perfect friend group? And this little kitten brought us together.
We dug her grave together, mourned her loss, and while I never got to meet her alive, I feel like she’s an important member of our friend group. If she’s really haunting Nic’s place, I know she’s got quite the diva personality.
“You were quite a welcome to Wayward Hollow,” I whisper, and gently pat the little gravestone, the surface smooth and cold under my fingertips.
Then I get up again and trudge the last few steps to Nic’s place.
Just after moving here, she gave me a key.
She also has one of mine, just in case I ever lock myself out.
However, since she got together with Henry, they’ve been spending quite a lot of time together at her house.
And there are some things I never want to accidentally run into by barging in unannounced.
So, a polite doorbell ringing it is.
“One moment!” I hear her shout from inside, followed by clutter, a loud thud, and then a string of curses.
“Is everything okay?” I shout, but then I already see her silhouette through the side panels of her door, before she opens it.
“I’m alive, I’m alive,” she assures me, clearly flustered. Her golden-blonde hair is sticking out in all directions, her cheeks red and breath coming in huffs, as she cages a wriggly, small orange cat in her arms.
“Come on, get in quickly. Pumpkin has been trying to escape all day.” I step inside quickly and close the door behind me, a grin tugging at my lips.
“Has she turned into a prison breaker?” I lean forward and stroke my fingertip over her tiny head. For a moment she stops wriggling and closes her eyes - she probably forgot all about her escape plans within two seconds.
“She acts like it’s such a terrible place here.” Nic rolls her eyes when the little creature in her arms suddenly remembers her escape artist career and voices her displeasure about being confined in a cuddle quite loudly. “Yes, yes, stop screaming.”
She sets the little cat down and glares at me when she notices my amused expression as I take off my coat.
“Are you not feeding her? Or torturing her with your presence?” I chuckle and hang it up, then shuck off my shoes.
“I think she simply enjoys causing trouble with that fraction of a brain cell she has inside her tiny little head,” Nic jokes, and waves for me to come with her to the kitchen.
“Do you want coffee?”
“Do you even need an answer to that?” I lift my eyebrow, causing her to shake her head amusedly.
“Coffee it is.”
She starts her machine, and I get comfortable on one of the counter-height stools at her kitchen island. I adore her kitchen. It’s all modern cottagecore, with white cupboards and subtle green and floral accents.
“Good thing you came over,” she points out, slaps a notepad on the countertop and places two pens next to it.
“We need to plan our Friendsgiving get-together. Caleb, Henry, and Kieran are all a go. Meaning,” she puts her elbows on the counter and shoots me a wide grin.
The coffee machine whirrs behind her, and the delicious scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills her kitchen.
“We can cook a shitload of stuff and try out different recipes.”
“Ooh, that sounds great.” I jump up and pace her kitchen, wringing my hands.
Usually, I’d spend Thanksgiving with my parents.
Despite all the differences we have, they’re still my family.
I can sit through a yearly dinner, even if it includes every single thing I did in the past year being scrutinized.
At least I’m getting an amazing, personal chef-cooked dinner out of it.
But this year, Mom announced that she and Dad are busy on Thanksgiving. No elaborations or explanations, though I have to admit I also was not curious enough to ask. They wouldn’t be available on Thanksgiving; no asking or prodding would change that.
So, we’re doing a Friendsgiving. And I’m already so excited about it.
Nic pulls the notepad closer and writes something on it. “I’m saving every Thanksgiving-related recipe that sounded good on TikTok since we decided to throw a Friendsgiving. Wait-” I stop in my tracks and turn to her. “We’re doing a turkey, right?”
She blinks at me, a confused crease between her eyebrows. Then it smooths out, and a determined expression washes over her face.
“We have to, don’t we?” She taps her index finger against her lips. “Full disclosure, I’ve never made one.”
“Great! Me neither.” I scratch my head. Is this really such a good idea? “Maybe we should order a backup. You know, just in case.”
“Nah,” she waves me off. “I believe in us. We can do it. And imagine ours turns out fine.” She grimaces. “We’d be eating turkey until the new year.”
“Good point,” I admit and resume my pacing. From the corner of my eye, I watch her tap her pen against her lips.
“Maybe we should add more sides. To eliminate the danger of anyone going home hungry in case something does go wrong with the turkey.”
