3. Yearning For A Home
Yearning For A Home
~ W ILLA~
The walk to Wildflower & Wren takes us deeper into Sweetwater Falls, and despite everything, I find myself cataloging details like I'm trying to memorize a dream before waking.
Street lamps flicker on one by one, old-fashioned things that look like they've been standing guard since the town's founding. Their golden light catches on shop windows, turning ordinary glass into pools of honey.
Wendolyn keeps up a gentle commentary as we walk, her heels clicking a rhythm on the sidewalk.
"That's the hardware store—Mr. Chen's owned it for thirty years and can find you any screw, bolt, or widget known to man. Over there's the barber shop where all the old-timers gather to solve the world's problems over coffee and gossip."
The buildings press close together like friends sharing secrets, painted in colors that shouldn't work but do—butter yellow next to sage green, dusty blue beside brick red.
Flower boxes hang from windows despite the October chill, still blooming with mums and pansies in defiant bursts of purple and gold.
It's aggressively quaint, like the town got together and decided to be a postcards photographer's wet dream.
My inner turmoil feels out of place here, too sharp and ugly for all this small-town perfection.
I'm a discord note in their harmony, a smudge on their pretty picture.
But Wendolyn walks beside me like I belong, pointing out the veterinary clinic — "Dr. Patel is a miracle worker with animals and has the gentlest hands you've ever seen" — and the tiny post office —"Martha runs it like a naval operation, but she'll hold your packages if you're running late".
"Population?" I ask, trying to ground myself in facts.
"About three thousand, give or take. Swells during rodeo season and the harvest festival.
" She navigates around a crack in the sidewalk without breaking stride.
"Big enough to have everything you need, small enough that everyone knows everyone's business.
It's a blessing and a curse, depending on the day. "
We pass a young couple walking their dog, and they both nod to Wendolyn, their eyes sliding over me with curiosity but not hostility.
The dog— some kind of setter —wags its entire body at us before being tugged along.
Normal people living normal lives in their normal town, while I'm held together with spite and stubbornness.
The bookstore comes into view again, and this time I really look at it.
The building itself is old, probably from the town's founding era, with good bones under its cheerful paint.
The wraparound porch sags slightly in the middle like it's been well-loved.
Fairy lights twine through the railings and around the support posts, creating a constellation of warm white stars.
The window boxes overflow with wildflowers that have no business blooming this late in the season, but there they are anyway—cosmos and black-eyed Susans and something purple I can't identify.
"So here's the thing," Wendolyn says, still with her arm linked through mine like we're strolling through a park instead of standing next to my life's wreckage.
"I've got this spare room above my shop.
Nothing fancy—just a bed, dresser, little bathroom.
But it's clean, it's safe, and it's currently storing nothing but books I keep meaning to donate and a truly embarrassing number of vintage hats. "
I stop walking, forcing her to stop too.
"Wendolyn—"
"Now before you get all prideful on me," she continues, "let me tell you about the catch.
The shop's right below, and we open at six-thirty sharp.
Coffee grinder starts at six-fifteen, and let me tell you, that thing is louder than Harold's cologne is strong.
Plus, we get the morning rush of every caffeine-addicted soul in Sweetwater Falls, all desperate for their fix. "
"I can't just?—"
"And don't even get me started on pumpkin spice season.
" She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Which is right now, by the way.
I swear I've made more pumpkin spice lattes in the past week than should be legally allowed.
The smell gets into everything. Your clothes, your hair, your dreams. You'll be sneezing cinnamon and nutmeg. "
"You don't even know me." The words come out smaller than intended, but they need to be said. "I could be anyone. I could be dangerous."
"Honey, the only danger you pose right now is to yourself." Her voice gentles, but she doesn't let go of my arm. "And maybe to my tissue supply, but I buy in bulk."
Man, she is hilarious.
"I can't pay much." The admission burns, but it's better than taking charity under false pretenses. "My car's dead, and I've got maybe a hundred dollars to my name."
"Did I mention rent? No, because I'm not charging any." She starts walking again, gently tugging me along. "Look, the room's just sitting there. Actually, it's doing less than sitting—it's actively collecting dust and making me feel guilty every time I walk past. You'd be doing me a favor."
