Chapter 16 Community
Silas
She’s wearing a hat—one of Hunter’s, I think—and her hair spills out from under it in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch it again. She’s trying to look casual, scanning the bakery like she just happened to wander in, but her body turns toward me immediately, her eyes finding mine.
For half a second, we just look at each other. I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her lips part slightly like she’s remembering exactly what we did last night. I will carry that image of her pussy under the powder-blue fabric with me for the rest of my life.
Then she seems to remember we’re supposed to be acting surprised to see each other, just in case anyone’s paying attention.
“Montgomery. Oh. Hey.” It comes out woodenly, like she’s reading from a script. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Why don’t you join me?” I say too loudly, gesturing at my table like I’m a game show host presenting a prize.
Our acting skills need some work.
But, whatever. The bakery is quiet, though of the three people already in here, I know two of them. One is a teenager I did a family portrait for last year, the other is the dad of someone we went to high school with. I doubt he remembers us.
But Bailey orders her breakfast and joins me at my table with her hazelnut latte.
Bailey looks around the space. “I remember hearing about this place opening up. It’s cute. I can’t believe I haven’t been here before.”
I tilt my head. “You usually stay with your parents, right?”
She sighs. “Yeah. We don’t go out to eat often because Mom’s . . .” She hesitates, and I wait, sipping my coffee. “My mom is really into dieting. And she’s constantly talking about how she needs to lose ten pounds and trying to get me to join her.”
I grimace. “Hunter’s mentioned a few things like that.”
Bailey’s eyebrow raises. “Our mom tries to get him to diet?”
“No.” I spin the coffee mug, choosing my words carefully. “He usually rants to us about the things they say to you. I remember how angry he was after Thanksgiving in particular.”
Something crosses Bailey’s face—surprise, maybe, or something softer. “He . . . talks to you guys about that?”
“Yeah. He gets pretty fired up about it.” I meet her eyes. “He loves you, Bailey. And it pisses him off when people make you feel like you’re not enough.”
She looks down at her coffee cup, her throat working. “Oh, yeah. My mom drops some real gems around the holidays.”
The deflection is so obvious I almost call her out on it. But she’s blinking too fast, and I recognize that look—she’s trying not to cry in a public coffee shop.
So I let her deflect. For now.
Hunter told us about Thanksgiving. How his mom couldn’t even say one neutral thing about the meal she herself had made.
Gravy is just pure fat, you know and maybe you should skip the cranberry sauce since it’s just empty calories.
She doesn’t say these things to Hunter—just to Bailey. And to herself, which is just sad.
I worry Bailey’s brain is going somewhere negative, so I say, “Was Hunter awake when you left?”
“Oh, no,” Bailey says. “Still snoozing away. And when he gets up, I left a treat on the counter for him. He got obsessed with mochi donuts last time he was visiting the city, so he’s probably going to sit on the couch getting his sticky icing fingers everywhere.”
“I don’t even know what mochi donuts are.”
That launches Bailey into a verbal tour of her favorite foods around the city. She names cuisines I’ve never had before, ones that I couldn’t even name a single dish from.
Our breakfast comes, the server, Alison, bringing our food out together. Bailey’s ordered the breakfast sandwich while I’ve got the chicken salad croissant.
“You really love the city, huh?” I ask, even though what I’m really asking is: Could you ever leave it?
She takes a big bite of her sandwich and shrugs while chewing.
When she swallows, she says, “There are pros and cons to everywhere, right? I’ve thought about moving into the suburbs so I can buy a place, but it’s still really expensive.
And I could live anywhere, since my company still has a robust work-from-home policy.
But we do have meetings that I go into the office for, and I feel like if I moved anywhere else, I’d miss out on things.
Plus, if I really moved away, then how would I come visit my family? ”
Moved away. Not moved to Here. Moved further away from Here.
And by family she really means Hunter. Because she barely talks to her parents.
