3. Everett
Everett
It’s late when I roll into Lavender Creek. The familiar roads stretching out in front of me like muscle memory I never lost. I have been back over the years, holidays, quick stops, but those trips never felt like this. Those trips had expiration dates.
This one doesn’t.
This time, I am home.
Mom had been waiting for me, porch light glowing as I make my way up the long gravel driveway.
She pulled me into a long hug the second I stepped out of the truck.
Moving back to look at me, her hands stay on my arms, thumbs brushing back and forth like she needs to confirm I am real.
Her eyes search my face, like moms do when they are looking for answers without asking questions.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The house behind her is glowing from the porch lights and the lights inside. The same curtains, same chipped railing that Dad always said he would fix. The same wind chimes sway beside the door.
It doesn’t look like anything has moved on.
“How was the drive?” she asks.
“It was long, glad it’s over.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yes, I did,” I say.
She squeezes my arms before stepping aside. “Your room is the same. I didn’t touch anything, just washed the bedsheets for you.”
“Thanks, Mom, I appreciate it.”
I follow her up the porch steps, the screen door creaks open, and the familiar scent of baked goods and laundry soap wraps around me.
I pause in the doorway.
“Is he awake?” I ask.
“He’s sleeping.”
“Does he want me here?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Mom turns fully to look at me, her expression steady.
“Honey, he never wanted you gone.”
That hits somewhere deep.
She touches my cheek, brief but grounding.
As she makes her way to bed, I take a minute before grabbing my bags to head to my room. Looking around, all the memories come flooding back.
When I’ve visited in the past, I never allowed myself to reopen my childhood memories, but now that I am back here, permanently, I can’t help but remember what I loved about home, and that makes me hopeful that this was the right decision.
Henry and Dad are already asleep. Ranch life doesn’t care about late-night arrivals, but I don’t take it personally. Mornings start early around here, always have.
I crash hard once my head hits the pillow in my old room. It has not changed much, same creaky floors, same view of the field out back, but it feels smaller, or maybe I have just grown.
Henry had built himself a cabin on the ranch a few years back. One bedroom and simple. Perfect for him. Perfect for someone who knows exactly where he belonged.
I wasn’t sure I could say the same about myself. Not yet anyway.
At breakfast, Henry fills me in on what I have missed. New shops on Main Street. A few businesses that didn’t survive. The usual small-town talk.
He shovels down eggs and coffee like he has somewhere to be, which of course he does. The ranch waits for no one.
“You should check out the town today, grab what you need. It’s changed a lot,” Henry says, leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, like it’s permanently attached to him. He looks the same, broader through the shoulders, a little more weathered around the eyes.
I let out a quiet laugh. “You say that like three new shops are a personality shift.”
“Five,” he says. “And a café beside the diner. You remember the diner, right?”
“Hard to forget Mrs. Donnelly slipping us pie we didn’t pay for and soda-pop by the glass.”
Henry smirks. “We stopped there every day after school on the way home for a snack. I miss those days.”
We fall into an easy silence, the kind that only exists between brothers who learned how to exist side by side without constantly talking. The kitchen window lets in the morning sun. Same table, same scuffed floor.
Now it just feels familiar.
Henry watches me over the rim of his mug. “Dad is happy you’re here,” he says.
“I hope so.”
Another silence settles. He doesn’t push. He knows it’s a touchy subject. He’s never pushed me to talk about anything, always waiting for me to bring it up first. Henry was always the one who absorbed tension instead of feeding it.
He sets his mug down and crosses his arms. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know. Especially right away.”
I let out a breath. “Good, because I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s a first, you always have a plan,” he says.
“Yeah, but look how that turned out.”
Henry studies me for a minute. He’s not judging, just measuring where I’m at. “You look tired,” he says finally.
“I drove all night.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says. I glance at him as he pushes away from the counter, giving me an out like he’s always done. “The cabin is finished. If you need space or quiet—”
“You offering, or warning?”
“Both,” he says. He bumps my shoulder as he passes. “The town will still be there when you’re ready, but you should go see it sooner rather than later. Might remind you what you came from and give you clarity on what to do next.”
So that’s what I do.
I hop into my rusty truck and head down the driveway, dust kicking up behind me, windows down, with some country music coming from the speakers.
I don’t rush. I don’t need to, I have time now, something I didn’t have for years.
Living in LA, everyone was late for something or in a rush to go somewhere.
Here, in Lavender Creek, everything slows down, and everyone lives a slow, intentional life.
Once the theater officially changes ownership, my free days will disappear fast.
The General Store still smells the same, clean but dusty, with a touch of coffee that’s been sitting too long on a burner. To my surprise, they have most of what I need. Toiletries, snacks, and a few staples. Anything else, I can grab in the city nearby.
By the time I step back outside, it’s close to noon. My stomach growls, and I realize I have not had enough caffeine to get me through the day. Rookie mistake.
The cashier mentioned a café in town.
I follow her directions and spot it almost right away.
The Flower Pot Café.
It looks busy, which is a good sign. Windows are fogged from the spring air mixed with the warmth inside. People are sitting together around tables, and laughter escapes every time the doors open. I park and walk a few steps, hands in my pockets.
