Chapter 4
Becca
“Welcome back to Somebody Said in Sweetbriar. Today’s topic: Humiliation. If you ever need proof that the universe has a sense of humor, try embarrassing yourself before breakfast and then wait to see who shows up next.”
By late afternoon, the rain had settled into a soft, persistent drizzle. The kind that blurred the edges of things and made time feel slower. The day had stretched on in that strange way where nothing happened, yet everything felt heavier for it.
I’d been home all day. Long enough for the embarrassment to sink in.
Long enough for the adrenaline from Violet’s to fade and leave behind that familiar, itchy mix of regret and overthinking.
Long enough to change clothes, towel my hair dry, and convince myself that if I stayed very still, the universe might forget about me entirely and let me relax for a freaking second.
My trailer was quiet except for the river whispering beyond the trees and the occasional metallic creak as the temperature shifted.
The narrow dinette table sat beneath the window, its surface permanently scarred and faintly sticky no matter how much I scrubbed it.
Two mismatched vinyl chairs flanked it. One with a tear in the seat, the other tilted just enough to keep things interesting.
A crocheted blanket was draped over the bench seat along the wall, and the overhead light flickered when I turned it on, bathing everything in a dull yellow glow that made the faded teal walls look more tired than charming.
I sat at the table anyway, laptop open, microphone balanced on a stack of old mail and a dog-eared paperback. I adjusted the voice disguiser and hit record.
I used to journal the old-fashioned way, filling page after page with my messy handwriting, half-finished thoughts, and the occasional tear stain when things got too real.
But podcasting was more fun. Talking felt alive in a way writing never did.
I could hear the river in the background, feel the words leave my mouth and disappear into the air like smoke.
No one could see my face, no one could interrupt.
I disguised my voice, kept everything anonymous, and somehow people still found it.
A steadily growing group of listeners left comments on the hosting site—kind ones, funny ones, a few that made me laugh out loud in the middle of the night.
They had no idea who I was, and I liked it that way.
Except for Aunt Aggie, whose sharp ears had caught the cadence of my stories a while ago. She’d never said a word to anyone else.
“Welcome back to Somebody Said in Sweetbriar,” I said lightly.
“Let’s talk about small towns and big memories.
The kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
One minute you’re minding your own business, and the next you’re face-to-face with something you thought you’d packed away for good. ”
I stared at the scratched tabletop, fingers tapping against the edge.
I didn’t record episodes the normal way anymore.
At some point, talking into the void hadn’t been enough, so I started going live—just my voice drifting out into the forest. Hardly anyone listened in real time, which was kind of the point.
A handful of regulars dropped comments afterward, but for the most part, people listened later.
The live part felt temporary. Private. Like whispering secrets into the void and trusting it not to whisper back.
“It turns out places remember things even when people pretend not to. Corners. Cafés. Parking lots. Promises that were made before anyone was old enough to understand what they meant.”
I cleared my throat.
“So here’s your reminder: unfinished things don’t stay quiet forever. They wait.”
That was vague enough. It had to be. I reached to stop the recording when gravel crunched outside.
My hand froze, and my heart leaped straight into my throat.
Footsteps. Not just any footsteps. Quick, uneven in rhythm, like whoever was walking always moved a half-step faster than everyone else and expected the world to keep up. Heavy, too, the kind of weight that came from big boots and a job that didn’t care much about being gentle with your joints.
I knew them anyway.
Levi.
There was something unmistakable about the way he moved.
Long stride, impatient pace, like standing still was never really an option for him unless he was forced into it.
Even the sound of him crossing uneven ground had a kind of urgency to it, like he was always already late for something he hadn’t been told about yet.
I slammed the laptop shut, nearly knocking the microphone to the floor. I yanked the cord free, shoved the mic under a folded dish towel, and slid the laptop into the cabinet beneath the sink, wedging it between cleaning supplies and a box of mac and cheese I’d been meaning to cook for weeks.
A knock sounded.
“Becca?”
Levi’s voice.
