Chapter 2 #2
“Hazel?” Luke stares at me like he can’t believe I’m real.
I stare at him, stunned. I knew I’d run into him eventually, but not like this, not so soon. I just needed some time to collect myself first. But it seems the fates decided it was time now.
He’s changed. The twenty-one-year-old I left behind has filled out into broad shoulders and solid muscle. His jaw is stronger now, defined by stubble, and there are lines around his eyes that speak of responsibility and long days. But those eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—are exactly the same.
“Luke.” His name comes out as barely a whisper.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with history and hurt and all the words we never said. I don’t know what to do with my hands, my eyes, my racing heart. This wasn’t how I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t ready for this.
I take a step back, toward the other side of the bridge. “I should—”
“How have you been?” he asks, cutting off my escape attempt. His voice is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them either.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. How are you?”
He shrugs, a gesture that tries to be casual but doesn’t quite succeed. “Surprised to see you back here. Didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
The words sting more than they should. “I’m here for a month. To spend time with my family.”
A mocking smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and it transforms his face into something harder, more guarded. “A whole month? Well, that’s generous. And then what—you’ll vanish for another eight years?”
My eyes harden. “If I do, that’s none of your business.”
“Right.” His laugh is bitter. “How could it be my business?” He pauses, studying my face with those too-blue eyes. “How’s your boyfriend?”
The question hits me like a slap. He knows about Derek. How does he know about Derek? Did Sam tell him? I hope to God my brother didn’t mention the breakup—the last thing I need is Luke knowing how spectacularly my life fell apart.
“He’s fine,” I manage.
“Good for him.” Luke’s voice is flat.
I cross my arms, feeling defensive. “And how’s Brittany?”
For a moment, he looks confused. Then he shrugs. “She’s fine.”
I glance around the woods, anywhere but at his face. “Well, this has been fascinating, but I really need to go.”
“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low and biting with sarcasm that cuts right through me.
Without waiting for any further response, I turn and walk away as quickly as I can without actually running.
My heart hammers so hard I’m sure he can hear it echoing through the trees.
I wish it would just stop betraying me like this, wish it would remember that Luke Harrison broke it once already and I barely survived putting it back together.
* * *
By the time I reach Brennen's Brew, my hands have finally stopped shaking.
The familiar sight of the coffee shop soothes something raw inside me—the hand-painted sign Mom refuses to let Dad replace, the mismatched chairs and tables that somehow work perfectly together, the warm yellow light spilling through windows framed by flower boxes that are somehow still overflowing with petunias despite the season.
I pause outside for just a moment, one hand on the worn brass handle Dad installed when I was seven. Through the glass, I can see him behind the counter, silver threading through his dark hair now, laugh lines deeper than I remember. The weight in my chest shifts, pressing against my ribs.
The bell above the door chimes—that same cheerful jingle—and suddenly I'm sixteen again, rushing in after school, backpack sliding off my shoulder.
"Hazel-nut!" Dad looks up from the register, his whole face lighting up. "Right on time."
The nickname makes my throat tight. I step fully inside, and the scent hits me like a wave: espresso and cinnamon, old wood and the faint vanilla of the candles Mom keeps on the windowsills. The same candles. The same scent. Eight years might as well be eight minutes.
Everything is exactly as I remember, yet somehow different too.
The exposed brick walls still display local art—though the paintings have changed.
The chalkboard menu still hangs behind the counter in Mom's looping handwriting, but the specials are new.
The mismatched furniture has been rearranged, chairs and tables in slightly different configurations, but it's still the same eclectic collection—the blue velvet armchair in the corner, the wobbly table by the window that Dad keeps meaning to fix.
"Where should I—" I start, but Dad's already pulling a forest-green apron from beneath the counter.
"Same place we've always kept them." He holds it out with a smile.
My fingers tremble slightly as I take it, the canvas soft and worn. When I tie it around my waist, the strings fall to exactly the same length they always did. Some things, I think, don't change. Some things wait.
I move behind the counter like I'm sleepwalking through a dream. The espresso machine—that temperamental beast—still sits in its place of honor, chrome dulled slightly with age. Dad's already grinding beans, the familiar whir and rich aroma filling the space between us.
