Chapter 12
TWELVE
AMELIA
My last day in Smoky Heights is a beautiful one.
It’s like the universe knew I deserved a pretty sendoff from this place that brought me the brightest few weeks of my travels and it pulled some strings.
The skies turned from grays to light blues, the birds are out, and I would say spring is fully, finally here. The last vestiges of cold weather have disappeared and this early May day is straight out of a travel guide.
Vibrant yellow and orange blooms in the grass, white and pink blooms on the trees, and a mild breeze that feels comfortable instead of chilly for once.
I spent the earlier part of the afternoon working from Foamy Heights in my favorite nook in the front corner to hide away in while I fall into the programming language I sometimes seem to know better than English.
But before the day is over, I wanted to wish this place farewell. I’ve strolled through downtown, stopping into several of the newly opened stores (several of which I even helped paint, which feels like a special kind of accomplishment now that I see how cute they’ve all become), and tried to get my fill of this place.
The one and two-story brick buildings that line either side of Main Street have a kind of character that comes with time, tradition, and heart. Plate glass window fronts with seasonal displays. Spring flowers on the table and stuffed bunnies in the chairs of the dining set in the window of the antique shop. Fake hands with pastel nails on show in the window of Mane on Main, the combo hair and nail salon where Gracie works. A springtime special, apricot Danish, available for a limited time in the bakery display at Foamy Heights. I treated myself to one this morning, a small splurge, and nearly groaned when I took a bite.
Even the post office has a stuffed bunny on the counter, dressed as a mail carrier, a basket of floral stamps in hand.
I hand over the postcard to the postal worker and it takes my fingers just a second to let it go. The postcards (already chosen at random) never get sent until I leave town, another precaution, in case Randall ever learns to read postmarks after watching a string of spy movies or something.
My fingers seem to know I don’t really want to leave, and they hang on for a beat too long. Even if it’s what I know I have to do. Keep moving. Stay safe. Don’t let my past catch up with me.
It doesn’t mean that being here this past month, making friends —first with Weston (my stomach flutters), then with Lexi and her friend Gracie, and even to an extent Wyatt and Rory—didn’t warm a part of my frozen soul that I didn’t think could ever be thawed.
I force my fingers to let go of the postcard and force myself to let go of the idea of staying here any longer. It’s time to go wherever the wind might want to take me next. And who knows? Maybe I can come back, break my own rule and visit this place for a second time? Maybe see those fireflies after all?
The man behind the counter smiles at me as he takes the memento for my mom fully from my grip, eyes kind as he nods and wishes me a good afternoon. I think he actually means it.
That first night, when Weston stopped to help me, I thought he was a fluke. Either a serial killer, or a fluke to be so nice. But spending almost four whole weeks here, I see it now. This town is full of nice people. It wasn’t just that first day I walked through town either. Every time I’m out and about, strangers smile, say hi, introduce themselves, welcome me here, and maybe press me for a bit of harmless gossip about my stay.
I bid the graying Black man with the kind eyes at the post office farewell and head back out again, coming out at the far end of Main, giving myself the chance to walk back down the entire strip of downtown for a final time.
Turning left out of the door instead of taking the crosswalk over to the drugstore at the other side, I head south. The first door I pass on my left is the bar, Smoky Suds. It’s a rustic, wooden door that looks almost like a barn door. Seeing it reminds me of the girl’s night I went to with Lexi and Gracie.
The bartender who served me very well that night, Dallas. Dark hair, dark eyes, darkness pouring out of him everywhere. My stomach does a little flip at the memory of him, the way his gaze consumed me.
But not in the way my stomach erupts for Weston. This flip was a warning. Not to go near this one. Not in a dangerous way, not my instincts that have been in overdrive since I was a preteen working to keep me out of the way of men who would wish me harm. More like a yellow caution sign that reads Too Much for You.
I don’t need to be choked or spanked to get off. As much as I dream of being able to give up just a little bit of control over my own body to someone else for the first time, the vibe from that bartender is something I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for.
No, those reactions are completely different from the feelings that overtake me when I think of Weston. The way my stomach swoops, my insides melt. It’s been hard to stay focused today when he changed my DNA last night.