"That's not how favors work."
"It is in my world." We round a corner, and she gestures ahead. "There she is. Wildflower & Wren, in all her quirky glory."
The bookstore-cafe is impossible to miss, even in the dying light.
Painted sage green with white trim, it has a wraparound porch with little tables and chairs, fairy lights strung along the railings.
The sign hanging above the door features hand-painted wildflowers and a tiny wren perched on the ampersand.
Window boxes overflow with actual wildflowers, defying the October chill with bursts of color.
"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it.
"She's my baby." Pride warms Wendolyn's voice. "Books on one side, coffee on the other, and a whole lot of organized chaos in between. We host book clubs, writers' groups, even a weekly knitting circle that's really just an excuse for the town gossips to gather intelligence."
"And you live above it?"
"Just me and Fitzgerald—that's my cat. Rescued him from behind the dumpster last winter, and now he thinks he owns the place." She squeezes my arm. "Fair warning, he's orange, he's massive, and he has opinions about everything."
I'm wavering. I can feel it in the way my resistance is crumbling, the way this sounds too good to refuse. But life has taught me that things that sound too good usually are.
"Why would you do this? Take in a stranger?"
"Because I've been that stranger." She stops in front of the shop, turning to face me fully.
"Year ago, I rolled into town with a broken heart, a U-Haul full of vintage clothes, and this crazy idea that I could start over somewhere nobody knew my name.
" Her green eyes hold mine, understanding written in every freckle.
"First night here, I slept in my car outside this very building because I was too proud to ask for help and too broke to afford the hotel—even if Harold would've let me stay. "
"Someone helped you?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Miss Rosie—from the diner? Caught me brushing my teeth in her bathroom at six in the morning.
Instead of throwing me out, she made me breakfast and called the previous owner of this place.
Told him he'd be a fool not to rent to someone who'd clearly fight tooth and nail to make it work.
" Wendolyn's smile goes soft at the memory.
"She didn't know me from Adam, but she saw someone who needed a hand up, not a handout. That's the difference."
The distinction hits me in the chest, right where I've been holding all my fear and pride in a tight knot. A hand up, not a handout. But my mind races with all the ways this could go wrong.
What if she expects something in return?
What if there are strings attached I can't see yet?
What if I let my guard down and ? —
"I can see those wheels turning," Wendolyn says gently.
"And whatever worst-case scenario you're cooking up in there, I promise you, the reality is much more boring.
I offer you a dusty room full of romance novels and cat hair.
You accept because sleeping indoors beats the alternative.
We become friends or we don't. Life goes on. "
The bookstore's windows glow warmly against the deepening twilight, and I catch glimpses of the interior— shelves packed with books, mismatched chairs that somehow look perfect together, strings of lights creating pools of golden warmth.
It looks like every bookstore I've ever wanted to disappear into, every safe haven I've imagined but never quite found.
"The morning rush really is brutal, though," Wendolyn continues, and I realize she's giving me space to think by filling the silence.
"Soccer moms desperate for their skinny vanilla lattes, contractors who want their coffee black as their truck tires, and don't even get me started on the teenagers who think 'extra extra extra caramel' is a valid order description. "
"You weren't kidding about the pumpkin spice?" I manage, trying to match her lighter tone while my insides wage war.
"Oh honey, I've got pumpkin spice everything. Lattes, muffins, scones, cookies—I even experimented with pumpkin spice hot chocolate last week, which was either genius or sacrilege depending on who you ask." She wrinkles her nose.
I want to say yes.
Want it so badly my chest aches with it.
But wanting things has always been dangerous for me.
"What if—" I start, then stop.
What if what?
What if she's genuinely kind?
What if I'm so broken I can't recognize generosity without suspicion anymore?
"What if you just try it for tonight?" Wendolyn suggests. "No commitment, no obligations. Just a bed that's not a car seat and a door that locks from the inside. Tomorrow you can go back to being all independent and suspicious if you want."
"I'm not suspicious," I protest weakly.