"Mrs. Henderson just sat down," he says casually, nodding toward the window. "She'll want her usual."
I glance over at the grey-haired woman. She and her husband own the General Store in Autumn Ridge.
My hands move almost without thought. I tap the portafilter against the knock box—that satisfying thunk—and reach for the grinder.
The dosing feels instinctive, muscle memory waking up from its long sleep.
Twenty grams, just like Dad taught me. Tamp with even pressure, not too hard.
Lock the portafilter into the group head with that familiar twist.
The machine hisses and gurgles like the temperamental dragon it is, and espresso begins to pour in twin streams, dark and thick and perfect. The crema forms on top, tiger-striped and beautiful.
While the shots pull, I move to the steam wand. The pitcher is right where it's always been, hanging on the hook to the left. I pour cold milk, remembering Dad's lessons: fill to just below the spout, angle it right, keep the wand just beneath the surface.
The steam wand shrieks as I purge it, then settles into that steady hiss as I begin to steam. The milk swirls and stretches, temperature rising under my palm. I cut the steam at exactly the right moment—140 degrees, never scorching—and the microfoam is glossy and perfect.
I pour slowly, watching the white cascade into the amber espresso, tilting the cup, creating the rosetta pattern that took me months to master in high school. The leaves bloom across the surface, delicate and precise.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” Dad says, grinning as I slide a perfect latte across the counter to Mrs. Henderson.
“Hazel Brennen!” Mrs. Henderson beams, her weathered hands wrapping around the mug. “Look at you, all grown up and beautiful. Welcome home.”
“It’s good to be back.” I smile at her.
She sits down across from me. “And how’s that boyfriend of yours? Your mother mentioned you were seeing a city boy up there.”
The disdainful tone to her voice as she says ‘city boy’ makes me fight back a smile.
“You know how city boys are,” I keep my voice somber, hiding my amusement at her obvious disgust.
“Too fast, I’ll tell you that much.” She shakes her head. “My niece, Georgie—you remember, Georgie? You used to babysit her—she brought home her college boyfriend. All fast talk and no substance I tell you. I told him to chop some wood for the fireplace. The boy couldn’t even pick up an axe.”
I shake my head, clicking my tongue. “How shameful.”
“Exactly!” Mrs. Henderson says loudly, completely unaware of the way I’m biting my tongue trying not to laugh.
My mother shoots me a reproachful look for egging on the older woman. It’s easier to fall into old habits than I thought it seems.
“And what about your city boy?” Mrs. Henderson eyes me. “Tell me you picked one who’s a little capable.”
“She broke up with him,” my father announces as he carries out a tray of freshly washed cups and begins drying them.
“Dad!” I protest, annoyed. Can’t my parents keep one thing to themselves?!
“Oh, freshly single, huh?” The gleam that enters the older woman’s eyes makes me shudder.
“I’m not looking to mingle, Mrs. Henderson.” I put a slice of pumpkin pie before her. “I just came home for Mom and Dad.”
“No reason you can’t do both.” Mrs. Henderson gestures dismissively with her hand. “Besides, the Harvest Festival is coming up. It’s the perfect time to find yourself a nice reliable young man and settle down.”
“She’s here for a month, Mavis,” my mother says ruefully.
Mrs. Henderson winks at her. “Not if she finds herself head over heels for someone.”
“I’m right here, you know,” I remind the two women, dryly.
“You should sign her up as a volunteer for the festival,” Mrs. Henderson says, in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re always looking for people to help. And it’s a fine way to meet single men.”
“Why do I even bother?” I mutter exasperated. “I’m going to go check on the cinnamon rolls.”
Disappearing into the kitchen, I ignore my father’s sympathetic look. I forgot how nosy people in small towns can be.
Word about my arrival spreads quickly in a small town.
Throughout the morning, familiar faces appear—former teachers, old neighbors, parents of childhood friends—all eager to welcome me back and hear about my life in California.
I deflect most questions with vague answers about taking a break from work, but their warmth wraps around me like a security blanket.
The fall menu board catches my eye. Drink of the Day: Pumpkin Spice Latte. Mom’s handwriting is as careful and artistic as ever, each letter perfectly formed. I’m still looking at the board when I nearly trip over a box.
“Who left this here?” I ask, annoyed.