Chapter 2 #3
The September morning had that crisp edge to it—not quite cold, but with the slightest edge of autumn brisk in the wind.
A warning shot across the bow of summer.
The maples along the shore were just starting to turn, touches of gold and rust bleeding into the green like someone had been experimenting with watercolors.
Speaking of watercolors…
He specifically, deliberately, with great concentration, did not look at Lila’s cottage.
The warm glow coming from her studio window.
The thin curl of smoke from her chimney.
The silhouette he could see if he glanced sideways—and he wasn’t glancing—of a woman at an easel, creating things like it was possible to just do that.
She was probably working on a new book. She’d probably already made more beautiful, meaningful things this morning than he’d made in three years.
The steering wheel creaked under his grip.
“Okay,” he said out loud, which was a great sign of mental stability. Talking to yourself in an empty truck. Very normal. Very healthy. “Okay. It’s groceries. One task. In and out.”
Huck watched him from the porch, head tilted, probably wondering why Nate had been sitting there for ten minutes. Finn had given up and was chasing a squirrel around the side of the house. At least one of them had their priorities straight.
Nate turned the key. The engine coughed like it was personally offended by the request, then grudgingly rumbled to life.
Twenty-two steps from the truck to the store entrance. He’d counted once.
He was fine. This was fine. Everything was fine.
He pulled out of the driveway before he could talk himself out of it.
The drive into town took ten minutes, which meant ten minutes of landmarks he’d rather not see. But he took the long way around, even though it added three minutes. Three minutes of not driving past the bench where Emma used to sit with her hot chocolate. Worth it.
The library slid past on his left—red brick, white columns, the cheerful banner out front announcing something about the Flannel Festival that he refused to read.
Emma had run story hour there for five years.
Kids called her the Story Lady. Sometimes he still heard her voice doing character accents, the ridiculous ones that made the children shriek with laughter.
He gripped the wheel tighter.
The town square was a disaster of activity.
Workers on ladders, stringing lights between the lampposts.
A banner hung over Main Street: MAPLE LAKE FLANNEL FESTIVAL – CELEbrATING 47 YEARS!
Someone unloaded pumpkins from a flatbed truck to decorate the sidewalks.
The whole town, gearing up to celebrate community and togetherness and all the things he’d opted out of.
Maple Reads came next, the bookstore window displaying a pyramid of autumn-themed novels.
Cozy mysteries and spiced-latte romances, and probably, somewhere in there, the Thornwood Chronicles.
He didn’t slow down to check. He already knew her “Staff Pick” card was still on the shelf, her handwriting frozen in time: “My brother wrote this, and it’s actually good. Don’t tell him I said that.”
He didn’t know why she always said that—as if she wasn’t the author of every brilliant idea.
Hagen’s General Store appeared on his right like a pop quiz he’d forgotten to study for. He pulled into the gravel lot, found a spot near the back—maximum distance from the entrance, minimum visibility—and cut the engine.
The silence rushed in.
Okay. Okay. He could do this.
He pulled his baseball cap lower, as if that had ever fooled anyone in a town this small. Tugged his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands. Took a breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs.
Twenty-two steps.
Go.
The bell above Hagen’s door jangled when he pushed through, announcing his presence to everyone inside like he was a contestant on a game show he hadn’t signed up for.
And here he is, folks—Nate Rivers! You might remember him from such accomplishments as “writing some books” and “not leaving his house for two weeks straight”! Let’s give him a hand!
The store smelled like apples and woodsmoke and clothes fresh from the dryer—probably the laundromat next door, the scent sneaking through the shared wall. It was aggressively pleasant. Like the entire building was trying to hug him without permission.
He grabbed a basket and moved.
Dog food. Aisle three. He knew this store like he knew the map of Thornwood—he’d memorized every landmark, calculated every route for efficiency. In, out, minimal human contact. The Nate Rivers grocery speedrun.
The forty-pound bag of kibble went into the basket first. Then he was off to coffee, keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched, his entire body language screaming Please don’t talk to me in fluent desperation.
He passed the cereal aisle and made the mistake of glancing left.
A kid. Maybe eight years old. Standing in front of the Lucky Charms, wearing an oversized T-shirt with a map on the front.
Not just any map.
His map. The Realm of Thornwood, printed in that particular forest green and gold the publisher had insisted on for the merchandise.
Every mountain range, every river, every kingdom he and Emma had spent years building—now stretched across the narrow shoulders of a child who didn’t know Nate was standing ten feet away.
His throat closed.
The kid’s mom was saying something about sugar content, and the kid was ignoring her, tracing a finger across the Eastern Kingdoms like he was planning an adventure. Like the world on his shirt was real. Like someone was still writing its story.
Nate turned away before they saw him. Before he had to explain why he was staring. Before the kid asked for an autograph and he had to admit that the signature he wanted belonged to a person who didn’t exist anymore.
Coffee. Focus on coffee.
He rounded the corner into aisle six and nearly collided with—
No.
Lila Fox stood in the middle of the coffee aisle like she’d been waiting for him, which she probably had. Because Lila had a sixth sense for people trying to avoid her, and she took it as a personal challenge.
She wore her studio sweater—the oatmeal-colored one that was more paint than wool at this point, cerulean and ocher and lake-green splattering the weave.
She’d braided her silver hair over one shoulder, balanced reading glasses on her nose, and held a can of French roast like she was considering whether it met her standards.
When she looked up, her eyes—sharp and kind, an impossible combination—found him immediately.
“Nate Rivers.” Her voice was warm maple syrup. “I was wondering when you’d come out of hiding.”
He should say something. He should be normal. He should do anything other than stand there like a deer in headlights, clutching a basket with dog food and desperation.
“Hi, Lila.”
Brilliant. Pulitzer-worthy. The children’s author who’d given him—them—their start.
And Livvie’s eccentric aunt.
Lila didn’t seem to notice his eloquence failure. She just smiled—that small, knowing smile that had been cracking him open since he was eight years old—and put the coffee back on the shelf.
“You look terrible.”
He almost laughed. Almost. “Thanks. I’m going for a look. A sort of postapocalyptic-hermit vibe.”
“You’re nailing it.” She tilted her head, studying him like he was a manuscript with a structural problem. “When’s the last time you ate something you didn’t nuke in a microwave?”
“Define ‘ate.’”
“Nate.”
“I eat. I eat plenty. I had…” He tried to remember breakfast. Had he eaten breakfast? There was coffee. Coffee counted. “Toast. This morning. Probably.”
Lila’s eyebrows rose in that way that said she didn’t believe a word he was saying but was too polite to call him a liar outright.