Chapter 2 #2
I opened my mouth to tell Cara—felt the words rise, press against my teeth, ready to spill out now that they were finally acknowledged even inside my own head.
He wasn’t just someone I dated. He was someone who mattered.
He was someone who hurt me. But the explanation snagged somewhere in my chest, tangled up with everything I’d never said out loud.
Because telling her wouldn’t just mean admitting who Graham was to me.
It would mean admitting who I’d been with him.
The version of myself that learned to speak more quietly.
To want less. To stop talking about food like it mattered, like it could be a future, instead of a hobby that took up too much space.
He hadn’t told me outright to shrink—but somehow, over time, my ambition dulled, my joy in cooking dimmed, until I almost believed it had been silly to dream in the first place.
Saying his name out loud felt like handing over that version of myself too, the one who’d let someone take something she loved and convince her it was indulgent, unnecessary, embarrassing.
I closed my mouth instead. Some things still felt too raw to give away.
Like if I said it out loud, I’d have to admit how deeply he’d gotten in—and how hard I’d worked to build myself back without anyone watching.
The words didn’t come. It felt too pathetic—like admitting I’d let someone take away the part of me that once defined me. They knew I’d gone through a breakup, just not with whom.
Memories flashed through my mind. How he used to call me “kiddo” in public and “unambitious” in private. How he’d sampled every meal I made with a smug smirk and a comment like, “Not bad. But not ready for prime time.”
He was the reason I stopped cooking. I’d loved it once.
I had dreams of opening my own place, or maybe writing a cookbook, or starting a YouTube cooking channel.
I wanted to create dishes that made people feel something nostalgic, or homey, or comforting.
But after Graham, the kitchen became another place where I got things wrong.
I was the sous chef to his head chef. His employee.
His protégé. His hero-worshipping ex-girlfriend.
His dirty little secret. No one knew what truly happened between us when I worked for him.
That was the way he wanted it. And I had agreed to everything—the secrets, the sneaking around, the lies.
He was older—in every way that mattered: age, experience, status.
At first, he made me feel seen, but it quickly turned into making me feel small.
I knew he was from Honeybrook Hollow, but I foolishly never put the pieces together and realized he was the same age as Cara and Lucy. God, I was so stupid, of course they knew him.
“He’s coming back to town?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “To stay?”
Cara nodded. “Yeah, and apparently the food’s going to be amazing. He trained in Paris or something.” I knew he did. He talked about it all the time. I couldn’t even count on both hands all the times he’d start a sentence with “When I was in Paris…” Ugh.
“Yeah, I mean, yeah,” I mumbled, for lack of something better to say. “That’s great.”
“And just saying, Nate won’t be the only possibility in town anymore. Like, finding someone to date in a small town can be a real problem sometimes.” She gestured to herself with a thumb. “Exhibit A, am I right? I say go for it, keep your options open.”
“Absolutely not.” The words came out too fast, too sharp.
Cara blinked at me.
I tried to backpedal. “I mean—he’s not my type.” Which was technically true. I didn’t date men who once told me I was too emotional about crème br?lée anymore.
“Okay. I’ll quit trying to fix you up,” she said as she studied my face. “Maybe you’re not ready to get back out there. Do you want to talk about your breakup? It’s been over a year. It might help to get it out, you know, talk it through. Keeping things bottled up inside is never a good idea—”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” I swallowed hard. “I’m gonna go feed the espresso machine before it goes on strike.”
Cara blinked. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I grabbed a bag of beans and got to work. “Totally fine.”
Eventually, she left with a hug and a promise to text me later, and I closed up the Coffee Cabin by myself. The last car in the drive-thru had ordered two mochas—one decaf, one full throttle—and a dozen cake pops—typical Thursday.
By the time I was ready to close up, the sky had turned lavender-gray, and the lights of my grandparents’ inn, The Honeybrook—named after the town, of course—twinkled across the parking lot.
Every time I visited here as a kid, I cried when it was time to go home.
I would have given anything to stay with my grandparents instead of my father, who was more focused on networking events than being a parent, and my mother, who treated my emotions like mildly inconvenient side effects to having a daughter.
