Chapter 1
Becca
“Welcome to Somebody Said in Sweetbriar, where nothing stays hidden for long, even the raccoons have opinions, and the gossip is always hotter than the coffee at Violet’s Café.”
My trailer wasn’t much to look at. The faded teal paint peeled along the seams, the little striped awning sagged in the middle, and the door stuck whenever the weather turned damp—which in Sweetbriar, Oregon, my adorable little hometown near Mt. Hood, was most of the time.
But it was all mine for now, and I was grateful to still have my independence.
Losing my job had knocked me sideways—not just the job itself but how it happened.
I’d spent years working in my mother’s salon, the best chair in the place, building a clientele I was proud of.
Then she decided she was done with Sweetbriar, done with the work, done with Oregon winters.
She sold the salon to a couple from Portland who thanked the existing staff very much and replaced us all within sixty days.
By the time the new owners reopened, I was unemployed, and my mother was posting sunset photos from Scottsdale.
She called to check in occasionally. She said these things happen.
She wasn’t wrong, exactly. She just wasn’t here.
I’d get back on my feet; it was just a matter of time. So what if my savings account was getting dangerously low and odd jobs were becoming fewer and farther between?
Now I lived tucked away in the long-term section of Riverside Pines Campground, owned by my Great Aunt Aggie, on a patch of neat gravel lots and well-kept trailers that stretched along the Sweetbriar River.
The current whispered just beyond the tree line, and at night, I liked to leave the window cracked so I could fall asleep to the sound of rushing water.
It was peaceful—the exact opposite of the sleek, too-quiet fancy condo in town I used to share with my ex.
Aunt Aggie didn’t hesitate. The day after my breakup, she called me over to her Airstream and handed me the keys to a 1990s era teal and white trailer that had been sitting empty on a back lot since the previous tenant moved out.
“It’s not much,” she said, “but it’s dry inside, cheap, and yours as long as you need it.
Rent for the space is whatever you can manage until you’re back on your feet—no interest, no strings. ”
I used some of my severance to cover the title transfer.
It still leaked a bit in heavy rain, and the hot water was more of a suggestion than a guarantee, but there was no ex hovering in the hallway, no more fighting, no more shrinking myself to placate him.
Just me, the river, and a fresh start that smelled faintly of pine and possibility.
Riverside Pines was actually nice—almost glamping if you had one of the newer, polished rigs like most of the long-timers here.
Christmas lights stayed up year-round on several porches, flower boxes overflowed with color even in the drizzle, and people kept their places looking magazine-worthy.
Mine just hadn’t caught up yet. The people here made it feel like a neighborhood.
When dawn crept in, gray, wet, and insistent.
I tried to pretend it hadn’t, rolled over, pulled my blankets tight, willing the world to stay outside a little longer.
My pillow was cool against my cheek, and for a minute, I convinced myself I could sink back into sleep and block out the gnawing worry and the mess of half-finished plans percolating in my brain.
But eventually the familiar ache behind my eyes joined the distant rumble of the river.
I knew I couldn’t hide forever, and the universe woke me with a tap-tap-tap that turned into a full-on percussion solo on my roof.
“Okay, okay.” I peeled my cheek off the pillow and blinked at the bead of water sneaking through the seam above the kitchenette.
The camper groaned; I groaned with it as I reached up to slide the little metal bowl under the leak.
It pinged, and my savings account cried in harmony, knowing I had yet one more thing to fix.
“Good freaking morning, Sweetbriar,” I muttered, twisting my hair into a knot and swinging my legs to the floor.
I slid into my flip-flops; one snapped as soon as I stood.
Because, of course, it did. I stared at the broken strap, then at the half-working coffee maker that coughed like a heavy smoker whenever I turned it on.
“Pick your battles,” I muttered, dressing quickly and yanking on my boots—time to get coffee. I had enough left in the bank for at least that.
By the time I stepped outside, the rain had softened to mist that coated everything in that piney, green smell I loved. Petrichor, my inner nerd announced.
Aunt Aggie—adorable with her white hair styled in a high bun, floral nightgown, and duck-printed rain boots—waved from the doorway of her gleaming Airstream across from me.
