CHAPTER 1 — LILY
It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years since I left Stanwood because not much has changed.
A few new shops are lining the main street downtown, but for the most part, I see the same quirky mom-and-pop stores and the same tall evergreens—firs, cedars, and spruces—peeking through the edges of town.
I roll the window down, and almost immediately, I’m welcomed by the scent of fresh pine and recent rain.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with .
. . cow manure. Gross. The stench hits me like a slap, and I gag.
I roll my window up quickly, grab the perfume from my bag, and spray it all over myself.
I’d forgotten that Stanwood consists mainly of farmland, sometimes giving the town this nasty smell.
Moving back here after a decade away feels almost surreal.
When I left home for college, I was sure I’d never return.
I was set on building a life in Portland, so after graduating with a BFA in Creative Writing, I threw myself into my dream of becoming a writer—and I did!
It’s been six years since I self-published my debut novel, and I’ve written four more.
Thankfully, they’re selling, but it’s not enough to cover all my expenses anymore. And as much as I wish I could juggle two jobs at once, I absolutely can’t. So, I’m starting to think traditional publishing is the only way I’ll be successful.
I’m working on another book that I hope to query soon, but I’m more stuck than I ever thought possible.
So here I am, moving into the cottage in my mom’s backyard, hoping that a bit of peace and quiet—and a much-needed break from endless bills—will give me the focus I need to finish the book I’ve been chipping away at for the past year.
After almost a decade of the city’s constant noise and chaos, returning to Stanwood feels weird, but good, like the weight I’ve been carrying is finally lifting.
It’s surprising because I half-expected the sight of the ‘Welcome to Stanwood’ sign to make me second-guess everything.
Maybe even trigger some dramatic U-turn moment, sending me into a hasty 180 in my trusty Subaru—because, yes, lesbian cliché—Subarus are basically in the contract.
But also, they’re ridiculously reliable and adorable, thank you very much.
My phone rings, and I glance at the screen. It’s my mom. Of course. It’s like her sixth sense knows the exact moment I cross into town.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer.
“Hey, bug! Are you almost here?” she chirps, excitement crackling through the phone.
“Yep, just about to turn onto your street now.”
“Good, good!” I can hear her clapping on the other end. “I can’t wait to see you. Drive safe!”
“I will,” I say before hanging up.
It’s been about a year since I last saw my mom at Christmas, and the thought of finally seeing her again fills me with pure joy. Everyone says their mom’s the best, but mine is. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. Thank you very much.
I pull into the driveway, and relief immediately washes over me as I cut the engine.
After hitting the road at 5 a.m., the three-and-a-half-hour drive is finally behind me.
The dark, empty roads at that hour made for an eerie—but traffic-free—drive.
With the sun finally rising over the gray sky, I’m itching to get out of the car, take in some fresh air, and stretch my legs.
Pickles—my cat—has been surprisingly patient the whole ride, but I can tell she’s reaching her limit.
The drive has tousled her soft black fur, and she is narrowing her big yellow eyes in quiet protest. If I don’t get her on solid ground soon, I know she will unleash her fury in a way only a cat can, which is bound to be pure chaos.
I scoop her up and put her in the cat carrier before stepping out of the car to see our new home.
The cottage stands before me, smaller than I remember, but it gives off a cozy feeling, like slipping into one of my favorite sweaters.
I step inside and am greeted by soft, cream-colored walls bathed in early morning sunlight, casting a warm, golden glow across the hardwood floors. Every creaky step makes me smile; it’s as if the house itself is saying, “Welcome home.”
I quickly set Pickles down, and she immediately starts to explore as I wander from room to room.
A bubbling excitement rises inside me. I can already see how I’ll arrange the small living room and the cozy reading nook I’ll create by the big window.
My bedroom will be snug, with soft linens and warm lights—the perfect place to unwind.
My office will be my creative zone, packed with books and plants—definitely lots of plants—and a big desk where I can get lost in my writing.
Hopefully, soon, because the book I’ve been working on has been on hold for far too long, and my deadlines are fast approaching.
The kitchen is small, but I can already picture myself cooking something delicious—the smell of fresh herbs and spices filling the air as I finally learn to cook. Yep, I’ll be canceling that Uber One subscription in no time.
