Chapter Three
Lily
SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER - SUMMER
T he rush of the water below feels like a balm to my soul as I lean on one of the bridges that span the river in my small town of Birch Borough. I’m out on my daily walk, and as usual, I’ve instinctively turned toward the water. The river that runs through the center of town has always been a grounding place for me. The stone arch of the bridge beneath my forearms is cool, a dichotomy to the warmth of the sun on my face. The heat in the air sticks to my skin and reminds me that I’m alive.
Maybe it’s the wildness of it all as the water crashes over the rocks and still makes it to the other side. Or how the thunderous sound quiets my thoughts and fears and reminds me that life keeps moving, even when we feel stuck.
I feel in extra need of the reminder today. Even though it’s been over a year without him, I feel Graham’s absence in every cell of my being. With every breath, I want to tell him how I feel, yet he’s not here for me to do it .
During our too-brief romance, I got used to having someone besides my best friend to talk to. Sparrow (or Rory, as I call her) is the most incredible listener, but there is something different when it’s a man you trust with your innermost thoughts and not another woman. Knowing the difference now, it seems that both are necessary. I’ve been effectively cut off from one. And I know it’s my fault.
Swallowing back my emotion, I direct my attention toward the shops lining this section of the river. They are quaint and idyllic in the afternoon light, the back of each positioned against the riverbank. If I turn around to the other side, I’ll see clusters of birch trees (the origin story of our town’s namesake) and the herons that hang out there. It’s a wonderfully familiar sight after so much of my life has changed.
Just before my brief chapter in LA, my parents sat me down and told me they had sold our family home. Not as if it was a future event, but that it had already happened. I didn’t even have a chance to attempt to talk them out of it. I had always dreamed of taking over my childhood home if I could ever afford it. When I asked them, weeks earlier, why they were “spring cleaning” after noticing some things being driven to the local donation center, they told me they were simply decluttering. Yeah, decluttering to another time zone .
And while I know my parents love me, their way of showing it is mostly through financial provision and doesn’t have much to do with my heart. As a child, they constantly tried to get me to be more well-behaved, to be more proper, and to live the kind of life that seeks to help others. They just didn’t always know how to help me. I know I embarrassed them with my antics. I remember the tension in their voices when they tried to explain to my teachers (more than once) how they planned to work on my behavior. I was never actually violent, but I was good at making threats. I’ve always been good at speaking my mind and letting people think I don’t care. Except, I do care—possibly more than anyone can know.
I try to be grateful and remember that some families are found rather than made. Sparrow’s dad was always more of a father figure to me than my own dad, anyway. He taught me how to make croissants at Sparrow’s Beret, the French American bakery and café I now co-own with Sparrow. He took me under his wing and gave me the attention I needed. He always knew when I was having a hard time at school. Whether it was allowing me to make the pains au chocolat to let out my frustration or putting music on to help calm my nerves, he always did it with a sense of calm care. His little glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his smile was warm.
Sparrow’s mother, who was French, passed away when Sparrow was a little girl. It happened before we even met. Looking back, I see how grief frayed her father’s edges. Still, he somehow knew that I needed them. And, for as long as he was with us, I felt how deeply I belonged.
I wander farther across the bridge, the sunlight sparkling off the water, still calming me after all this time. As much as I love this place, believing that I belong has always felt just out of reach. So, I hold fiercely to the friends who feel like home. Sometimes, though, it feels like I’ll never leave the wounded parts of me behind.
I was the one the boys liked to tease. They would try to recruit me to enact revenge on their nemeses. I’m the girl a high school jock teased with a fake prom proposal only to add, “As if anyone could be with Lily and not be crushed to pieces.” Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, but those words haven’t been wrong yet.
I’m still the girl with the quick wit who mainly dresses in black. I’m the unexpected one. The wild one. The woman who speaks her mind and says whatever outlandish thing she wants. I call people on their crap and love to push people’s buttons. Men seem to have a hard time realizing I’m a complex human and not a board game.
Have I had some good guy friends? Yes. But I haven’t been so lucky with love—until Graham.
Sixteen months ago, I was careless with Graham. He moved through my defenses before I realized what was happening. I craved him. I needed him. And when I saw the ring tucked into his pocket, a whisper in my heart said it would shatter for good if he ever left me. I knew then what I had to do: Make a clean break. I had to be the one to end it before he did.
“Honey, did the river finally hypnotize you, or are you really that lost?”
I snap out of my thoughts, hearing Gladys’ voice before her warm arm comes to rest around my waist. If Sparrow’s dad was a father figure, Gladys is my eccentric aunt. The aunt you admire yet understand that if you give her free rein in your life, you’ll either end up with stories worthy of winning an award or being arrested. There’s no in-between with Gladys. If there’s an art to speaking your mind, I’ve learned from the best by her example.
