Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Thursday morning, Seris was tired of listening to me.
I knew that was ridiculous. She was a fictional character I’d made up years ago in a fit of insomnia and panic. But there she was on the page, staring back at me with those big, inked eyes, and if she’d had a mouth that worked, I was pretty sure she would’ve told me to get it together.
I was at my table, inking in scenes I’d penciled before I’d seen Zarek. Mindless work, that almost forced me to think. The last thing I wanted to do. I looked down at Seris, who was really my other half. Okay, Zoe was my other half. Seris was my fear, my aspirations, my turmoil… my hope.
Seris, the girl who couldn’t speak.
Seris, who could see everything coming and still couldn’t make herself heard.
I’d given her that silence on purpose, thinking it would make her brave.
Now it mostly made her feel a little too familiar.
“I get it,” I muttered at the drawing. “You’re disappointed in me.”
Her eyes, wide and wary, stared back.
It wasn’t that I didn’t talk. God knew I talked. To my therapist. To my sisters. To my editor about deadlines. I’d talked to Zarek, too, or at least I’d tried. But my words had ended up just sliding off him. Like he stood behind thick glass.
I might as well have been Seris—shouting in my head while nothing made it across.
I dropped the pen and got on my feet and stretched, arching my back and neck, without easing the ache in my shoulders.
The ceiling in the apartment was the same stained popcorn texture it had been when I moved in.
The faint hum of my neighbor’s TV bled through the wall—a game show, maybe.
Or some true crime documentary. It was hard to tell.
Saturday was the barbecue.
That thought marched across my brain like it had been doing every hour on the hour.
Trenda swore up and down that Simon was going to get Zarek there. “Trust me,” she’d said. “If anyone can guilt-trip a stubborn man into showing up for family, it’s my husband.”
I loved her optimism.
I was also willing to bet my last good pen that there was no way in hell Simon was going to succeed.
The image of Zarek at a barbecue—standing in the backyard with a beer in his hand, laughing at something Drake said, letting Bella pester him for ride-alongs—hurt in a way I didn’t have edges for. It felt like remembering a movie I’d watched once and wasn’t sure actually existed anymore.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told the ceiling. “He goes or not, you’re going.”
The words landed with a dull thump, but they were true.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? I kept waiting for him to make a move. To open a door. To say, “Okay, this is how we fix it.” I’d walked out, then I’d walked back in, and somewhere in the middle I’d decided I was ready to fight for us again.
Except he wasn’t there yet.
He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even to ask if I got home safe. I wasn’t sure which hurt more — the silence or the possibility that he needed it.
Or maybe he was, and he was just buried under all that pain and guilt and bone-deep exhaustion.
Either way, I couldn’t keep doing this halfway thing—I’d left two messages since leaving, and he hadn’t returned my calls.
He was making it pretty damn clear he didn’t want me around. And I’d give him that play… for now.
In the meantime was time to start living again. Fully. And that meant showing my face in Jasper Creek.
I was done holing myself up in this little apartment like some injured flower pressed between the pages of a book. Yes, I had been broken. Absolutely, I’d been wrecked.
But I’d survived.
And if I’d survived, I was damn well going to thrive.
Even if thriving, today, just meant putting on real clothes and going into Jasper Creek without using the back alley entrances.
I went to my closet. Calling it a closet was generous—it was more like a determined cupboard—but it held enough pieces of my life to do the job. I thumbed through the hangers, bypassing the oversized sweatshirts and leggings that had been my unofficial mourning uniform.
It was warm out. Spring had actually decided to stick this week. That helped.
I pulled out a pair of shorts—denim, not too short but not frumpy—and held them up. Then I grabbed a tank top that made me feel like I had shoulders instead of coat hangers, soft cotton in a color that didn’t scream “she’s fragile, handle with care.”
Footwear next. Sandals instead of sneakers.
The kind that made my legs look a little longer and reminded me I had ankles.
I added bangles—thin metal that clinked softly when I moved—and dug for the earrings I actually liked instead of the plain studs I wore when I didn’t want anyone to look too closely.
By the time I finished, my reflection in the mirror startled me a little.
I looked like a person who might walk into town on purpose.
“You’re going to Zoe’s,” I told the woman in the mirror. “You might as well give your sister some business if you’re going to have a crisis in public.”