After shutting off the espresso machine, I finished cleaning up silently, letting the hum of the refrigerator fill the empty shop.
The place always felt different after closing—quieter, lonelier, but it also felt safe in a way that made me linger.
I counted the cash drawer twice, just to distract myself, then slipped into my jacket and braved the cold.
My old Volkswagen Beetle wheezed to life like a tired asthmatic bumblebee, but it got me home. My townhouse wasn’t much—small, a little drafty, mildly run down—but it was mine, and that was all that mattered to me.
My stomach twisted into knots as I drove.
I hadn’t seen Graham since the day I walked out of his downtown Portland condo and left behind the last recipe I ever created.
He used to say I had a “natural touch” in the kitchen, that my food “tasted like memories.” But then he’d follow it with a sneer or a backhanded compliment. By the end, I couldn’t tell whether he hated my cooking or just hated that I loved something besides him.
Either way, I stopped cooking. It didn’t feel good anymore. I packed up my knives, trashed my journals full of handwritten recipes, and came here. I hadn’t cooked a real meal since. Not like I used to
The last straw with him hadn’t been big.
It hadn’t been dramatic. It had been a dinner party, the kind Graham loved—linen napkins, too-expensive wine, people who laughed easily at his stories.
I’d cooked, spending the afternoon on a dish that was warm and familiar, that reminded me of my family—chicken pot pie that my grandma had taught me to make.
People complimented it. Asked questions.
Someone even said, “You should definitely do this for a living.” I’d felt something bloom in my chest then—small but hopeful. Pride. Possibility.
Graham had smiled and draped an arm around my shoulders.
“She keeps things pretty simple,” he’d said easily, like he was translating for the room.
“Comfort food. Nothing too ambitious.” A few people nodded, laughing awkwardly.
I laughed with them, because that’s what you do when the person you’re with decides the meaning of the moment.
Later, when I told him it had hurt, he had sighed and said I was reading too much into it.
That he’d only been setting expectations, and that was when I understood it wasn’t accidental.
He didn’t just hurt my pride—he sanded it down.
And standing alone in the kitchen afterward, staring at plates scraped clean of the food I’d made, I realized I’d been shrinking for a long time.
Ending it wasn’t dramatic. It was necessary.
It was the only way to stop letting someone else decide how much of me was allowed to matter.
And now he was back. In my town. About to open his restaurant. Only it was his town too, damn it. I knew that. But he swore he hated small-town life and would never leave Portland.
Was he doing this to spite me? Because I left him? Or was I being conceited even thinking this had anything to do with me at all? I’d lost all perspective when I left him.
I pulled into the cracked parking spot behind my townhouse, headlights briefly illuminating the peeling paint on the back steps.
The engine sputtered as I turned it off, leaving a silence that felt too loud.
For a moment, I sat there, my hands resting on the wheel, watching my breath fog the inside glass while doubts crowded in.
When I finally stepped out, the cold bit through my jacket, and the door creaked shut behind me, echoing my mood.
I lingered on the stoop, brooding under the weak porch light, thinking about everything I’d left behind and everything that might happen now that Graham was coming to Honeybrook Hollow.
Waiting for me inside were Remy and Linguine, my two cats who managed to fill the townhouse with more personality than most people I knew.
Remy, the older of the pair, was a sleek tortoiseshell with a penchant for curling up in the warmest patch of sunlight he could find.
Linguine, on the other hand, was an energetic orange tabby whose mischievous green eyes always seemed to be plotting his next playful ambush.
Together, they greeted me with impatient meows and winding tails, their companionship a constant comfort at the end of every long day.
I fed them, changed into sweats, and sank into the couch with a fuzzy blanket and the book Cara had brought me. I didn’t open it. I just sat there, trying not to think about anything.
My phone rang on the coffee table.
I expected Cara’s name.
I did not expect to see Graham’s.
I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. Then it lit up again.
When my phone lit up with his name, my heart stuttered like it had missed a step.
Not longing—never that—but something older, a reflex I hadn’t managed to unlearn.