“You have the best ideas.” I grin widely. The coffee machine finishes, and I grab my mug before re-starting it for Nic. “Also, Kieran will tease us about it for the next three years if anyone leaves our Friendsgiving hungry.” I try to conjure up memories of all the recipes my algorithm showed me.
“We should do one regular mac and cheese and a fancy one. Real cheese instead of powder,” Nic proposes, and I nod, walking over to her window where she’s keeping her own syrup stash.
“I don’t think I’ve ever made a fancy one, now that I think of it,” I admit and pour pumpkin spice syrup into my coffee. Then, I add milk and hum happily as I take the first sip.
“God, this is good. Anyway, I can’t remember ever having mac and cheese with, you know, real cheese.”
“We can’t have that.” She shakes her head disapprovingly and jots something down.
“And speaking of cheese…” I take my seat opposite her again. “I saw a video from a French restaurant that had stretchy mashed potatoes.”
“Stretchy mashed…” Confusion washes over her face—eyebrows knitted, eyes saying what the actual fuck.
“Yep, stretchy mashed potatoes. I forgot the name, but it’s essentially potatoes and cheese.” I shrug and pull my phone from my pocket. “So how difficult can it be to make? It’s probably mozzarella, potatoes and butter, right?”
She tilts her head and writes down the suspected ingredients.
“What else have the TikTok gods shown you?”
We spend more than an hour going over recipes, googling ingredients, and throwing together a grocery list. At one point we migrate to the living room, where Pumpkin, the little escape artist, is climbing Nic’s couch and Cinnamon is playing with her shadow.
As soon as I’m sitting, Cinnamon, her second cat, jumps into my lap.
Instinctively, my hands run over her soft fur, and within minutes, she’s asleep, a nice, warm weight on my thighs.
“Anyway,” Nic finally says and puts down her notepad, “is everything okay? You seem a little sad.”
“Frustrated is the better word,” I correct her and groan, laying my head back and staring at her ceiling. “I swear I’ve been fighting with that damned bookshelf for weeks already, and it’s just not coming together.”
“If you want, I can come over and help you,” she offers, but I wave her off.
“Girl, I’ve seen you almost lose a finger when you tried to put a nail in the wall for a picture frame.” Both of us break into giggles.
“Thankfully, Henry is better at hammering.” She bites her lip once she realizes how that sounds. “Innuendo not intended.”
“Good for you, girl,” I say, with a tinge of melancholy in my voice.
I hate playing into clichés, but I am a damsel, and I am in distress.
But there’s a voice in my head, shouting ‘Fuck that. You’re awesome, you’re capable, a bookshelf cannot defeat you!
’ and then suddenly I’m determined to build them on my own again.
“You’ll get there,” Nic assures me. “And in the meantime, if you want me to reach out to the company that put all of my stuff together…” She makes a vague gesture to her own bookshelves.
“You only need to say the word. It’s been months since we moved here, and you still aren’t able to unpack all of your moving boxes.
Maybe it’s time to let ‘DIY’ become ‘Have someone else do it.’ It’ll be your early Christmas present. ”
“Please,” I scoff and roll my eyes, pursing my lips in a pout. “I could hire them myself. But it’s the principle at this point.” I meet her eyes. “Maybe it’s my subconscious that’s still apprehensive about putting down roots here.”
“Why? Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” She tilts her head, worry washing over her face.
“No,” I assure her quickly. “Only the same old ‘what if nobody likes me?’ doubts.”
“I like you.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“And if Cinnamon weren’t in your lap, I’d throw a pillow at you.
Is it because of your mother?” My eyes jump to hers.
“Please. Do you seriously think I’m not having the exact same thoughts?
We’re the black sheep. Self-doubt is woven into our DNA.
” She blows a strand of hair away from her face.
“It’s frightening to suddenly have this many people who care,” I whisper and try to shift my weight without waking Cinnamon. She stirs nonetheless, and I scoop her up to cuddle her to my chest.
“I know.” Nic leans forward and reaches for my hand. “But life is a lot more fun if you accept it and take the leap to trust. At least it’s working well for me so far.”
“I’ll try.” I shoot her a small smile. “Also, I cannot let a bookshelf defeat me.”
“That’s the spirit!” She squeezes my hand. “Make sure you win soon, before it defeats your nerves.” She lets go of my hand and fishes Pumpkin out of the pocket of her hoodie. “But for now, let’s make dinner. All this talk about food has made me hungry.”
“You have the best ideas,” I tell her and get up, Cinnamon sleeping peacefully in my arms.