7. Everett
Everett
Coming home wasn’t the hard part; staying is.
I forgot how loud a small town can be. Every look I get, I wonder if it’s judgment. Every “hey, stranger” has me curious about their true intentions.
My mom taught me to always be polite, so that’s what I do. I nod and smile, give a little laugh and say “hey” back.
It’s been a struggle to be looked at as the person who left years ago. In a small town like this, history sticks harder than truth, and no one has bothered asking me who I am now. Twenty years is a long time.
Around here, I am still the boy who walked away. I’ve heard it, not directly, though. Lavender Creek residents don’t confront; they hide behind whispers.
At the hardware store, two older men went quiet when I stepped into the aisle. One of them whispered to the other, “I didn’t think we would see him back here,” like I wasn’t standing three feet away.
At Violet’s café, I picked up on some elderly ladies gossiping. “Thought he was too good for this place.”
“He’ll leave again.”
“City life didn’t work out for him, I guess.”
Henry told me he overheard something in the general store, and although he tried to brush it off, it bothered me, and I can tell it bothered him, too.
Then there’s the other side of the coin. “He looks different.”
“I heard he did well out there.”
“I wonder what made him come home.”
They all want a reason. A failure, a scandal, a broken engagement. Something dramatic enough to justify coming back.
The truth isn’t quite so dramatic.
I didn’t leave because I hated this place.
I left because I needed to know who I was without it.
And now that I am back. I need them to see that I didn’t return defeated.
I came back with a purpose.
Thankfully I have the theater. It has been my escape, somewhere I can come to be alone, get some work done and make progress on what will hopefully be a successful business.
Being alone is good in context, especially when you feel judged and not comfortable, but it can also be the loudest place, where your mind wanders, and that isn’t always a good thing.
It’s been a couple of weeks since the town meeting. The ownership of the theater has officially been switched to me, and I am now in full control. There was a shift when that happened, I felt it deep in my bones, a sense of peace and a sense of belonging as well.
Since being here, I felt like I had a purpose.
I have been at the theater every day, I want to do as much work as I can to save money.
So I started with cleaning it out and getting rid of all the old equipment.
A lot needs to be torn down; it’s in rough shape, and from the looks of it, hasn’t been used in probably a year or so.
The hinges squeak when they move, so the sound carries through the empty space. I turn, expecting it to be one of the contractors or maybe even Henry stopping by.
Instead, it is her.
Violet stands in the doorway, sunlight framing her like an angel's halo. Two cups of coffee are balanced in one hand, and a brown paper bag folded at the top is in the other.
For a second, I just stare.
“I come in peace,” she says, smiling. “Strictly business.”
I smile back. How can I not? “Let’s talk business.” As I approach, I take the coffee on top, so it doesn’t spill.
She steps inside, glancing around at the ladders, and there is dust everywhere. “You’ve been here every day since the meeting. People are starting to talk.”
“Good talk or bad talk?” I ask, walking toward the folding chairs in the middle of the theater.
She sighs. “Do you really want to know?”
Fair enough.
“Thank you,” I say and take a sip. I feel the life enter back into me right away.
“Small town rules, new business owners get fed and watered,” she says.
“So, the fundraiser. Julia mentioned a town-wide event. Do you have any ideas?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
We sit there with the sun leaking through the windows, dust floating around us. For a moment, it feels like we’re in high school again, like sitting on the bleachers after practice, talking about everything and nothing.
I lean back, trying not to focus on how she smells like a mix of lavender and vanilla, with a hint of coconut. “I want it to feel like the theater used to. A little nostalgia, maybe a classic movie night. Tickets by donation. Local businesses sponsoring a silent auction.”
She nods. “I like the classic movie idea, and a silent auction. Café gift cards, ranch experiences, store credits, we can get everyone involved.”
“Are you sure you want to help me organize this?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m good at organizing chaos.”
We talk logistics for a while, dates, permits, who we would need to talk to, and whether we should rope Henry into handling music or entertainment. It feels easy, too easy.
Eventually, she grows quieter.
“So, why did you leave?” she asks.
I wasn’t expecting her to be so direct.
I sigh. “I needed to know who I was without this place and people deciding it for me.”
She looks like she’s trying to read my face. “And did you figure it out?”
“I did,” I reply.
“And?” she asks.
“And I chose to come back.”
Something shifted with her expression.
“So, this coffee delivery…is it a one-time thing?” I ask with a smirk.
“We have a fundraiser to plan. I can’t have you collapsing before we get through it. I’ll see you later,” she says as she gets up to leave.
As she walks toward the door, I can’t help but feel like she enjoys my company as much as I enjoy hers.
She turns around once she reaches the door. “You know that even with all the gossip, people are still happy you’re back. The good always outweighs the bad.”
And with that, she opens the door, leaving me full of caffeine and a smile on my face.
Violet has gotten into the habit of bringing me coffee a few times a week. I don’t ask if she is working every day because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s thinking about me, and she wants to be around me. That’s all I can ask for.
At 11 a.m. on the dot, Violet walks through the door. Today she has our normal coffees, but she also says, “I brought us lunch.”
“How did you know I was hungry?” I ask, taking the bag of food from her and walking toward the makeshift table I have in the middle of the theater.
“I could hear your stomach all the way to my café,” she replies, smirking.
“Well, you saved me then, but you have to let me repay you for all the coffees and now lunch,” I say, pulling out her folding chair and dusting it off.
“You can just owe me lunch.”
“It’s a date,” I say, staring into her blue eyes, as I sit down.
Today is the longest time we have hung out. We are talking about our families, what my next plans are for the theater, and she always asks how she can help.
I give her the same answer I have every other time, “You bringing me coffee and food is help enough. Plus, you were roped into helping with the fundraiser. You’re doing more than enough.”
“Speaking of the fundraiser, we should do some more planning. Do you want to come to mine one day after work so we can work on that?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Ya, that sounds good, what day were you thinking?”
“How about Thursday?” she offers.
“Only if I bring dinner.”
For the next few days, I finish clearing out the theater, making it as blank a canvas as I can. Growing up, I would sit on the floor watching renovation shows with my mom. She watched them for the décor, I watched them for the transformation.
The part I enjoyed watching most was the messy middle, where everything had to be stripped down and cleaned up to be something better. Walls would come down, old mistakes would be exposed, and everything looked worse instead of better.
I’ve learned that renovation isn’t about pretending something was never damaged, It’s about being patient enough to rebuild it right.
I wonder if that’s why people are quick to judge each other: they see the mess and assume that is the end of their story, but they don’t stick around long enough to see where everything turns out beautiful.
No one seems patient enough to wait around for the rebuild, that’s how I’ve felt since moving back home.
People don’t see the man who built a life in LA.
They don’t see the nights I worked overtime just to afford rent.
They don’t see the projects that succeeded, or the ones that failed and nearly took me down with them.
They don’t see the years I spent figuring out that I didn’t want a life that looked impressive, I wanted one that felt like mine.
They see the boy who left Lavender Creek and didn’t take over the ranch.
To the town I am the one who ran, and maybe I did, but it wasn’t from the town.
I ran from expectations and from being someone I didn’t choose to be.
Now that I am back, all they seem to notice is the dust, but dust means something can be rebuilt.
Maybe I deserve the same patience as people give renovations.