Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Nysa
The call with Atlas leaves me thinking about too many things.
Unsurprisingly, when Hopper arrives at his house I’m a little distracted. Thankfully, Maddie was still asleep. Instead of finding an excuse to stay, to linger until dinner so I can have Hop and Maddie time, I leave with a simple, See you tomorrow .
Hopper doesn’t question it. He knows I promised Grandma I’d help out at the bookstore, so I don’t have to offer an explanation. But the truth? I don’t leave because of that. I leave because I know myself.
This, what I’m starting to feel for him is nothing like the crush I had for him when he tutored me. Nope. This isn’t just a crush anymore.
It’s more.
And that terrifies me to the core.
I drive back to Grandma’s, park the car, and walk the rest of the way to the bookstore. Maybe the cool air will help clear my head. The town is the same as always. Just a few years older but nobody would notice if they are just visiting for the weekend. Maple trees line the streets, their leaves rustling as a breeze moves through. Mrs. Nolan waves me down outside the general store, reminding me to visit soon.
That’s the thing about Birchwood Springs. You don’t just nod in passing—you stop, you chat, you get a full rundown on someone’s family, their dog, and the shelf they just built in their kitchen. And if you don’t? They’ll track you down later because they have something for you. A butterscotch candy or a lollipop, usually, because they’ve known you since you were “just a peanut.” Their words.
Betty Lou’s Florals comes into view, the window display bursting with fresh sunflowers. Mrs. Edgerton used to run it, but now it’s just Mr. Edgerton, still keeping the place running. McNally’s Hardware is exactly as I remember—same weathered sign, same plastic flamingos for the yard. Has anybody bought one, like ever?
And then there’s Clark & Son’s Auto Shop, a handful of guys standing outside, leaning against trucks, swapping stories.
Birchwood Springs is like a picture frozen in time.
I shift the strap of my purse, turn onto Main Street, and spot the warm glow of The Honey Drop spilling onto the sidewalk.
I slow my steps.
Because once I walk through that door, Delilah will see right through me.
She always does.
She’ll ask questions. She’ll want to know . . . well, everything. And I don’t have answers I can give her. Not about Hopper. Not about Maddie. Not about why I left three years ago and how now I can’t seem to leave this town.
I breathe in deep, let the scent of coffee and vanilla curl around me, and push open the door. The bell jingles overhead, and just like that, I’m seventeen again, sneaking in before curfew for a caramel latte and whatever pastry Delilah snuck from the back. She always got in trouble with her mother for giving us pastries.
Nothing’s changed. Same honey-yellow walls. Same mismatched chairs. Same display case filled with pastries that make your mouth water just looking at them.
Behind the counter, moving with the ease of someone who owns the space, is Delilah. Her dark curls pulled into a bun, flour smudged on her apron. She’s got her back to me, but I can hear her humming.
“Still singing to the muffins, I see,” I say, leaning against the counter.
She spins at the sound of my voice, her eyes going wide before a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Nysa. I heard you were back, and I was wondering when you’d finally visit me, bitch.”
I snort. “Nice to see you too.”
She flicks a dish towel over her shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
“It’s been . . . complicated.”
“Yeah, I heard about everything going on at your place,” she says, voice dipping into something unreadable. “Is that why you left?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I just . . . felt like I had to go, you know?”
She levels me with a look. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’ll tell me eventually, but in the meantime, why didn’t you come here first? I would’ve thrown a welcome-back party.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, my return hasn’t exactly been party-worthy.”
Her smile falters slightly, her gaze scanning my face. “Yeah. I heard about that too. But still.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, she did. News in this town moves faster than the wind in the middle of a hurricane.
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “All right, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m making you an espresso, and then we’re sitting down, and you’re telling me things.”
I smirk. “So bossy. Are people still keeping up with your friendly attitude?” I joke.
“They better or else,” she winks.
She moves behind the counter, working the espresso machine like a pro. The scent of coffee thickens in the air as she pulls a shot, grabs a plate, and loads it up with two pastries.
I follow her to a corner booth, where she slides the plate between us and sets down my cup.
She folds her arms on the table, resting her chin on her hands. “All right, start talking.”
I take a sip of coffee, stalling.
Because I have no idea what to say. How much can I really disclose?
“So, are you back for good this time?”
I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee. “I’m not sure yet. I’m staying with my grandma while they fix up the house, but . . .” I trail off, not knowing how to explain the mess my life has become.
“But?” she prompts, her voice gentle.
I sigh, setting the cup down. “But there’s a lot to figure out. The farm, the repairs at the house, everything that’s happened . . .”
Delilah reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. “You’ve always been good at figuring things out, Nys. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I smile faintly, grateful for her support. If only she knew though. But as I promised, I keep all that to myself. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done with Atlas. I tell her about all the places I’ve visited. How I can make wine . . . and not in the biblical way. I might want to venture into cultivating grapes. Not to create a vineyard, but to sell to vineyards.
Delilah listens, animated. She and I didn’t become close friends until the second time I came back to Birchwood Springs, but she was always kind to me in high school, while others whispered about the new girl with the tragic past.
After graduation, she left for France to study baking and event planning. I went to college, and the only person I kept tabs on was Atlas.
But then, a few years ago, when I came back after my doctorate, she was here.
“To help my mom,” she had told me then, her tone light but her eyes shadowed. I didn’t press for details, knowing there was more to the story.
Her mom owns The Honey Drop and her relationship with her has always been . . . complicated.
“So, what’s it like being back?” she asks now, her head tilted as she watches me.
“Strange,” I admit. “Comforting in some ways, unsettling in others.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “That’s how I felt when I came back. Like I was standing in two timelines at once—one where everything was familiar, and one where everything had changed.”
“Exactly,” I say, grateful that she gets it.
She grins, taking a sip of her coffee. “At least the coffee’s still good, though.”
I laugh softly. “True.”
We’re still catching up when the bell over the door jingles, and Delilah glances up, her face lighting up.
“Galeana,” she calls, waving the newcomer over.
I turn to see a woman walking toward us, her steps confident but fluid. She’s tallish, with black hair that falls just past her shoulders. Her eyes are keen and intelligent, carrying an air of both quiet authority and warmth.
“Del,” she says warmly, her accent faintly European. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
“You’ve got perfect timing,” Delilah says, gesturing to me. “Galeana, this is Nysa. Nysa, Galeana.”
“Ledger’s wife,” I say, standing to shake her hand.
She smiles, her grip firm but friendly. “The one and only. I don’t think I’ve heard of you.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, genuinely meaning it. “I live next to Hopper and Maddie, heard some about you.”
“Oh, Hopper. I haven’t met him yet,” she states.
The three of us fall into easy conversation, and I find myself relaxing more than I expected. It feels . . . normal. She tells us about her honeymoon in Seattle. I’m tempted to ask if she met Atlas there, but that’s silly. Atlas and Ledger . . . those two will never be friendly. They’re too complicated. I wonder if Ledger would ever change if he learned how he defended him from their father.
Would he even care?
I don’t understand messy families, but then again, I don’t have one of my own. Would things be different if my parents had lived? Maybe I would be fighting with them because of my life choices, or my brother and I . . . times like this make me want a family so much. Will I ever find one?