21. Chapter 21
Caitlin
I sing along with my radio as I drive through Cedar City, cataloging the changes as I do.
It’s become a hobby of mine since I returned.
I know it’s foolish to expect nothing would have changed in the ten years I was gone but the scale of the changes still shocks me, new boutiques catering to tourists replacing the family-owned businesses that used to line the main streets, Rachel’s yoga studio and small wellness store where the old hardware store used to be, and three, count them, three, new restaurants with sleek minimalist signage and patio seating.
Each time I drive through, something else has changed, some other piece of my childhood replaced by something shinier, trendier, more Instagram-worthy.
Progress, they call it. I call it a pain in my ass.
Cedar City itself has transformed from the sleepy farming town of my youth into something else entirely — a destination.
The tourist board calls it “Portland’s Charming Country Cousin,” which makes me want to gag every time I see it on a billboard.
But it’s not wrong. We’re just close enough to Portland (forty minutes on a good traffic day) to make us an easy day trip, but far enough away to feel like an escape.
The Midsummer Festival started it all about a decade ago, three days of local music, craft booths, and food trucks that somehow caught the attention of a travel blogger with a massive following.
The following year, attendance tripled. The year after that, the first boutique hotel broke ground.
Now we have five hotels, seven bed and breakfasts, and more Airbnbs than anyone can count.
Add in our proximity to Molalla River State Park with its hiking trails and opportunities for fishing and boating, and suddenly Cedar City was on the map.
Good for the town, I suppose. Bad for Louise’s Table.
My family’s restaurant sits on the corner of Main and 7th, where it’s been since my grandparents opened it in 1968.
The sign still features the same looping script spelling out “Louise’s Table” with a hand-painted cup of coffee sending up curls of steam.
Inside my family has updated the interior a few times, but it still looks old-fashioned and slightly shabby.
For decades, Louise’s Table was the heart of Cedar City. Farmers came for breakfast, office workers filled the booths at lunch, and families gathered for dinner and a slice of my grandmother’s famous pie. But now? Now we’re lucky if half the tables are filled at peak hours.
It’s not that the food is bad; it’s not.
It’s home cooking at its finest. But the tourists flocking to Cedar City don’t seem to want meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
They want artisanal cocktails. They want exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs, not checkered tablecloths and photos of local high school sports teams on the walls.
We’ve tried to adapt. Since I’ve been back, I convinced Uncle Peter to let me update some of the menu, adding several new vegetarian options, some fancy salads, and some new breakfast items. It hasn’t been enough.
The tourists still flock to places like Timber it’s staff, too.
We lost another server this week. She’s going to work at one of the new places downtown where the clientele doesn’t consist primarily of retirees on fixed incomes who think 10% is a generous tip.
I can’t even blame her. If I weren’t family, I’d probably be looking elsewhere too.
This morning, Uncle Peter sat at the counter after the breakfast rush, going over the books with a frown etched so deep into his forehead I wondered if it might be permanent.
“We’re down twenty percent from this time last year,” he said, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. “And last year was down from the year before.”
I’d squeezed his shoulder, not knowing what else to do. “We’ll figure it out.”
But standing in the kitchen later, watching him methodically prep veggies for the soup of the day with the same knife he’s used for thirty years, I wondered if we would.
Uncle Peter is the most reliable, steadfast person I know, but even rocks erode with enough pressure.
I catch him sometimes, staring into space with a weariness that scares me.
He’s carried this place since Grandma died, and I worry it’s becoming too heavy for him.
I ran from Iowa to escape one set of problems, only to land in the middle of another. But at least here, I’m surrounded by people who actually give a damn about me, who see me as more than an inconvenient obstacle to their plans.
I pull into the small lot behind Louise’s Table, parking next to Uncle Peter’s faded blue pickup.
There’s a familiar comfort in the routine of grabbing my apron from the hook by the back door, tying it around my waist as I walk into the warm kitchen that smells of simmering soup and fresh-baked bread.
Rachel will be by later to help with the dinner rush, if you can call it a “rush” these days.
It’s not perfect, this life I’m rebuilding. The restaurant is struggling, my grandma’s house needs more work than we’d expected, and my heart still aches when I let myself think of Adam. But it’s mine. I chose it. And that makes all the difference.
“There you are,” Uncle Peter calls from the stove, his beard lifting slightly with his smile. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”
“Not lost,” I say, washing my hands at the sink. “Just thinking.”
He nods, understanding in his eyes. “Thinking is good. Doing is better. These potatoes won’t peel themselves.”
I grab a peeler and get to work. One potato at a time. One day at a time. That’s how we’ll save this place. That’s how I’ll save myself.
* * *
I’m pretty sure downward dog is supposed to be a restorative pose, but just a few minutes in and my arms are trembling, sweat dripping down onto my mat.
Rachel glides between the rows of students like some kind of bendy forest nymph, all grace and serene smiles.
“Breathe into the discomfort,” she tells us in her soothing instructor voice, sounding nothing like the cousin who once convinced me to ride my tricycle down her parents’ basement stairs.
“Your body is speaking to you. Listen to what it’s saying.
” Right now, my body is saying some pretty colorful words that would definitely violate the zen atmosphere of Healing Hands Yoga & Wellness.
I collapse into child’s pose, ignoring Rachel’s pointed look.
My cousin opened this studio, and the small attached shop three years ago after deciding that she didn’t want to work at the restaurant for the rest of her life.
The space used to be an old hardware store, but now it’s all bamboo floors and diffused lighting, with those Himalayan salt lamps that Rachel swears purify the air but I’m pretty sure just make everything look orange.