“I’m not lost,” I counter, except she knows I am.
“You keep telling yourself that, honey. ”
I bristle, but there’s no point in correcting her.
Her arm remains around my waist. “Now, about that strapping young man you were seeing . . . the tall, dark, and handsome one . . .”
“Edgar.” I cringe. He’s the latest casualty in the list of men I’ve dated this year in an attempt to forget Graham, even though I just . . . can’t. After months of sulking, I thought maybe, if I couldn’t have Graham, I’d try to move on. It might not be the dream, but maybe I could get close to something like happiness. After a series of tragic experiences on dating apps, I took a chance on someone who works in Birch Borough but doesn’t live here. My odds felt safer that way. I genuinely like Edgar too. I’d say we made the friend category.
After about a year of acknowledging each other at his boxing studio, we went out for nearly three months before he sensed I was holding back and asked me if there was someone else—to which I replied, “No.” But it turns out I would’ve failed a lie detector test yet again. Because ever since meeting Graham, there has always been someone else, even if it’s only a ghost made of memories.
“Yes. Edgar,” Gladys says with a hint of sadness. “Poor dear didn’t know what hit him after you. And that new haircut he just got isn’t doing him any favors now either. Looks like he got into a fight with a Weedwacker.”
I laugh lightly, even though the truth of what she’s saying stings. “You have no idea.”
Gladys shrugs. “Hmm, well, maybe the new man in town will be more promising.”
I turn to face her, taking in the way her eyes dance with mirth and a bit of conniving. “Gladys,” I warn .
“What? I know this town like the back of my hand. And someone needs to keep an eye out for all the eligible men. Besides your, albeit brief, stint with Edgar—a fine contender despite his unfortunate hair—you’ve been wilted for months. Lately, that sharpness in you has more bite, and that laughter of yours is harder to come by.”
She’s not wrong. I am trying to think of a dismissal of the truth when I feel my hand lovingly captured between her own. “You’ve been different since LA, darling. Since your parents left. Since Rory’s dad passed. And I know you’ve got more spunk and fight in you than you know what to do with, but I miss the girl who had more hope about her.”
“Me too,” is all I manage to get out.
“Okay, well, I’m off to bring Edgar a coffee at his store. I’m going to see if I can sign up for boxing lessons.” She raises her brows at my glare, a wry grin painting her face. “Just because you don’t want him doesn’t mean other women don’t need his expertise—for fitness reasons, of course.” She winks, and I let myself laugh. Gladys is ridiculous.
She steps away but looks back at me over her shoulder. “Oh, and take a walk around Founding Street today. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
I shake my head at her antics, but part of me is curious to find out who this mystery man is she’s trying to direct my attention to. It’s not as if I believe anyone could or would take Graham’s place, but it’s been long enough that I need to do something to fill the void. At the very least, I have to try.
I want the steady kind of love. The gritty kind that can handle fire and failure and isn’t lost along the way. The kind of love that can be tested and tried and stretched to the edge of itself without shattering. The kind I know I can trust even when I don’t always trust myself.
From the moment Graham held my hand, I knew I’d been hit by lightning. It altered my life forever as our connection traveled faster than the speed of light. I want to stop the madness.
When I first returned home from LA, I waited by my phone for weeks. I slept with it and even kept it on the counter near the shower with the ringer on high volume, hoping Graham would reach out. He didn’t. I can’t say I blame him. If he had told me our relationship was one-sided (even though it was a lie) and freaked out at any indication of marriage, I wouldn’t have stayed either.
Gladys mentioned hope, and the truth is, I’ve always hoped I would see him again. But it’s a delusional hope where you believe a chance meeting would change everything. Perhaps we’d run into each other on the train to Boston. Or perhaps I’d return to LA, feeling sorry for myself, and find him again at an afternoon matinee.
Instead of turning toward my apartment, I walk the other way, along a not-as-familiar path toward Founding Street. It’s off Main Street and quiet when I arrive. I don’t come down this road often, sticking closer to the streets with shops, not having much reason to venture down surrounding residential streets. Here, there are rows of vintage houses turned into quaint apartments. It’s a street filled with neatly cut grass and iconic architecture that looks so historic and yet homey.
I love my small town, even though I’m vocal about my view of the insanity and frequency of our themed events. And I’m not merely talking about Christmas or Easter festivities. I’m talking about parades for pets, a chowder festival, and even a Bake Fest and a Regency Ball that will happen next spring (I’m proud to say that’s my doing).