“You should come visit more often,” I say carefully. “Hunter would love that.”
What I don’t say: I would love that.
“He should move to the city,” she counters. “He gets so frustrated with the Schaefers, you know? He could easily find a job in the city.”
“He doesn’t stay for the job,” I point out.
Bailey thinks about that for a moment. “Well, he doesn’t stay for our parents.
He talks to them even less than I do. Why do you think he stays?
” She leans forward slightly. “Why do you stay? You could sell houses in the city, or do photography, or whatever it is you really want to do without having to work three jobs, probably.”
Why do I stay? The unspoken but more accurate question hangs between us: Why would I ever leave?
This is going to sound dumb, I know, but I say it anyway. “There’s just something about Here. It calls to me. I look forward to everything that happens here—the opening of the lodge for the winter, every single job I do for Kit, knowing the people, Sunday Fun Days—”
Bailey’s eyes light with recognition. “The mimosas and waffles thing. With the game.” She tilts her head. “You turned it into a whole tradition.”
“We did. All of us.” I lean forward slightly.
“That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not just about the place.
It’s about building something with people.
Making our own traditions. It’s mimosas and friendship and this stupid game we made up and Morgan’s and Leo’s dogs playing together and Jared bringing his kid around.
” I take the last bite of my sandwich and dust my hands off. “It’s community. It’s home.”
Bailey goes quiet, studying me over her coffee cup. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite read—wistfulness, maybe, or sadness.
“You sound really passionate about it,” she finally says, and there’s that hint of longing there. Like she wishes she could feel that way about a place. Any place.
She has no idea, does she? That I’m not just talking about Here. That every single reason I gave for staying? They all apply to her too. Community. Home. Belonging. But yeah, let’s keep pretending this is just about mimosas and Sunday traditions.
It reminds me that she didn’t have the best childhood here, that she doesn’t have these fond memories of Herevian community because she was the kid getting bullied. The one who got out as fast as she could.
And I’m the one who never wants to leave.
The silence stretches between us, loaded with things neither of us is ready to say. Her city. My small town. The hours between us. The impossibility of it all.
I need to change the subject before I do something stupid like ask her to move here or offer to move there or admit that I’m falling for her so hard I can’t see straight.
I lift my chin toward her plate. “When you’re finished, I want to show you something.”
Her eyebrow arches, and she grabs on to the subject change. “Is this the part where you take me to a second location and Hunter finds my body in the woods?”
“Too dark, even for you.” But I’m glad she’s joking. Means we’re okay. For now. “It’s something good. I think you’ll like it.”
“That’s what all serial killers say.”
“I promise it’s not murder-related. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you would have told me about it already. Probably in extensive detail about some camping trip where Kit set something on fire.”
She’s right, and the fact that she knows me that well makes me smile.
“Just trust me,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Please?”
She looks at my hand for a long moment. We’re in public. There are people here who know us. Taking my hand isn’t exactly casual-acquaintance behavior.
But then her fingers slip into mine, and she lets me pull her up.
“This better be good, Montgomery.”
“Remember when you came to my office? To ask about the photo shoot?”
“The day I made you spit coffee everywhere?” A smile tugs at her lips.
“Yeah, that day.” I thread my fingers through hers as we head to the door. “I want to take you back there. Show you something I’ve been working on.”
“What kind of something?”
“A project.” I can feel my palms starting to sweat. “Photography. It’s personal. And no one’s seen it yet.”
Her steps slow slightly. “Silas—”
“I know it’s weird. I just . . .” I stop on the sidewalk outside Sweet Persuasions, turning to face her.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.
About not being able to see yourself the way I see you.
And I thought maybe if I showed you how I see Here—the place you couldn’t wait to leave—maybe you’d understand why I . . .”
I trail off before I say too much.
“Why you what?” she asks quietly.
“Why I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” Why I’m falling for you even though we want completely different things.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then: “Okay. Show me.”