Chapter 61
The grocery store was small enough that you could hear the door chime from anywhere inside. Late afternoon light slanted through the front windows, catching on the dust in the air, and for once, my shoulders weren’t locked up around my ears.
Mom was in the produce section, squeezing avocados like she was negotiating a hostage release. “These are too hard. You don’t want hard ones for guac.”
Juniper stood on the other side of the display, smirking at her. “I think mine are better.” She held up two like she was about to win a prize.
I stayed out of it — some fights you can’t win — and loaded cilantro into the cart. It felt… nice.
Domestic.
A little dangerous how easy it was to imagine this being normal. Mom teased me about something stupid I’d done at seventeen, Juniper soaking it all in like she was collecting ammunition.
My phone buzzed. Not the casual, once-in-a-while buzz. The sharp double tap meant it wasn’t someone wishing me well.
I glanced at the screen. Kellogg.
I didn’t open it right away. Stuck it back in my pocket, pretending I was still weighing the merits of different bunches of herbs.
Juniper caught me. Of course, she did. “You gonna get that?” she asked. Soft voice, sharp eyes.
I sighed and pulled it out. Just a text, no call.
KELLOGG
Need you to come back. Shooting final scene Friday.
Reed is adamant on you.
That was it. No hello. No, please. Just an order.
Mom was watching me now, a frown cutting across her face. “You’re not leaving tonight,” she said flatly. “We’re making pie first.”
Juniper added, “And you’re not walking into that set alone.”
I tried to argue, but it was pointless. Between the two of them, I was already outnumbered and overruled.
Once we returned home, the kitchen was a mess of grocery bags and half-unpacked produce, limes scattered across the counter like tiny green planets, some sliced and some still stubbornly whole. Nadine was slicing limes with the precision of a surgeon — her way of reigning in the chaos, I guessed.
I stood at the island, halfheartedly picking at a block of cheese, but my mind was nowhere near the kitchen. My phone buzzed against the counter — a sharp, insistent vibration that dragged me out of the moment. I picked it up, eyes scanning the screen.
The text was terse. Come back. Last scene. The studio. Kellogg didn’t have a say, didn’t want me back. It was a directive from above him. He’d texted me three more times — I still hadn’t responded. I flipped the phone face down, but the weight of the message stuck to my chest like a stone.
My mom’s sharp eyes caught the shift in me immediately. Mothers don’t miss much. “That the studio again?” she asked, voice casual but with a thread of knowing.
“Just the schedule,” I muttered, trying to sound like it was nothing. My hands gripped the cheese a little too tight, nails digging in. Juniper, standing close, caught the tension before I even realized it was there. She stepped in smoothly, grabbing the knife from my fingers with an easy smile.
“You’re about to peel your own fingers off,” she said, voice teasing, but kind.
I scowled at her, but the edge in my expression softened a fraction. “I’m fine.”
“Oh no you’re not. You’re typically terrible in the kitchen, but this is next level bad. You should stick to breakfast, cowboy.”
I tried to muster a dry comeback, but Juniper’s eyes twinkled with mischief, and for a moment, I let myself forget. “Do you think key limes are just… little kid limes?” She asked seriously, as if the concept had been troubling her for weeks.
I blinked, trying to keep a straight face. It was impossible. The corner of my mouth twitched, then broke into a laugh I desperately needed.
Mom didn’t miss the shift either. Still slicing limes with steady hands. She didn’t say anything, made no comment on Juniper’s ability to pull me from myself, but I saw her lip tick up gently.
Maybe I even caught a glimpse of her eyes going misty.
Her tears hit me like a quiet punch to the ribs. Not the kind of thing said to make noise, but one of those moments that sticks. I glanced at Juniper, who was smiling softly, her hand brushing against my arm just so.
The kitchen, with all its familiar sounds and smells, suddenly felt like the only real place I’d known in weeks. And for a brief moment, I let the chaos of the film and the biting words of the director fade into nothing.
Because here — in this messy kitchen, with this woman who somehow made me want to believe again — maybe I could find my way back.
I wish I could say that dinner was delicious.
My mom had gone out of her way to make my favorite meal.
There was nothing quite like my mom’s three-dip dinner — I love a good appetizer.
But the guacamole had no flavor, the queso she’d handmade burned my tongue, and the salsa…
God, I was so wrapped up in this studio thing.
The kitchen was finally winding down. My mom had disappeared with a pile of dishes, humming something I couldn’t quite place. Juniper and I moved like quiet ghosts, gathering the last of our things for the morning.
Outside, the window framed a world turning cold — trees flaming red and gold one day, stripped bare the next. The fall was slipping away fast, and with it, a part of the warmth I thought I could hold on to here.
Juniper broke the silence, sliding next to me on the couch with a grin that smelled like leftover key lime pie and hope. “You think if we eat enough of Nadine’s cooking, we’ll survive the studio’s wrath?”
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just starve under the weight of my own screw-ups.”
She nudged me, playful but gentle. “Hey, don’t do that. You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s something.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to lean into that warmth, that softness. But my mind was already racing — Kellogg’s anger, the final scene, all the ways I could still mess this up.
Juniper caught my hand, fingers weaving between mine. “Hey,” she said softly. “You’re not alone in this.”
The way she said it — so simple, so certain — it pulled me out of my head like a lifeline.
I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her like I could hold the world at bay if I just held her tight enough.
Her hair smelled like cinnamon and something homey, and I could feel her heartbeat steady against my chest. “I wish I could freeze this moment,” I whispered. “Just this quiet. Just you.”
She smiled into my neck. “Me too.”
We sat like that for a long time — two people holding on before the storm.
But even in the stillness, I could feel the weight of the quiet pressing down, but also…
lingering somewhere just below, was the kind of softness that could almost make me forget what tomorrow held.
Juniper sat beside me, her fingers lacing through mine like an anchor.
She smirked, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. “You know, if you brood any harder, the leaves outside are going to fall just to cheer you up.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitched. “Yeah, well, if I stare at these damn trees any longer, I might just try to climb one and hide.”
She bumped her shoulder against mine. “Coward.”
I squeezed her hand, trying to shove the panic back down. Juniper couldn’t keep Kellogg’s text from echoing in my brain like a warning bell — like I was already standing on the edge of a cliff and the ground beneath was crumbling.
But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away when I was trying to sabotage. Instead, she leaned her head on my shoulder, warm and steady. “You’re not alone,” she said again, softer this time.
The truth in that simple sentence cut through the noise. I shifted, pulling her closer until she fit perfectly against me — her breath light against my skin, the steady beat of her heart beneath my palm.
“Sometimes,” I admitted, voice low, “I just want to run. To leave it all behind.”
“Do it,” Juniper chuckled, the sound like a balm. “But… don’t forget to take me with you, if you do.”
I laughed — genuine this time — and for a moment, the storm inside me stilled.
“We’ve got pie for the morning,” she teased, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “And a guest room with a bed way too small for both of us.”
I groaned, but kissed her temple. “Pooh bear,” I muttered, remembering her grin.
She smiled, eyes closing. “That was all you, hotshot. I wouldn’t mind another glimpse, though.” And as the last light faded outside, I let myself sink into the moment — messy, imperfect, but ours.
Because morning was coming.