People can assume you’re boring when you live in a small town—as if you aren’t adventurous. But I’ve learned to find adventure in the cobblestone streets and in the way this town wrestles with my patience. There’s fun to be found when Angie from the pie shop always wants to give me an extra slice. I even find pleasure in the changing of seasons here. I think adventure is in the way you live your life, not in where you happen to wander.
As I turn onto the street, I catch sight of a moving truck four houses down. My heart picks up speed. It’s always like this when new people move to our tight-knit community. You don’t know how their dynamic will change the state of things or what it will mean to have them invade all the spaces that have become your staples. You wonder if there’s room enough for another person in your tight-knit community and then find yourself acclimating to them like they’ve always been there. It’s one of my favorite things about Birch Borough.
The large truck commands my attention, and as my feet pick up speed, I look at the license plate. California. My brow furrows, the memories of my time in LA instantly halting my ability to take a deep breath.
Hearing movement near the truck and spotting a pair of men’s trousers peeking from behind the rear wheels, I paste a smile onto my face. I’m ready to see what character has just been added to our community when the man rounds the corner. He steps into full view, a cardboard box in his hands. Spotting me, he freezes. The box falls to the pavement with the sound of glass breaking.
I would normally move to help or find the whole scene amusing. Instead, I’m frozen in place.
Crystal-blue eyes meet mine, familiar and yet haunted. His hands hang limply at his sides, the shift of his hair in the breeze the only movement between us.
“Graham,” I breathe reverently and honestly. I recognize the affection in my voice. It’s been so long that I almost forgot I was capable of it.
A dangerous hope begins to creep up my spine. Millions of moments between us flood my senses. I remember the sound of his laugh, the scent of his beard oil, and the feeling of his mouth on mine. This version of him before me is so different, yet it’s similar enough to wreck me. I swallow, tears already burning the edges of my eyes.
If this is what it means to dream and have it fulfilled, then I’m all in. The expression of shock on his face hasn’t shifted, and I’m sure it mirrors my own. If I’m questioning if the man before me is a hallucination, he’s surely doing the same.
It’s right that Graham shouldn’t have expected to see me here. He had mentioned in LA that he wanted to find a new home outside of Boston. I had sworn to him that I was going to go on adventures. The usual . . . work in a few chocolate shops across Europe and do my best to give American tourists a better reputation. I was about to shake the dust of Birch Borough off my high tops, ready to add some international excitement to my life. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave after all .
And suddenly, here he is, the embodiment of long-term plans and life-changing love. The sight of him is a shock to my system, not only because of the incredible odds but because how I feel for him has intensified over the time we’ve been apart. The relief of seeing him is tangible, streaming from the top of my head to my toes. I don’t know what I did to manifest a second chance, but this is my opportunity to come clean. To tell him the truth that’s been raging in my heart.
I open my mouth. The courage to finally speak the words brewing in my heart is gathering when his eyes close tightly. In the bright sunlight, I think it’s a drop of sweat from his brow I see falling down his face. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a tear.
I’m waiting for him to give me any sign to rush toward him. My arms already ache to hold him. I want to bury my face in his neck and tell him I’m so sorry for making him believe he was less than everything to me. Taking a deep breath, I step forward as his eyes flash open. The emptiness behind them stops me in my tracks.
“Graham,” I plead.
But he shakes his head. So defiant. So assured. And the words that I’ve waited for die between us.
“I can’t do this again.” His voice is gritty and unsteady, the edges of it rich with grief.
The disappointment startles me. I feel hot tears pouring down my face, the nightmare of this reunion more than I can physically handle. Disappointment turns to shame, shame to red-hot frustration. And frustration turns to fury. I recognize that I blew it, but the fact that we’re here together and he won’t give me a chance to make it right hits me harder than if we had never seen each other again at all. I know that now.
The only thing I can do from this moment on is what I’ve become an expert at doing throughout my life: turning disappointment into self-preservation. Wildly, my eyes dart until I spot a to-go cup on the back of the truck. The telltale sparrow of our familiar logo tells me he’s already been to Sparrow’s Beret. Rage pours through me because I missed him being there, and now I know he’s already entered yet another sacred space in my life.
“Sparrow’s Beret,” I grind out through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever set foot in it again.”
I turn on my heels. My vision blurs as I rush down an alley and back toward Main Street. I’m practically running—anything to get away from him as quickly as possible. Ignoring the looks of people I know I’ll have to explain myself to later, I rush up to my apartment. Throwing open the front door of the house, I trip on my way up the stairs before reaching my apartment on the top floor. My knee is scratched, my heart throbbing. I barely make it into my home before I hit the floor, my sobs echoing throughout the antiquated space. And as much as I think I could cry until I’m empty, something in me tells me it still won’t be enough.