Chapter 5 #2
“And?” Grandma Hensley prompts.
“And...we dated. Briefly. A long time ago.”
“How long ago?” Jo asks.
“I was seventeen the first time.”
“The first time?” Amber’s eyebrows shoot up. “There was more than one time?”
Another sip of wine. A longer one. “I came back when I was twenty-seven. After my divorce. We reconnected.”
“And then?”
“And then I left.”
The silence is thick enough to spread on toast.
“So let me make sure I understand,” Michelle says slowly. “You and Levi dated when you were teenagers. Then you came back ten years later, rekindled things, and then you left again?”
“That’s the cliff notes version, yes.”
“And now you’re back again. And he’s back. And you threw coffee on him.”
“The coffee was an accident!”
“Honey.” Grandma Hensley leans forward. “Nobody’s judging. We’re just...curious. Why did you leave? Both times?”
The question lands like a stone in still water.
I stare at my wine, then at the ocean beyond the windows, then at the circle of women who have somehow become my friends in the six months I’ve been here.
Women who showed up at my door with casseroles when I first arrived.
Who invited me to book club before I’d even finished unpacking.
Who make me feel like I belong somewhere for the first time in my adult life.
“I was scared,” I finally say. “The first time, I was seventeen and my mom said things about him—about how he wasn’t going anywhere, how I was wasting my time—and I believed her. So I left.”
“And the second time?” Jo’s voice is gentle.
“The second time I was twenty-seven and freshly divorced and completely broken.” I trace the rim of my glass. “Levi was still here. Still waiting, somehow. And it was so good, and that terrified me. Because I didn’t trust myself not to mess it up. So I left before I could.”
“Before he could leave you first,” Grandma Hensley says quietly.
The words hit me like a gut punch.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
The room is silent for a long moment. Then Hazel reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“To be honest,” she says, “running away is pretty relatable too.”
“Completely,” Amber agrees.
“I’ve run from at least three good things in my life,” Michelle admits. “Four if you count that time I almost didn’t give Grayson a chance.”
“I almost ran from Scott,” Jessica adds. “Multiple times. He’s very persistent when he wants to be.”
“The question isn’t whether you’ve run before.” Grandma Hensley fixes me with a look that sees way too much. “The question is whether you’re going to run again.”
Before I can answer, a small voice drifts down from the top of the stairs:
“I think you should stay, Miss Delilah! Great-Grandma’s right! Mr. Rock Star looks at you like you’re his favorite song!”
“Ellen!” Hazel scolds.
“You said I could come down for the cookie break!”
“It’s not cookie break yet!”
“But this is important! Love is important!”
Hazel drops her head into her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
But the tension has broken. Everyone’s laughing, and Jo is refilling wine glasses, and Amber is threatening to eat all the chocolate cookies before Ellen can get down here.
“She’s not wrong, though,” Caroline says quietly, just to me. “I saw him at the coffee shop this morning. Before you came in. He was watching the door like he was hoping someone specific would walk through it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Upstairs, Ellen is negotiating loudly for an early cookie release. Kira’s voice joins the fray, defending her sister’s right to snacks with the passion of a girl who also wants a cookie.
And I sit in the middle of this beautiful, chaotic, nosy group of women, feeling more seen than I have in years.
It’s terrifying.
It’s also kind of wonderful.
The evening winds down slowly, the way all good book clubs do—more wine than discussion, more laughter than literary analysis.
Ellen finally made it downstairs for her cookie, then somehow talked her way into staying for the whole dessert course. She’s currently curled up on the couch between Grandma Hensley and Jo, fighting sleep with stubborn determination.
I help Hazel carry dishes to the kitchen while the others gather their things.
“Thank you for hosting,” I say, rinsing a wine glass. “And I’m sorry I made it weird with all the...baggage.”
“You didn’t make it weird.” Hazel takes the glass and dries it. “You made it real. That’s what book club is for. We read about messy love stories, and then we talk about our own messy love stories, and somehow it makes all of us feel less alone.”
“Is that in the official book club bylaws?”
“It should be.” She smiles. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re going to run this time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’ve spent six months putting down roots. The shop. The friendships. This town.” She sets the glass in the cabinet. “People who plan to run don’t do that. They keep one foot out the door. You’ve got both feet planted.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Just think about it,” Hazel says. “And maybe, if you’re feeling brave, think about giving that songwriter another chance. From what I hear, he could use a muse.”
In the living room, Ellen has lost her battle with sleep. She’s slumped against Grandma Hensley’s shoulder, one hand still clutching half a cookie.
“Should I carry her up?” Jack appears in the doorway, looking like a man who’s been hiding in his study until the estrogen levels decreased.
“Please.” Hazel kisses his cheek. “Thank you for making yourself scarce.”
“Anytime. Though I did hear something about a rock star and coffee? Should I be concerned?”
“Only about my dignity,” I say.
He grins—the easy grin of a man who’s heard worse—and scoops Ellen up without waking her. She mumbles something about decimals and songs and settles against his shoulder.
I say my goodbyes, hugging each woman in turn. Grandma Hensley holds on longest.
“Second chances are rare,” she says quietly. “Don’t waste yours being afraid.”
And then I’m walking to my car in the dark, the ocean crashing somewhere beyond the dunes, the stars scattered across the sky like someone spilled glitter.
I sit behind the wheel for a long moment.
Scott’s book was about a man who hid behind walls until someone saw through them. A man whose writer’s block was really fear of being known.
Levi sits in a coffee shop every morning, staring at a blank page.
And I left him twice because I was afraid of what staying might mean.
Grandma Hensley’s question echoes in my head: The question isn’t whether you’ve run before. The question is whether you’re going to run again.
I start the car.
I don’t have an answer yet.
But for the first time in ten years, I think I might want to find one.