My face heats as I recall exactly what transpired between us just hours ago. The way I was able to provoke him into that little show and tell. Watching him bring himself to ruin, then feeling his hands on mine as I did the same to myself.
Saying goodbye to Weston this morning, knowing what would happen next time we saw one another… My cells have been vibrating all day in anticipation. The way his hair fell over his forehead, his dark green eyes glinted at me from beneath the blond strands, and the filthy smirk laced with promise as he told me to drink plenty of water throughout the day, the vision of him has haunted me ever since.
I can feel how pink my cheeks are as my body reacts to the memories, and I hope I don’t run into anyone I know while looking this guilty.
But of course, just across the street at the first storefront on this side of downtown, sits a gaggle of women who I can hear clucking their tongues and cackling from here. I raise a hand, waving at them, and several of them nod and wave back.
“You be good, Amelia,” Wanda calls out.
“Is her van ready?” I hear the blue-haired lady, Mrs. Dixon, ask the other women at the table. “Did Wyatt Grady forget about Ole Bessie? My poor Bessie has been there since before she got to town.”
Bessie? That sounds like a cow’s name. Is he a vet on the side?
The women continue chattering, and with a final fond smile I turn away and continue taking in the rest of the street. The newly opened pizza shop just next to the pharmacy, Smoky Slice, has a teal neon Open sign in the window, drawing locals into the recently renovated building. I can imagine the faint buzz of the sign, the one I’d hear if I were on the other side of the street in front of the storefront. Light aqua paint on the walls that I can see from here, the work site where Weston dabbed some paint on my nose not two weeks ago, telling me I looked damn good in that color. The way he looked at me as he said it told me he wanted to see me in just that paint.
Two doors down, on that same side of the street, a Coming Soon sign hangs on the glass double doors. It’s one of the biggest retail spaces on the block, apparently it used to be the old diner once upon a time. We painted the walls in there a soft pink, so pale it’s barely more than white. In the back, where the kitchen area is, is where Weston made me laugh so hard I nearly peed while he did an impression of his brother with an entire log up his ass.
On my left I pass open storefront after open storefront, before passing the newly opened general store (walls a shade of white with pewter undertones—the place where I entertained Weston the entire day by recapping some of Jynx’s best episodes), the laundromat I’ve had to frequent in my time here (aka the second building on this block called Smoky Suds, and one I didn’t have to paint), the brand new bakery and patisserie that just had its grand opening this week, Smoky Sweets (most of the walls painted in thick, Parisian black and white stripes, where Lexi and I first met that first day I was painting with West), and I find myself across from the salon, gazing across the street at it.
Eyes on the storefronts opposite me, I don’t hear the chime of the bell of the one opening right next to me.
A much larger, softer body bumps into mine, sending me toppling backward until strong hands grab my arms to steady me.
I look up into dark brown eyes, a thin nose set between them, dusted with freckles, and wild, tumbling curls of cocoa and hazel spilling all over her face and shoulders.
“Lexi,” I greet her.
“Big Momma!” she calls back, a grin splitting her face. That name can’t help but remind both of us about our girl’s night out and I give her a big smile back.
Lexi is the first person who has texted me, just for fun, ever. I might have to change my number again soon as part of my protocol, but a part of me is trying to figure out if I can text her from the next one or if it’s too risky. The optimistic half of me says it’s worth it for the lightness in my heart every time I’m with this woman.
Rory’s voice, mid-argument with some poor sucker who must’ve tried to test her, floats out to me through the open door before it closes shut with a little bounce.
I was so focused on taking in the town, the other side of the street, the gardening that’s going in on both the east and west sides of the street, the people sat on the benches that line the edge of the sidewalk—and, okay, fine, maybe memories that involve a certain golden-haired, bronze-skinned semblance of an ancient god—I didn’t realize I’d already made it to the New Heights Headquarters.
“Don’t tell me you’re really leaving?” she asks, a big, oversized pout on that plush mouth of hers as her hands drop back down to her sides with a slapping noise.
“Soon as my baby’s up and running, probably in the morning,” I say, more sadly than I meant to.
“At least tell me you’re coming back to visit,” she presses.