“Now flow into warrior two,” Rachel instructs, demonstrating the pose with an ease that makes me want to throw my water bottle at her.
I struggle into position, trying to keep my front knee from wobbling.
Two mats over, a guy with auburn hair and shoulders that suggest he does more than just yoga for exercise transitions smoothly, his form perfect. Show-off.
By the time we finally reach savasana, the “corpse pose” that basically means lying flat on your back and trying not to fall asleep, I’m a puddle of sweat and aching muscles.
I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind the way Rachel is always telling me to.
But instead of peaceful emptiness, my thoughts immediately drift to Adam.
Is he with Millie now? I’m certain he is.
Is he happy? Does he regret his choices, or is he relieved to have me out of the way?
“Gently wiggle your fingers and toes,” Rachel’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Bring your awareness back to your body, to this room, to this moment.”
This moment. Right. Not the past. Not Adam. This moment, where I’m lying on a purple yoga mat in my cousin’s studio, trying to rebuild my life one downward dog at a time.
After class, I’m rolling up my mat when Rachel appears at my side with the show-off in tow. Up close, he’s even more attractive, with green eyes, just enough stubble to look intentional rather than lazy, and a friendly smile.
“Caitlin, this is Daniel,” Rachel says, her voice dripping with that fake casualness that screams, ‘I’m setting you up.’ “Daniel, my cousin Caitlin.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand that’s warm and dry despite the intensity of the class. “Rachel’s told me a lot about you.”
I shoot a glare at my cousin, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating. “Has she now? All lies, I assure you.”
He laughs, a nice sound, relaxed and genuine. “She mentioned you’re working at Louise’s Table. I love that restaurant. My dad used to take me there for breakfast every Sunday after my mom died. Their blueberry pancakes got me through some rough times.”
Something in my chest softens a little. “That’s… really nice to hear, actually. We’re trying to keep it going, but it’s been tough with all the new restaurants in town.”
“Those places are all style, not substance,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Give me real food over whatever they’re serving any day.”
Rachel, never one for subtlety, backs away slowly. “I’m just going to… check on… something. In the back. Take your time.” She disappears before I can grab her and make her stay.
“So,” Daniel says, apparently unfazed by Rachel’s obvious matchmaking, “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or really any meal. I’m not picky.”
His smile is warm and open, with no hidden agenda I can detect. He seems genuinely nice. The kind of guy I might have been excited about meeting in another life, before Adam, before Iowa, before my heart got stomped on and handed back to me in pieces.
“I, um,” I stammer, buying time. Part of me wants to say yes immediately. It’s been months since Adam, and Daniel is standing here being charming and seemingly normal. But another part of me, the part that still wakes up reaching for someone who isn’t there, hesitates.
“Or not,” he adds quickly, reading my hesitation. “No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.”
“No, it’s not—” I sigh, deciding honesty is the best approach. “I’m kind of in a weird place right now. Just got out of something… complicated.”
He nods, understanding crossing his features. “Say no more. Been there.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “How about I give you my number, and if you decide you’d like that coffee, you can text me? Balls in your court, no expectations.”
It’s such a reasonable offer that I nod. He hands me his phone. I put in my number, and he sends me a quick text so I have his. The entire exchange takes less than a minute, but it feels like a much bigger step than it probably is.
“Great,” he says, tucking his phone away. “Hope to hear from you. And if not, I’ll see you next Sunday for more torture?” He gestures to the yoga studio with a grin.
“I’ll be the one falling out of tree pose,” I confirm, returning his smile.
After he leaves, Rachel materializes as if she’d been waiting just around the corner. Which she probably was.
“Well?” she demands, bouncing on her toes. “He’s cute, right? And nice. And single. And he has all his own teeth, which shouldn’t be a selling point but sadly is in the dating pool these days.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Rachel, he seems great. Thanks for the ambush.”
“It wasn’t an ambush! It was an… opportunity.” She loops her arm through mine as we head toward the back office. “Did you get his number? Are you going to call him?”
“He gave me his number. Said the ball’s in my court.” I shrug, trying to seem more casual than I feel. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Rachel’s expression softens. “You deserve to move on, you know, Caitlin. Adam almost certainly has.”
“I know. It’s just…” I sink into the chair in her tiny office, dropping my head into my hands. “I keep wanting to check on Adam. I’ve blocked them all on social media, but every day I fight the urge to unblock them just to see what he’s doing. If he’s with Millie now.”
“And if he is?” Rachel asks gently.
“Then I’ll know I was right,” I say, the words bitter in my mouth. “That I was just a placeholder until he could be with who his family really wanted him to be with.”
Rachel crouches in front of me, taking my hands in hers. “Or maybe you’ll see he’s miserable without you. And then what? Would you go back? After everything?”
I shake my head. “No. I’d have to return to Mount Pella, and I’ll never live there again.” I straighten up, pushing away the thoughts of Adam. “Besides, it wouldn’t erase everything he did.”
“So then maybe go out with Daniel,” Rachel prods, never one to let a subject drop. “Just a coffee date. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I stand, gathering my mat and water bottle. “I’ll think about it, okay? No promises.”
As I leave the studio, the weight of my phone in my pocket feels suddenly significant. Daniel’s number is in there now. A possibility. A potential future that has nothing to do with Adam Kelley or Iowa or the mess I left behind.
Maybe Rachel’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop looking back.
But as I drive home, my fingers still itch to unlock my phone, open Instagram, and type in the name I’ve been trying so hard to forget.