Chapter Thirty-Four
Drew
Morning hit bright and sharp, all diamond light and too much purity for a town full of caffeine addicts.
Snow buried everything—railings, signs, the gazebo bow that had given up on dignity two storms ago.
The trees along Main looked like sugar sculptures from a bakery that didn’t know when to stop.
I hadn’t seen Reckless River this snow-drunk in years.
The community center yawned itself awake—stretching, groaning, the collective sound of a hundred people rediscovering their spines. Cots creaked. Boots thudded. Someone’s dog sneezed, wagged like it had summoned the sun, and earned a round of applause.
Then the generator gave its morning cough and sputtered into a low, heroic hum.
“Morning, blizzard survivors!” Riley marched down the center aisle with two coffee pots held aloft like Olympic torches. “Choose your fighter: medium roast, or the one strong enough to make your regrets feel like distant memories.”
Applause again. This town clapped for caffeine like it was a religion.
I stretched out of a half-sleep that had involved one chair, three folded quilts, and a vendetta against my lower back. A few joints protested, but the promise of breakfast fixed most things.
Callum had turned one corner of the gym into a makeshift diner—two griddles, a borrowed hot plate, and enough mixing bowls to stage a pancake uprising.
We’d scraped together the ingredients from across town: mix from the pantry, eggs from neighbors, milk rationed like gold, and a suspicious stash of bacon that appeared from Lydia’s bag like a state secret.
“Bluebird day,” Callum said, his voice annoyingly cheerful for a man who hadn’t slept. “Hear that?”
The sound of a plow grinding down Main filtered in—slow, steady, the metallic sound of a town earning its sunrise.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Music to my frostbitten ears.”
He shoulder-checked me. “That’s the sound of hope.”
“It’s the sound of overtime,” I muttered, ladling batter onto the griddle. The smell of butter and browning sugar rose instantly—sweet, warm, domestic. Dangerous.
“Don’t ruin it with realism,” my brother said. “How many we feeding?”
“Everyone who’s upright,” I said. “Plus the road crew, if you want to bribe them.”
“We do.” I grinned.
Riley appeared out of nowhere, pouring coffee like she was dealing blackjack. “Two for the griddle gods,” she said, handing us each a steaming cup, “and one for our local noir hero, still pretending heartbreak is a fashion statement.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re sepia,” she said, “and sepia men don’t get the good syrup.”
Lydia swept in next, clipboard in hand, hat slightly crooked. She’d traded last night’s adrenaline for boss energy and was currently leading the charge like a Christmas general.
“Five minutes to service,” she said. “Mel’s got trays, the McCafferty boys are on syrup, and yes, the syrup’s warmed. This isn’t anarchy.”
Callum saluted her with a spatula. “Yes, ma’am.”
I flipped pancakes, the rhythm steady: pour, wait, flip, stack. The smell of cinnamon and sugar coated the air. For the first time since last night, people smiled for no reason. Coffee and carbs—better than therapy.
And every time I looked up, I found her.
Melanie moved through the crowd like she’d always belonged to this kind of morning—hat low, scarf loose, cheeks pink from cold and exhaustion.
She was laughing with a group of kids negotiating for extra bacon like they were brokering peace.
She handed napkins to Mrs. Crowley, squeezed her shoulder until she smiled.
She accepted coffee from Riley, sniffed it, and said, “Which roast is least emotionally manipulative?”
Riley shot back, “Neither. I run a judgment-free zone,” and they both grinned.
I caught myself grinning, too. Couldn’t help it.
“You’re smiling,” Callum said, flipping bacon.
“I’m flipping pancakes.”
“You’re praying.”
“Same motion,” I said, and he chuckled.
Outside, the plow passed again, sunlight flashing off its blade. Reckless River gleamed like it had decided to audition for a snow globe.
“We’re almost out of batter,” I said, peering into the bowl.
Lydia drifted past and dropped a bag of chocolate chips on the table like Santa’s chaotic niece. “Festive,” she said, and disappeared into the crowd.
I threw a handful into the next round. “For morale.”
Callum smirked. “Make ’em pretty. You’ve got an audience.”
“Who—?” I started, and then saw her.
Melanie.
She was weaving her way toward us with a tray balanced on her hand and that half-smile that lived somewhere between exasperation and invitation. The snowlight caught in her hair like it remembered how to flirt.
I straightened, completely forgetting how spatulas worked.
“Morning,” she said, setting her tray down beside me.
“Hey,” I managed. “You, uh, surviving?”
“Barely,” she said. “Riley cut me off after three hot chocolates. Apparently that’s the ‘legal limit for Christmas cheer.’”
“Rookie move,” I said. “She didn’t see you before caffeine.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, she saw me. I think she’s filing a report.”
“Occupational hazard.” I flipped a pancake, slid it onto a plate, and handed it over. “Here. Chef’s special.”
“What’s in it?”
“Mostly hope. Some batter.”
She took the plate, but not before brushing my fingers with hers—accidentally, allegedly. “You should market that. Hopecakes. Very on brand for this town.”
“I’ll trademark it,” I said. “Fifty percent goes to the cocoa fund.”
“Generous,” she said, laughing softly. It sounded like relief disguised as banter.
For a second, I let myself imagine this morning as permanent—her teasing me while I burned breakfast, Lydia running logistics, Callum pretending not to notice. A life that didn’t need rebuilding because it already fit.
And then fate, punctual as ever, decided to mess with me.
Janey.
Of course it was Janey. Standing three steps behind Melanie, holding two paper cups and smiling like nostalgia that didn’t know when to leave.
The air went weird. The back of my neck prickled. My hands remembered guilt before my brain caught up.
“Breakfast line starts by the stage, Sawyer!” Callum called helpfully without looking up.
Melanie turned slightly, voice level. “It’s okay.”
The calm in her tone shut down every sound in the room for a heartbeat. She looked back at me, eyes clear, unreadable.
Then she said, perfectly steady, “I told Janey I’m your girlfriend and she has a house to rent. I’m the new renter.”
For a beat, my brain just… rebooted.
Janey grinned. “I congratulated her on taming the beast.”
Melanie tilted her head, that sly glint returning. “You are tameable, right?”
I blinked, spatula dangling uselessly. “Depends who’s asking.”
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn’t mind my past brushing shoulders with my future. Not when the future was looking at me like that with a steady, amused, and a little smug expression for saving us both.
Callum flipped bacon behind me, muttering, “Guess I’ll put out a Congratulations on Surviving Emotional Winter card.”
Melanie grinned and reached for a pancake. “I’ll sign it first.”