A shrug of one shoulder will have to do. I don’t even have it in me to banter with her, to crack a joke, because for the first time since I left my mom all alone in that hellhole of horrible memories, I feel like I’m going to miss someone when I drive away. Lexi, with her fiery insults, fierce comebacks, and infectious, uninhibited laugh, has become one of my favorite parts of this town.
These Weiss women, they make me feel bigger, badder, just by being in their orbit. I like who I am around them. I don’t feel fragile or delicate or in need of defending. I feel like a badass, just because these women are badass, and they lift me up where others might look down.
“If I’m ever in your neck of the woods again,” I relent.
“You don’t have to break down next time, I promise Weston will bend over backward for you even if you’re not a damsel in distress.”
My face heats at the implication in her tone, and she gives me a knowing smirk.
“Have you bent over forward for him yet?” Lexi adds with an even dirtier look, and my face flames. I look around, frantic, wondering who might have heard her, if somehow Wyatt, or one of the town gossips who’s even worse than him, like Ernie or Mrs. Dixon, will show up.
She keeps her earthen eyes locked on mine, pushing me for an answer until I crack.
“No,” I hiss, trying to remain discreet. “Not yet at least.” A smile cracks out on my own face, and she howls, head thrown back, zero fucks given. What must it be like to be her. To have nothing to hide, no reason to not let yourself all out.
“So you’re not going to tell me why you’re positively glowing then?” she presses, still grinning.
“My God, are you a tarot reader or something?”
“Nah, babe. Just really good at telling when someone’s finally gotten some action.” She thumbs in the direction of her sister, through the glass door next to us, and I laugh. “That one and her man used to be about twenty times more miserable, if you can imagine it.” Lexi gives an exaggerated, comical shudder and screws up her face in disgust. “I got better than I wish I were at picking up on the clues. And you, my dear friend? You have grade A dick written all over you.”
I want to make a joke about the way his grade A dick literally wrote all over me last night, but as is my custom when traveling through pitstops, I keep my mouth shut.
Lexi channels her best Elijah Wood. “Keep your secrets, then,” she says. “But text me about them later, will ya?”
Something in my heart smarts at the thought of having someone to text after I leave town. Wondering what it might be like to not change my SIM card and get a new number in a few more weeks just because it’s my routine. But to pretend I’m normal, and I have the same number for years on end, people to stay in touch with.
For an insane second, I must have some sort of personality transplant, or maybe my Danish was spiked, because I have this impulse to open up to her. To tell her who I am, my past and what’s had me running for so long. That maybe she won’t judge me for it the way everyone else who’s ever known has before, that maybe I’d be safe here with these kind people. But I’m smarter than that.
I curl my fingers in a small wave at her, and she knows this is goodbye.
Someone else comes out of the New Heights building as Lexi and I are hugging, and I hear Rory’s voice tumble out of the door. “You’d better be coming in here next, Amelia!”
Rory’s stepdad, a silver fox with graying hair and a smooth jawline nods in greeting to me as he passes, the door shutting behind him as he heads down the street, in the direction of the bar.
Lex gives me a quick peck on the top of the head and starts to walk away, long denim skirt swishing with her curves as she does. “Until next time, Big Momma,” she calls out, and I have to turn and head into the office before I embarrass myself further. If public tears enter the equation I might have to change my name again .
And dammit, I’m kind of attached to Amelia Marsh now.
It’s not fierce like some of the first names I chose. Avery Flint was one I was particularly fond of and stuck with for a couple of years before changing it again. It sounded strong to me, sharp. Like someone assholes wouldn’t fuck with. Eventually I just wanted to blend in rather than scare people off, and by the time I settled on Amelia Marsh, well, I just think it suits me at this point.
And if I can confess one more thing, I’m so tired of changing everything about me all the damn time. Just being myself suddenly has an appeal it never really has before.
The glass door shuts behind me, just short of a slam, and I adjust to the new environment. I can see Rory at her desk in the far corner, a wizened older man sitting at one of the chairs in front of her, bickering away like crazy, so I busy myself taking a thorough peek since I’ve yet to visit this place.
One of the smaller properties on the downtown stretch of Main, the New Heights Headquarters is chic and minimalist, decorated in shades of gray with stark black accents. A few chairs and a modern coffee table in the front of the office serve as a sitting area.
