Chapter 2
I stretch slowly in my childhood bed, my body fighting the unfamiliar softness of the mattress. For a blissful moment, I forget where I am—then the pale yellow walls come into focus, and everything floods back. Home. I’m home.
Sunlight streams through the lace curtains Mom made when I was in middle school, casting dancing patterns across the hardwood floor. The light has that particular golden quality that only exists in autumn, warm and honey-colored. Nothing like the harsh glare of LA mornings.
I look at the wall clock. It’s eight in the morning.
Mom and Dad must have left for the coffee shop.
I turn on my side and look out the window at the breeze flirting playfully with the trees, who shed their leaves in response.
It looks beautiful, the leaves displaying the colors of fall as they flutter to the ground, scattering gracefully.
“When was the last time I slept for twelve hours straight?” I murmur.
Airtel Tech hired me when they were in their startup phase, and I worked hard for them in the beginning.
Dating Derek was a mistake. I found it hard to say no to him, and as he kept adding his work on mine, I began working eighteen-hour days, sleep becoming a luxury.
My blood boils as I recall the humiliating manner in which I was forced out of the company just a week ago.
All that work and effort into building client relationships, into creating systems for them, and they threw me out in a heartbeat.
However, as I look outside at the swaying trees, for the first time in weeks, I feel.
.. calm. My problems seem distant here, like they belong to someone else.
Derek’s betrayal, the humiliation at work, the uncertain future—it all feels fuzzy around the edges, softened by the comfort of this room where nothing bad ever happened except failed algebra tests and teenage heartbreak.
I take my time getting dressed, savoring the quiet. No honking traffic, no neighbor’s leaf blower at eight AM, no urgent emails pinging on my phone. Just the gentle sound of wind in the maple tree outside my window and the distant hum of the coffee grinder downstairs.
When I finally make my way to the kitchen expecting to see Sam, I stop dead in the doorway.
The table looks like something from a magazine spread.
There are fresh blueberry muffins still steaming from the oven, thick-cut bacon arranged on Mom’s good platter, scrambled eggs fluffed to perfection, hash browns golden and crispy, fresh fruit salad in a crystal bowl, and what appears to be homemade cinnamon rolls drizzled with glaze.
Dad is pouring himself coffee while Mom is marking something on the calendar, her apron still tied around her waist.
“What are you guys doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the coffee shop?” I ask, bewildered.
“Not today.” My mother beams at me. “I wanted to make you breakfast today. We’re opening late. My daughter came home after all.”
“Do you always eat like this?” I stare at the feast, her words warming me.
Dad grins sheepishly from behind his coffee mug, flour still dusting his flannel shirt. “We wanted you to have a good breakfast on your first morning home, and maybe we got a little carried away.” He gestures at the spread with obvious pride.
Mom pulls out a chair for me. “I couldn’t decide what to make, so I figured I’d just make everything and let you choose.”
I sink into the chair, overwhelmed by their effort. “This is incredible. Thank you.” I glance at the fourth place setting, sitting empty. “Where’s Sam?”
“Already gone to work,” Mom says, settling across from me with her own coffee. “He left before dawn this morning.”
I pause mid-bite, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Before dawn? Sam?” I can’t hide my disbelief. “The same Sam who used to sleep until ten every morning and complained if anyone woke him up before noon on weekends?”
Mom’s face softens with pride. “He’s put everything into that auto shop, sweetheart. Your brother has become very responsible since you left. He’s there every morning by six-thirty, sometimes earlier if he has a big job to finish.”
Something twists in my stomach. Sam has changed a lot since I left.
Years of changes I wasn’t here to see, milestones I missed, a brother I barely recognize from Mom’s description.
What else have I missed while I was building my ‘perfect’ life in LA?
What other transformations happened in my absence?
I take another bite of eggs, but they taste different now—tinged with the bitter realization of how much distance I’ve let grow between myself and the people who actually matter.
As I finish the last bite of cinnamon roll, Mom glances at the clock. “We should probably head to the shop soon if we want to beat the morning rush.”
“You’ve probably already missed it.” I point out.