The second I step inside, I know I’ve made the right call. I know my coffee shops.
The place smells like fresh coffee and flowers with a mix of freshly baked pastries. The kind of smell that makes you feel human again. I take a moment to breathe it in.
Dried flowers hang from the ceiling, fresh ones sit on every table, and plants are everywhere you look. Soft music plays in the background. Beside the counter, there are cookies, muffins, and donuts, croissants and bagels, all lined up like they are waiting to be chosen.
Someone had put real thought into this place.
There are only a few people in front of me in line, which gives me time to scan the menu. Basic coffee, fancy lattes, breakfast sandwiches, and pastries that look delicious. I am starving, which means I am going to order too much.
Then I hear her.
“I can help the next person in line.”
The voice hits first.
Soft. Familiar. Like something I haven’t heard in years but somehow never forgot.
I step forward, already searching the face that belongs to it.
Copper curls. Freckles across her nose. Blue eyes that used to glance up at me from the cafeteria tables at lunch.
It takes a second.
“Violet?”
Her eyes widen before I even finish saying her name. She freezes, coffee cup in hand. “Everett Callahan,” she says slowly, like she’s testing if I’m real. “You’re actually back.”
And just like that I am sixteen again, leaning against a locker, pretending not to notice her laughing with her friends, pretending I didn’t look for her at every football game.
I let out a breath. “You remember me?”
She lets out a small quiet laugh. “Small town. You don’t really forget people, especially the ones who leave.”
There is no accusation in her voice, but something lingers under the words. Not sharp, just, history.
“I didn’t expect to see you behind the counter,” I admit.
She glances around the café, and a smile forms across her face. “I own it.”
That shouldn’t surprise me. Even back then she had this steadiness about her, like she knew where she belonged before the rest of us figured out where we were going.
“Well, it suits you,” I say, smiling.
For a moment, we just look at each other, not awkwardly, just remembering who we once were and who we are now. Aware of the time passed, of who we used to be, of everything we never said.
“Well, Everett, what can I get for you? Coffee is on the house today,” she adds, smiling.
I order an Americano and a breakfast sandwich.
She clears her throat. “Here is your Americano, your sandwich will be right up; if you go sit down, I’ll bring it to you,” she says.
Our fingers brush when she hands it to me, quick, accidental, but enough to send a strange warmth up my arm.
“Welcome home, Everett.”
My phone buzzes as I step out onto Main St.
Riley
Riley:
You alive or did you fall asleep halfway through the drive?
Me:
Alive. Barely. That was a long one.
Riley:
You always were dramatic. How is small town paradise?
I lean against my truck, looking down the quiet street.
Me:
Weird. Familiar. Loud in a quiet way.
Riley:
That sounds like something you’d say after one therapy session.
Me:
Mom cried, Henry hasn’t changed. I haven’t talked to Dad yet or seen him.
Riley:
Tense?
Me:
Ya, unfinished business tense.
Riley:
Give it time, man. You being there matters more than either of you will say out loud.
I glance back toward the café without meaning to.
Me:
Ran into someone from high school.
Riley:
Oh? Who? Old friend? Old regret?
Me:
Violet.
Riley:
The one you always talk about?
Me:
I don’t always talk about her!
Riley:
You sure as fuck do. Curly hair. Flower Farm. “She actually likes that town” speech. That Violet?
I shake my head, smiling.
Me:
Yeah, that Violet.
Riley:
And???
I stare at the screen before answering.
Me:
She owns the café here. Looks different but looks the same and somehow better.
Riley:
Buddy, you are down bad. Always have been, but now that you’re in the same town as her, you won’t be able to hide your feelings.
Me:
I just got here.
Riley:
So? You always liked her. Even when you pretended you didn’t. You never stopped thinking about her, and I swear you compared every girl in LA to her.
I don’t respond right away.
Me:
Ya, I don’t want to pretend this time.
Riley:
Good. Took you long enough.
I put my phone in my pocket, hop in my truck, but don’t start it yet.
Seeing Violet again pulls something loose in my memory, a version of myself I haven’t thought about in years.
Sixteen. Restless. Counting down the days until I was leaving.
She was always rooted here. Even back then. While some of us talked about getting out, Violet talked about staying. About building something. About belonging.
I remember watching her at football games, wrapped in a blanket, even if it wasn’t cold, cheering louder than anyone else. I remember noticing her in ways I never admitted out loud.
If I had dated anyone back then, it would have been her.
Not because she wasn’t beautiful, she was. She was also kind, intoxicating. She felt like home in a way I wasn’t ready for.
And I knew I was leaving.
I knew I would have been gone in two years, chasing something bigger than this town, and I couldn’t bring myself to start something I already knew would end.
Violet has always loved Lavender Creek, and I would never ask her to leave. That would have been selfish. And yet staying would have felt like giving up who I thought I needed to be.
So, I chose distance before there was anything to lose. I chose the easy regret over the complicated possibility.
I glance back toward the café window one last time before starting the engine.
She is not the girl I remember. And I am not the boy who left.
I don’t know anything about Violet Hartwell now, not who she has become, not the life she has built for herself, but I know one thing for sure.
I’m not making the same mistake twice.