In the window display is a to-scale model of what the future Downtown Smoky Heights will look like, made out of foam. Every single location on the model is a vibrant, lively business, none are empty or abandoned. Trees bloom along both edges of the sidewalks, beautiful maples with their leaves changing colors, fir trees, white dogwoods in full bloom, like they were when I first arrived here, and another tree with bushy pink flowers I’m not familiar with.
There are even little adorable miniature people in this diorama. Two parents swinging a child between them outside of Smoky Scoops on their way for ice cream.
Someone picking up a coffee from a to-go window built into the exterior of Foamy Heights.
A man buying flowers from a florist stand while several women sit nearby on benches, smiles on their faces. In front of every storefront, every shop, there is life.
Her vision for this town is stunning. I can see it’s come a long way toward this already, even in my short time here. I have no doubt she will bring this whole strip to life before she calls this project done.
“I just don’t see why I have to be the one to change my business name!” the old man in the back argues with Rory.
He’s a brave soul for that. I wouldn’t want to go up against her.
“Are you going to make me repeat myself again?” she asks him, drolly.
“It makes more sense for a laundromat to be called Smoky Suds than a bar! He could be Heights Hops! What am I going to be? Smoky Bubbles? Heights Hampers? That just sounds stupid, Rory.”
“Well, Tom, you don’t have to include the town name in your business name.”
“Everyone else downtown has! Why shouldn’t I get to?”
Rory lets out an exasperated sigh, her head falling forward into her hands, elbows on the desk while her fingers massage her temples. “For the last time, unless you want to go back to 1976 and beat Duke’s dad to naming your business Smoky Suds, your application isn’t going to be approved. The discussion is over. Pick another name. Call it Smoky Skid Marks for all I care. But until you pick a unique name, I can’t help you get your forms through the grant commission.”
The older man grumbles all the way to the door, forms to fix in hand, and Rory’s attention can finally come to me.
“Amelia!” She holds her arms out, standing, like she’s actually happy to see me.
Lexi’s younger sister is in a white top that can only be referred to as a blouse, so much sleeker than my cut off crop tee or anything else in my drawers in the van. Her slim skirt is something like a leather pencil skirt, black in color, that’s beyond flattering. She’s wearing heeled black boots that go past her calves and all in all I think I can see why Wyatt did everything he did to win her back, from the stories Weston’s told me while painting. Not that looks are everything. But she’s not just looks. She’s brilliant, fierce, the whole package. I’d probably never get over her either.
My eyes finally make it to her desk, and really, what’s over it. The focal piece of the entire office actually. A massive black and white print, at least six or seven feet wide, of an older lady being arrested, bending over as she gets into a sheriff’s car, a look on her face like she’s a mob boss from the heyday of the 20s and this is just another day for her. An odd choice in art for a lawyer’s office, I have to say, but it’s intriguing. There’s something in the woman’s eyes that sparks something in me. I can see why she was drawn to the piece.
Crossing the twenty feet or so to get to Rory’s desk, I nod with my chin to the print. “What’s with the mugshot?”
She grins and there’s something feral in it. “That? Is the inspiration behind New Heights.”
“Getting arrested?” I ask, deadpan.
“Living life to the fullest,” she says simply, whisking me into the vacated chair in front of her desk as she sits down behind it. “Not waiting to grab life by the balls. And taking our town back from the pricks who stole it from us in the first place.”
“And dealing with Grumpy Old Men casting rejects is living life to the fullest, or is that grabbing life by the balls?”
“Tom?” Rory scoffs. “He’s harmless. Just a Tuesday morning for me. My favorite part of this project is seeing all the new life that comes into the Heights after it was dying off for too long.” Her brown eyes sparkle at me as she says it, and I catch her drift.
Holding up my hands in front of me, I protest. “Oh, no, no, no. You’re not roping me into staying here, no matter how scary you are.”
“You think I’m scary?”
She pouts, clawed fingers tapping on the desk in a slow rhythm. My eyes are drawn to them and I notice her current manicure seems to be spring inspired, a soft pink with white detail that makes me think of Easter and fresh tulips.
My stomach clenches as those thoughts evoke memories of my mom, and I refocus on the woman in front of me.
“Well, yeah, you’re pretty…” I fish for a less insensitive word. “Intense.”
“I like to think of it as passionate,” she says, chin in the air.