Mom sighs. “Time just got away from us today.” She squeezes my hand with a smile on her lips and my own lips curve in response. “You want to drive with us?”
“Actually, I think I’d like to walk over instead,” I say, pushing back from the table. “I want to explore the town a bit, see what’s changed over the years.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Hazel-nut,” Dad says, his face lighting up. “Take all the time you need to reacquaint yourself with the place.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me right away?” I ask, already feeling guilty about not helping immediately.
“Absolutely sure,” Mom says, already moving to clear dishes. “Even if you don’t want to work at the shop, it’s fine. We can manage.”
Once they leave in Dad’s pickup truck, I check my phone out of habit. No missed calls. No urgent emails. No crisis demanding my immediate attention. I slip the phone into my jeans pocket and feel relieved.
I grab my coat from my suitcase—a lightweight jacket that seemed perfectly adequate in LA but feels woefully thin against the Vermont morning chill—and step outside.
The morning air hits me like a revelation. It carries the scent of apple orchards and wet earth and something indefinably autumn that makes my lungs feel bigger. I’d forgotten air could smell this pure, this alive.
The world looks completely different in daylight.
Last night, driving in the dark, I’d missed so much.
Now I can see that nearly every house on Elm Street has embraced the season with enthusiasm.
Corn stalks tied to lamp posts, pumpkins clustered on porches, wreaths of orange and gold leaves hanging on front doors.
Mrs. Patterson has turned her entire front yard into a fall wonderland, complete with scarecrows and hay bales.
I walk slowly, in no hurry to get anywhere.
The leaves crunch satisfyingly under my feet—actual autumn leaves in brilliant shades of red and gold, not the sad brown things that fall from palm trees.
Above me, the maple canopy creates a tunnel of fire, sunlight filtering through in shifting patterns.
This is what I’d forgotten about small towns—the way seasons actually matter, the way people have time to notice them and celebrate them. In LA, autumn was just a date on the calendar, marked only by pumpkin spice lattes appearing in coffee shops.
On impulse, I turn off Main Street and follow the path that leads into the woods behind the elementary school. It’s the same trail I used to take as a kid, though it seems narrower now, more overgrown.
The forest welcomes me with dappled sunlight and the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.
I breathe deeply, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time in months.
When was the last time I’d been surrounded by this much quiet?
In LA, I was always working—evenings, weekends, even vacations were just opportunities to catch up on projects.
I find myself at the old rope swing that hangs over Miller’s Creek, the thick rope frayed but still sturdy-looking. Sam and I spent countless summer afternoons here, taking turns swinging out over the water and dropping in with spectacular splashes.
Sitting on the fallen log we used as a launching pad, I close my eyes and listen to the water bubbling over the rocks. For the first time since Derek’s betrayal, I’m not thinking about what comes next or how to fix everything. I’m just... here. Present. Breathing.
A chipmunk scurries across the path, cheeks bulging with acorns, preparing for winter with single-minded determination. I envy its clarity of purpose, its simple understanding of what needs to be done.
The morning sun climbs higher, warming my face through the canopy.
I should probably head to the coffee shop soon, but I’m not ready to leave this peaceful spot just yet.
I decide to take the long way around, following the creek toward the old stone bridge that connects this part of the woods to the main trail.
The bridge looks exactly as I remember it—weathered gray stones covered in patches of moss with a simple wooden railing that’s probably older than I am. I step onto it carefully, testing the first stone. It seems solid enough.
Halfway across, I hear the creek babbling below and pause to look down at the water. That’s when the stone beneath my right foot shifts with a grinding sound that sends my heart into my throat.
I’m falling—
Strong hands grab my arms, hauling me back against a solid chest just as the loose stone tumbles into the creek with a splash.
“Careful there.” The voice is low, familiar, and sends electricity shooting straight through my veins. “That stone’s been loose for years. I keep meaning to fix it.”
My heart doesn’t just stop—it completely abandons me.
I know that voice.
I pull away quickly, turning to face him, and my breath catches.
Black hair—rich and dark with hints of copper that gleam in the morning sunlight—falls across his forehead in waves that look like he’s been running his hands through them.
Those blue eyes I used to dream about are wide with shock as they meet mine.