Gerald, her tiny little black cat, sat on the step below her with the sovereign confidence of an animal who had claimed his spot years ago and considered the matter settled. He never looked up.
“Morning, Becca love! You coming to knitting tonight?” She’d been here for eleven years, ever since Great Uncle Harold passed.
They’d owned this land forever, and she’d decided running a campground full of stubborn, wonderful, occasionally raccoon-adjacent people was better than selling it to someone who wouldn’t love it right.
“I might,” I lied cheerfully. I wasn’t sure I could afford more yarn right now, but I’d show up for the gossip.
“Oh, another thing,” she added, squinting over her oversized glasses. “I listened to your podcast last night. The one about the raccoon and the Doritos.”
I groaned. “Aunt Aggie—”
“It was cute,” she said firmly. “You’ve got a knack for storytelling, sugar. But maybe leave out the part about your trailer, hm? People will figure out it’s you. There’s only one drafty teal-blue-trimmed trailer parked out here, you know.”
I ducked my head, hoping she wouldn’t catch the tired look on my face, and hurried across the puddled gravel toward my car.
I’d started recording little anonymous podcast episodes at night—just me rambling about Sweetbriar life, the campground’s oddball wildlife, and my messy attempts at adulthood—to keep myself sane.
Nobody was supposed to know it was me. But despite my voice modulator, Aggie’s sharp ears had picked up the hints.
I told myself I was just letting off steam, but lately I wondered if I was sharing too much, even in secret.
Maybe it was time to dial back the honesty and stick to the quirky.
I shook my head, mortified and weirdly touched. “Thanks for the note. Be less pathetic and more vague.”
“Oh, pish. You’re far from pathetic, honey.” She smiled like she’d won the argument. “And don’t forget to bring your firefighter boy to knitting. He’s always been such a good egg. You should go out with him now that Dipshit Travis is out of the picture.”
Heat flashed up my neck. Her knowing look followed me to the car.
I sighed. If only she knew—my so-called “firefighter boy,” Levi Barrett, didn’t come to my place because of some secret whispered romance. He’d shown up because my stupid ex, henceforth to be known as Dipshit Travis, wouldn’t leave me alone.
Travis and I had been tangled since high school—first loves, familiar routines, the kind of history people mistook for inevitability.
Good memories were buried in there, enough laughter and late nights to make it hard to admit how often I’d shrunk myself to keep the peace.
We broke up and got back together so many times that it became a habit, every fight followed by apologies that sounded sincere but never changed anything.
Whenever I tried to explain why something hurt, he’d sigh and call me dramatic, like my feelings were an inconvenience instead of valid.
Over time, I started second-guessing my own instincts, my own memory, until I wasn’t sure if I was too sensitive, tired, or just losing my mind.
The breakup was necessary. We weren’t healthy together.
To him, we were just “on a break,” another rough patch we’d smooth over.
To me, it was the first step in learning to trust myself again and to stop mistaking familiarity for love.
I told him it was over. Clearly. Repeatedly. But Travis never heard what he didn’t like. He treated my no like a pause button. Showed up uninvited. Texted as if nothing had changed. Spoke in “we” and “when” instead of “if.” As if I’d been with him long enough to forget why I left.
Levi was a good friend of my overprotective cop older brother, and he—along with half the Sweetbriar Police and Fire Departments—had promised to keep an eye out until Travis gave up.
Great, right?
Just what every girl wants, an interfering big brother and a pack of burly first responders watching her back. Wait. In any other circumstance, that would be a great start to a bedtime fantasy, but unfortunately, not in this case.
When we were kids, Levi had been my best friend. Nerdy library lunches, inside jokes, shared notebooks full of half-baked ideas about the future. Then freshman year ended, and I spent a summer with my cousins. When I came back, he’d changed.
Sophomore year, everything shifted. Levi grew taller almost overnight, lost his braces, made junior varsity as a wide receiver, and suddenly, he had this easy confidence that drew people in like gravity.
He had a whole new circle—teammates, cheerleaders, the kids who sat at the loud tables in the cafeteria.
But worse, girls noticed him. They flocked to him in the hallways, giggling at his jokes, touching his arm when they laughed, asking him to the homecoming dance before I even knew there was a dance.