I closed my eyes for half a second, then opened the door.
“Hey,” I said, hoping my face didn’t betray the mad scramble I’d just performed.
He stood in my doorway holding a paper bag, rain clinging to his dark hair and dampening the shoulders of his jacket.
Levi Barrett had always been tall—tall tall—but time had filled him out in a way that felt unfair.
But that wasn’t it, he was just… good. It was the calm in him that always drew me in.
The grounded certainty. The way he filled every space he entered without needing to announce himself.
And that was the problem, really. I could manage handsome. Handsome, I’d learned to file away and ignore. What I couldn’t manage was the way looking at him still felt like coming home to a place I’d locked myself out of years ago and hadn’t stopped missing.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “My grandma asked me to check on Aggie. She said she was feeling stiff today. And,” he added, lifting the bag, “my mom sent leftovers. Too much lasagna. Again.”
“That tracks,” I said, stepping aside. “Has she ever cooked for fewer than twenty people?”
“Once,” he said, his smile slow and familiar, close enough now that I caught the clean scent of soap and rain clinging to him.
He smelled like sexy petrichor. I slammed my eyes shut at the thought.
What the hell was wrong with me lately? My breath hitched, warmth blooming low in my chest, my heart hammering in my chest like it had forgotten every rule I’d taught it.
“I think it was an accident,” he added as he stepped inside.
He set the bag on the counter carefully, taking in the cramped space without judgment.
He definitely noticed the leaning chairs, the narrow walkway, the way the whole place felt one strong gust away from rattling apart, but he didn’t comment.
Just existed in it with me, which somehow made it feel less embarrassing.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Just, um, tired.”
He studied me like he knew better but wasn’t going to push.
Then a shadow moved outside the window.
“Becca?” Travis’s voice sliced through the walls, sharp and edged with impatience.
My stomach plummeted.
Travis stepped into view just beyond the open door, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders squared as if he owned the gravel beneath his boots.
The jacket was navy, quilted at the shoulders.
I’d given it to him for Christmas years ago because he was always cold and never admitted it.
He still wore it. Of course, he still wore it, the stupid jerk.
Rain darkened the fabric across his chest, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
His gaze locked on me first, then slid to Levi standing inside my trailer.
Something dark flickered across his face.
“Didn’t realize you had company,” he said, the words clipped, almost accusatory.
“What do you want, Travis?” My voice came out flatter than I intended.
“I want to talk.” He took one step closer, boots crunching deliberately. “You’ve been dodging my calls. My texts. My visits. We need to talk.”
“I’m not dodging you. I’m done with you. So, no. We’re not talking. Not now, or ever. Plus, you stink. You come here wanting to talk, reeking of cigarette smoke, when you know I hate it? Give me a freaking break, Travis.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “We’re done when I say we’re done. You’ll talk to me. You always do.”
Levi moved then, a single, deliberate step that put him half a body length in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He didn’t raise his voice. His presence was threatening enough. “She said no.” Each word was calm, measured, final.
Travis’s eyes narrowed to slits. “This isn’t your business, Barrett.”
“It is when you’re standing on her doorstep after she told you to leave.” Levi’s posture didn’t change. He kept his feet planted, with his shoulders relaxed. But there was a new tension in the air, thick and electric. The kind that made the small trailer feel even smaller.
Travis took another half-step forward, chin lifting as he caught sight of the paper bag on the counter. “You think you can just show up with food and play hero? She’s not yours to protect.”
Levi didn’t flinch. “She’s not anyone’s to protect. She’s a grown woman who said no. Multiple times. You’re the one who keeps showing up where you’re not wanted.”
Travis’s jaw clenched so tight I saw the muscle tense.
His eyes flicked between us, calculating.
For a moment, I thought he might lunge—actually lunge at Levi.
The air felt electric, like right before lightning strikes.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white, and he leaned forward just slightly, eyes fixed on Levi as if he was weighing whether he could take him.
Spoiler alert: There was no way Travis could ever beat Levi in a fight. The idea was just ridiculous.