That thought helped. Something about going to my twin’s little shop made it feel less like I was stepping onto a stage and more like I was just…going home. In a sideways way.
I snickered. Sideways. Perfect. I wanted to say I was moving forward, but moving sideways was really more accurate.
Saturday’s barbecue loomed in the back of my mind, hot and bright and awkward.
It didn’t matter if Zarek was there. I needed to be there. Hell, Evie, Drake and Piper were going to be there from California. I hadn’t seen Piper in over eighteen months. Damn right I was going.
I grabbed my keys, my bag, and my last halfway decent gel pen small pad of paper, then headed out the door.
By the time I pulled into the town square in Jasper Creek, my stomach was staging a full revolt.
I’d left the apartment on coffee and adrenaline, not bothering with food because my nerves had decided chewing was optional. Now, as I parked near the old brick buildings and the familiar “Welcome to Jasper Creek” banner fluttered down the block, I realized this might have been a tactical error.
I could go straight to Zoe’s shop. Hide there. Let her shove a granola bar at me between adorable boutique customers.
Or…
I could walk into the Down Home Diner like a normal person, at ten in the morning on a Thursday, when there wouldn’t be a breakfast rush or a lunch crowd, and prove to myself that I could sit in a public place in my hometown without cracking.
“Big statement,” I muttered, eyeing the teal-and-cream sign.
The Down Home Diner was practically the beating heart of Jasper Creek. Half of my memories smelled like Patty’s biscuits and bacon. The other half were tied to places like the school, the creek, and Zarek’s truck.
Going in there by myself felt like painting a target on my chest that said, Ask how I’m doing.
But hiding wasn’t exactly working great for me, either.
I pulled my phone out before I could talk myself out of it and shot Zoe a text.
Chloe: Hey. I’m hitting the diner. You free to come by? I could use backup.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Zoe: On my way. Order enough food for me.
I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself.
With that small comfort in place, I took a breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked toward the diner.
The bell over the door jingled as I pushed it open. The familiar mix of coffee, cooking grease, and something sweet—cinnamon rolls, probably—hit my nose and wrapped around my lungs.
“Chloe, honey.”
Little Grandma’s voice came from beside the hostess stand, warm and matter-of-fact, like I’d just walked in from school instead of out of a year-long breakdown.
She didn’t make a fuss. She didn’t gasp or cry or ask me a hundred questions about how I was doing.
She eased off her stool, and opened her arms.
I stepped into them before I even thought about it.
She hugged me tight, all bird bones and steel, then patted my back twice and pulled away.
“Lettie!” she called over my shoulder. “Four-top in the corner by the window for Chloe.”
“A four-top?” I protested automatically. “It’s just me.”
Little Grandma’s eyes gleamed. “I’m betting you invited your twin,” she said. “And what’s more, I thought it might be nice if you and I visited for a bit. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to really talk.”
A year ago, that suggestion would’ve made my stomach drop. The idea of “really talking” to anyone had felt like someone suggesting I peel off my own skin.
Now… I was surprised to feel something else instead.
My eyes widened. I was actually looking forward to it.
“Okay,” I said, my voice coming out a little softer than I intended. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Lettie appeared as we sat down. She had her ever-present order pad and a tired smile that brightened when she saw me. “Hey, stranger,” she said. “You want breakfast or lunch? We’re straddling both right now, lucky you.”
“Breakfast,” I said immediately. Comfort food. “Definitely breakfast.”
She nodded. “You want me to grab you a menu?”
“I know I want a cinnamon roll,” I said, because there were some things you didn’t need to consult a menu for. “Beyond that, I’m…undecided.”
Her smile widened. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let Mom put something together for you. She’s been in a mood all morning—might as well put that energy to good use.” She jerked her chin toward the coffee pots. “Water? Coffee? Juice?”
Before I could answer, Little Grandma’s voice floated over my shoulder. “No coffee. She’s been drinking too much caffeine. Bring her chamomile tea. Same as me.”
I turned, startled. “How did you—”
“You have that jittery look,” Little Grandma said. “Not the good kind that comes from inspiration, the bad kind that comes from three cups too many.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Lettie scribbled something on her pad. “One cinnamon roll, one mystery breakfast plate, two chamomile teas, and one biscuit for my loving grandmother,” she said, tipping her head toward Little Grandma. “Be right back.”