My stomach tightened, breath going shallow, as if my body remembered him better than my mind wanted to.
I stared at the screen, irritated at myself for the way my pulse jumped, for how a single name could still pull me out of the present.
A flicker of unease, the quiet shame of realizing some doors don’t close cleanly, no matter how hard you shut them.
It was almost funny how one person could pull me out of my cozy, quiet Coffee Cabin bubble and drag me back into a storm I thought I’d moved on from.
I hesitated, thumb wavering, as old arguments and apologies popped up in my head.
Part of me wanted to ignore it, let the ring fade into silence, but curiosity—and maybe a stubborn piece of hope—won out.
Not hope for getting back with him, because hell no.
Hope that he would recognize how he treated me and feel sorry for it. Maybe I needed some kind of closure.
This time, I answered, wishing I had blocked his number and wondering for a moment why I hadn’t, before realizing it was my stupid sense of optimism hanging on, waiting for the apology that would never come.
“Hello?” I said, already regretting it.
“Eliza,” he said, voice smooth and warm. “Hey. I was hoping we could talk.”
My stomach tightened. “You’re calling me… why?”
“I’m in town. Opening a new place across from the library. I figured you’d hear eventually.” His voice softened like he thought I’d be flattered. “I thought we could catch up.”
“Graham, we haven’t talked in over a year.”
“Exactly. That’s why we should. I’ve changed. Things are different now.”
I stared at the blank TV screen. “You mean you’re charming, ruthless, and ambitious in a new ZIP code?”
He laughed, like I’d just told the best joke. “Still sharp, kiddo. I missed that.”
I didn’t reply. I never lost my sarcastic edge with him. But even though I was mouthy about it, I had always ended up giving in to whatever he wanted. Honestly, I think he kind of liked it. He must have thought of me as a challenge he could defeat over and over.
“I’ll stop by for coffee tomorrow,” he said lightly, like it was a casual idea and not a threat to my peace. “It’ll be good to see you. You look great, by the way—your picture’s up on The Honeybrook Inn’s website. You’re running the Coffee Cabin? That’s so you—cute.”
I hung up without saying goodbye. Cute. Most people would have taken that like a compliment, but after being with him, I knew he was belittling me. Damn it, I should have known better than to answer.
I turned off my ringer, buried my face in the blanket, and tried not to spiral.
Graham was back in Honeybrook Hollow. He was a big deal in Portland with a string of successful restaurants.
But his family still lived here, and his mother was constantly asking him to come back.
He had been the quarterback of Honeybrook Hollow High School’s football team, student body president, and captain of the debate team. People here loved him. They always had.
His return to town wasn't what I needed; it was just one more reason to feel like an outsider. He’d be the big man in town, and I’d be—whatever the opposite of that was.
I’d never told anyone the full story about why I left Portland.
About how I had become an emotional contortionist to stay on his good side.
How charming he was in public and how small he made me feel in private.
I couldn’t tell anyone about him because I was afraid no one would believe me.
And who would believe me now if he came back here to play the hometown hero?
My family probably would, but then it would be us against the town, and I didn’t want to put anyone in an awkward situation.
Who was I, anyway? The grumpy, smartass barista at the Coffee Cabin, that’s who.
Before I could fall any deeper into the emotional hole I was digging, my phone buzzed again. I checked it.
Nate: Hey. Hope you’re warm and curled up with a book or something good on TV. Tilly says hi and wants me to tell you that Waffles and Lois miss you.
I stared at the screen, heart squeezing.
Then I typed:
Me: Tell them I miss them, too. And the Pre-K Princess who brings them everywhere.
Nate replied almost instantly:
Nate: She’s currently asleep under three blankets, holding Waffles like a teddy bear. She wants to bring you a sticker tomorrow after school.
I set my phone down and let Remy crawl onto my lap. Linguine curled up on the arm of the couch like he didn’t care, but his purr was louder than the heat rattling from the vents.
For the first time in hours, I felt a little lighter.
Graham might be moving back to Honeybrook Hollow.
But I was here too, and I had just as much right to this town as he did.
I had family here, and friends, and I would absolutely be okay.