3. Yearning For A Home #2
"Course not. You're just carefully evaluating the tactical disadvantages of accepting help from a strange woman in a cherry-print dress." Her tone is teasing but kind. "Which, honestly, fair. I could be a serial killer who lures victims with vintage fashion and caffeine addiction."
Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch.
"That would be a very specific M.O."
"Right? CSI would have a field day." She grows serious again, and her voice drops to something softer.
"Look, I know trust doesn't come easy. Whatever sent you running to—or from—Sweetwater Falls with everything you own in one bag, I'm guessing it wasn't pretty.
But sometime, somehow, you're going to have to decide if you'll let anyone in again.
Might as well be someone with excellent taste in shoes and a truly embarrassing collection of romance novels. "
The fight goes out of me all at once, like air from a punctured tire.
I'm so tired— of running, of fighting, of pretending I don't need what everyone else takes for granted. And this woman with her victory rolls and her easy kindness is offering me something I desperately need without making me beg for it.
"Just for tonight," I say, the words feeling like surrender and relief all at once.
"Just for tonight," she agrees, but her smile suggests she knows better. "Come on, let's get you settled before Fitzgerald decides you're an intruder and goes into full attack mode. Fair warning—his version of attack is aggressive leg-rubbing until you pet him."
As she unlocks the bookstore door, I catch her scent again—sweet peas and vanilla, mixed with coffee and something indefinable that might just be hope.
For the first time since my car died, since Harold threw me out, since I left everything behind, I feel something loosen in my chest.
Maybe it's not weakness to accept help.
Or maybe it's its own kind of strength, recognizing when you've hit your limits and letting someone offer you a hand up instead of drowning in your own pride.
"Thank you," I whisper, and mean it more than two words should be able to convey.
"That's what rebels do," Wendolyn says simply, holding the door open for me. "We look out for each other."
"I can't keep anything alive," I admit, gesturing at the flowers. "Even houseplants take one look at me and give up."
"That's what everyone says until they find the right plant." Wendolyn climbs the porch steps, wood creaking a welcome under her heels. "It's all about matching the plant to the person. High-maintenance people need low-maintenance plants, and vice versa. We'll find you something indestructible."
The door chimes when she opens it, a proper bell sound that rings through my bones.
The scent hits me immediately—coffee and paper and vanilla and something indefinable that speaks of stories waiting to be discovered. My eyes need a moment to adjust from twilight to the warm interior lighting, and when they do, my breath catches.
It's everything a bookstore should be and rarely is.
The cafe takes up the right side, all warm wood and mismatched chairs that somehow create perfect harmony. The coffee bar gleams with copper and brass, an espresso machine that looks both vintage and well-maintained holding court.
Chalkboard menus in swooping handwriting advertise drinks I've never heard of alongside classics. Tiny tables tucked into corners promise intimate conversations over steaming mugs.
The left side belongs to the books, and they own it completely.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves create a maze of literary possibilities, with hand-painted signs marking genres in the same swooping script as the menu.
"Romance (Swoony)" and "Mystery (Murdery)" and "Self-Help (But Make It Fun)." Overstuffed armchairs lurk in corners like friendly trolls, each with its own reading lamp and side table. Persian rugs in jewel tones overlap on the worn wooden floors, creating islands of color and comfort.
But it's the feeling that gets me— immediate and overwhelming.
Safety.
Welcome.
Home.
Words I've trained myself not to think, but they flood through me anyway. This place doesn't care that I'm unmated, that I'm running, that I own nothing but what fits in a duffel bag.
It just exists, warm and inviting and utterly without judgment.
A place I can get used to…even for a little bit.
"Oh," I breathe, and it's inadequate but all I have.
"Right?" Wendolyn watches my face with satisfaction. "I had the same reaction when I first walked in. Like finding a piece of yourself you didn't know was missing."
String lights crisscross the ceiling, creating a canopy of stars that makes the whole space feel intimate despite its size.
Plants hang from macrame holders, trailing green in defiance of my black thumb.
A fireplace I hadn't noticed from outside crackles in the far corner, surrounded by yet more chairs and a couch that looks like it eats people in the best way.
For one blessed moment, my worries fade to background noise. The weight of my broken car, my empty wallet, my uncertain future—it all still exists, but muted under the bookstore's spell.
I'm just a woman standing in a magical place, breathing in stories and possibilities, feeling something unknot in my chest that's been twisted for so long I'd forgotten it wasn't supposed to hurt.
"Welcome to Wildflower & Wren," Wendolyn says softly. "She's not much, but she's home."
Home.
The word reverberates through me like a struck bell, beautiful and painful all at once.
I've been running so long I'd forgotten places like this exist— spaces that embrace rather than evaluate, that offer instead of demand.
"She’s perfect," I whisper, meaning it down to my bones.