“Okay, well, your passion comes out as dragon fire sometimes,” I tell her, and she laughs loudly.
“And that’s why I get paid the big bucks, babe.”
I want her to teach me her ways.
She’s an icon, this woman.
“So,” she says, placing her elbows on the desktop and lacing her fingers, leaning forward with interest. “How much do you know about New Heights?”
Damn, she doesn’t even give me an out. “West has told me a little about it,” I hedge. “You run a fund to help rebuild the town, right?”
She nods, elegant brunette ponytail bouncing behind her with the motion. “That’s correct. But what you might not know is that we have grants available to people moving to the town.”
I can’t stop my eyebrows from shooting up. I try , but they don’t listen to me.
Her cat got the canary smirk tells me she knows she got me too with that one. It’s me, I’m the canary.
“We have several types of grants available, and I would be remiss to not at least inform you of your options on them before you flash us those taillights and move onto wherever is next. Think of me as a recruiter for the town at this point, poaching talent that will help us grow and blossom for decades and generations to come.”
I think I’m stunned speechless. Maybe it’s by her aura, maybe it’s by this vivid picture of the future she’s painting for me. One where I have a home. A gorgeous small town, nestled in the scenic mountains, full of people who have been kind to me, with nothing but good memories here.
A fever dream must be what shows me Weston and me walking down that street out there, swinging a child between our arms, on our way to get ice cream. Something I’ve never been crazy enough to consider after the betrayal of my own father, but Rory’s started a movie in my mind I have no control over.
Whatever the cause of my temporary insanity, all I do is nod at her in permission to go on.
She smiles demurely and does. “We have one available grant for young professionals moving to the city to open a business within the community here. There’s another that helps offset moving and resettling costs for those who plan to work within the Smoky Heights community.”
I try not to let my face fall, it doesn’t seem to be listening to me today, but silly me somehow got my hopes up and let myself dream for just a second there. Weston already talked to me about getting a job in town, and that doesn’t interest me any more than opening my own business here would. No, thank you. Even if I were trying to turn over a new leaf, I don’t need to bring that much attention to myself, thank you very much. I’ve gotten enough stares just walking down the street. If I were to work at the new diner, for instance, as an outsider? I feel like I’d become a zoo exhibit, faces pressed to the glass to get a look at me.
“There is also another,” Rory continues, and I swear my ear physically perks up, like a dog’s, “where a stipend is granted to young professionals who move to this town who already have remote work.”
“What? Why would they do that?”
“We’re far from the first to offer it. In towns where populations are declining, sometimes they approve a special fund to lure new residents in, so to speak, who are either already parents, or of childbearing age, and offer them either land or money with the promise to stay in that town for a certain amount of time. Beyond just bringing new life to the community, it can also help stimulate the local economy. Someone like yourself, a digital nomad with a reliable work history, could be a great candidate for it.”
“So you’re…giving away money? Or land? For new residents to move here? Whether they already have a job or want to get one here?”
Rory nods decisively. “That’s correct. In our case, it’s money. Or even more money if they plan to open a business here. And we also can help with housing too.”
If I could stammer, I would. I’ve never been in shock from good news before.
And as if I could like this woman, or her family, any more, she reads it on my face and doesn’t push me.
“I’m not going to force you to make any decisions, Amelia. I just wanted you to know that you always have a home in Smoky Heights if you want one. And New Heights can help with the transition to make it a little easier on you if you ever want to take us up on it. You wouldn’t even have to decide yet, you could just do an application and make up your mind once the approval is back.”
The door tinkles with the arrival of another townsperson who must need her help.
“Be right with you,” she calls, then turns back to me. “Just do me a favor and scan this QR code before you go. It’s the link to our site and the application forms. Then I’ll let you go if you promise me you’ll think it over.”
And though I try every trick I’ve ever had to use to stay focused on the next town, the next step on the path to safety, I can’t get this picture she painted out of my mind. A future where I’m brave enough to stay in one place. To fight for what I want. To build a life, with connections, and friends, even a partner. Where I run into people I know on the street and it’s not looks of pity, or horror, or whispers behind hands, but smiles I get instead.
I never knew how much I could want for myself until I came to Smoky Heights, and I’m not sure I can forgive these people for that.