“Hey, stranger!” a warm voice calls out behind me.
I spin around, and my heart swells when I spot my mom by the front door, smiling from ear to ear, her deep brown eyes glassy with unshed tears.
She’s holding a few boxes—my old high school keepsakes.
Of course, she still has them. She’s the queen of holding onto all my things.
Seriously, she throws nothing away. You’d think she’d want to toss a few macaroni necklaces into the compost bin, but nope!
She’s kept every single one. Honestly? It’s adorable.
Seeing her there, with that same bright smile, instantly melts away all the ache of missing her.
It’s always been just the two of us—I’m an only child, and my bio-dad disappeared the moment he found out my mom was pregnant.
So, Mom and I have always been super close—think Lorelai and Rory from Gilmore Girls.
She was devastated when I decided to go to the University of Oregon, five hours away, so I know she’s happy to have me just outside her door for a bit.
I sprint over to her and wrap her in the tightest hug I can manage.
“Hi, Mom,” I murmur, leaning into her more. Her signature perfume—a warm blend of rose and sandalwood—wraps around me, grounding me to the moment. Hugging her feels like sinking into the safest place in the world, and I can’t help but melt into her.
When we finally let go, I gently take the boxes from her hands.
“Come on in!” I say, leading her through the front door.
I set the keepsake boxes on the kitchen counter, and we move through each room together. Mom points out everything that still needs fixing—minor touch-ups to the paint, replacing carpet in a few spots, mostly cosmetic stuff.
Trees surround the cottage, hiding it deep in the backyard, far from the main house, so thickly that it’s easy to forget you’re in someone’s yard.
She used to rent this place out, but the last tenants were a total nightmare.
The kids doodled all over the walls, the entire family left trash all over her property, and they never bothered to pick up after their dog.
Poor thing had separation anxiety and would chew up the carpet whenever he was left alone, which was every day, since the kids were at school and his owners worked on-site jobs.
Somehow, I convinced my mom to tell them they had to go. She’s been chipping away at repairs for a few months, slowly making it livable again.
After showing me around, Mom and I head back to the U-Haul to unload. The afternoon slips away in a blur of boxes and packing paper.
“Did you hit much traffic?” Mom asks as she unwraps my collection of spatulas, all resembling a veggie or fruit—carrot, celery, rhubarb, etc. She laughs, clearly amused by my eclectic taste in utensils.
“Not really. Just a few slow patches in the last hour, but nothing too bad,” I reply, trying to figure out how to build the bookshelves I refused to toss, even though I lost the assembly instructions years ago.
“How about you? How’s the garden?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Mom has the greenest thumbs I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, it’s thriving! I’ve got carrots coming out of my ears.” She chuckles. “You know I always plant too many.”
I laugh, picturing her buried under a mountain of carrots.
“Are you planning to see the girls soon?”
“We haven’t made any plans yet, but I’m sure I’ll see them soon,” I say, as I try to fit two pieces of the bookshelf together, but they stubbornly refuse to cooperate.
“Great!” Mom says brightly. “Just let me know before you do. I’ll give you some carrots to share with them. I’m sure they’ll love them!”
When mom mentions “the girls,” she’s referring to Valeria, Alejandra, and Clara—my best friends since middle school.
We were the only Latinas in our town, so we stuck together and never let go.
Even after graduating from high school and going off to different colleges, the four of us have stayed incredibly close.
There used to be a fifth member in our group, someone I’ve known since pre-K—Isabella.
But things with her took a different turn.
The summer before our first semester of college, everything went downhill.
She was my closest friend, but that’s no longer the case.
Thankfully, Mom didn’t push for details at the time—one of the many things I love about her.
When she heard about my falling out with Isabella, she didn’t press for answers or try to make me talk before I was ready.
Even after all these years, she still doesn’t know what happened between Isabella and me, but let’s be honest: Do moms ever truly know the whole story behind their kid’s first heartbreak?
As twilight sets in, Mom decides she’s done enough unpacking for the day. “I’ll let you get some rest. We can finish unpacking tomorrow,” she says.