10. Griffin
Weather Ward:
Hang a bell in a window. It rings when storms approach.
The house still smells like flour and sugar.
My mother never really stopped baking, not even after she sold her bakery.
Nowadays, people get their baked goods from other places, but there was a time everyone in town raved about Anne’s bakery.
She always claimed it was time to retire, but I’ve never quite believed that.
I’ve always had a feeling she did it because my father asked her to.
He retired… so she had to, too.
I hated it, and I tried to talk her out of it, but it was all moot. Eventually, she sold the place and hung up her apron, but I can still see the passion she has for her craft. It’s in the walls. It’s in the way the kitchen hums when the oven’s warming up, like it remembers her hands.
“You don’t need to go all the way to the grocery store,” Mom says for the third time, standing at the counter with a chipped blue bowl in front of her. She’s already tied her apron, hair twisted up with a pencil like she’s about to start a shift instead of breakfast. “I can make do.”
I shrug into my jacket and grin because this dance is older than me. “You’re out of eggs. And butter. And the good vanilla.”
She clicks her tongue. “We have vanilla.”
“The imitation stuff. I’ll get you the good stuff,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be quick.”
From the living room, the television blares a sports channel, commentators already loud though it’s barely eight. My dad’s stretched out in his chair, one arm slung over the armrest, eyes on the screen. He lifts two fingers in a greeting without looking away.
“Drive safe,” Mom calls after me, then adds, softer, “You’re here to visit. Not to run errands.”
“I know,” I tell her, hand on the doorknob. I do know. That’s the problem. Staying still in this house makes memories crowd too close. “Waffles taste better when you don’t compromise.”
She laughs, the sound bright. “You always were dramatic.”
“I learned that from you, Mom.”
Her laughter follows me out.
Outside, the cold bites immediately. It’s the kind that sinks into your knuckles and makes your breath fog. I pause on the porch, keys cold in my palm, and look back at the house.
White siding. The crooked step my dad meant to fix fifteen years ago. The upstairs window that used to be mine, where I’d lie awake listening to storms roll through and swear I’d never leave this town.
Funny how promises change shape.
Mom insisted I stay over when I showed up last night, damp and tired and smelling like smoke. Ever since Molly married and moved to Indiana, the house has felt too big for her. I could see it in the way she hovered, in the extra place set at the table. I didn’t have it in me to argue.
I slide into the car and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, breathing. I outgrew this place, but it still knows me. That cuts both ways.
The drive into town is short. Willowbrook looks scrubbed raw by rain, streets darker with moisture, trees bare-limbed against the pale sky. A few people are out early, bundled up, moving with the slow care that follows a bad night. They nod when they recognize me. A wave here. A lifted chin there.
At the local store, the automatic doors sigh open. The place is nearly empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A bell dings somewhere in the back. It smells like coffee grounds and cardboard.
I grab a cart and start down the aisle, tossing in eggs, butter, real vanilla. Powdered sugar because Mom likes it dusted thick. A carton of milk. Strawberries, even though they’re out of season and expensive. She’ll scold me, but she’ll smile.
I turn the corner too fast and ram my cart straight into another one.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt, hands up.
The other cart rocks back. A hand steadies it.
I look up.
Caroline.
For a second, my brain refuses to catch up.
She’s right there, close enough that I can see the faint pink at the tip of her nose from the cold.
Oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, soft and worn.
Black leggings tucked into boots dusted with salt.
Her hair’s in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face.
She’s holding a bag of cat food against her hip.
Still the sexiest woman I have ever seen. Time doesn’t touch her the way it touches everything else.
“Griffin?” Her eyes widen, then narrow slightly, like she’s making sure I’m real. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” I take a step forward without thinking, then stop myself. There’s a line you don’t cross until you know the ground will hold. “My parents. I’m helping out.”
Someone passes behind us, cart rattling. “Morning,” they call.
“Morning,” Caroline and I answer at the same time. The normalcy of it hits me square in the chest.
She glances down at her cart, then back at me. “You almost took me out.”
“Would’ve been a hell of a reunion story,” I say, aiming for light. My voice feels thicker than it should. “I swear I’m not usually a menace.”
She huffs a laugh despite herself. It’s quick, but it’s there. “You always were.”
I notice the cat food now. Black bag. The good kind. “Still spoiling your cat?”
Her mouth tilts. “Thistle has standards.”
Of course he does. I remember that cat as a kitten, all sharp edges and attitude. “Some things don’t change.”
Her gaze flicks over me, quick and assessing. I’m suddenly very aware of my jacket, my boots, the way Rosehill’s emblem peeks from my collar. A different station. A different life.
“You’re back with Rosehill,” she says.
“Yeah. Been there a while.”
She nods, absorbing it. “I heard they called in extra help.”
“They did.” I hesitate, then add, “I was hoping you were okay. The surge was pretty awful this time around.”
She shifts the cat food to her other hip, and she quickly looks away. “I’m okay. Just tired.”
There’s more under that, but I don’t push. The space between us is already charged enough.
“I should let you shop,” I say, even though I don’t move. “My mom’s waiting on waffles.”
“Anne Clarke’s waffles?” Her brows lift. “That’s not something you rush.”
“Exactly.”
Another beat passes. The store feels too small, too bright. People shouldn’t see us together. It would lead to wagging tongues.
“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “It was… good to see you.”
It’s like she read my fucking mind.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It was.”
I watch her turn her cart, boots scuffing softly against the floor. She pauses, glances back over her shoulder.
“Griffin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re here.” The words come out measured, careful. “Even if it’s just to help.”
Something eases in my chest at that. “Me too.”
She nods once, then pushes away down the aisle.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at a shelf of cereal I don’t need, heart knocking against my ribs. Being in the same place as her after all this time feels unreal. Like stepping into a photograph.
I force myself to move, finish my list, and head for the register. As I leave, the cold slaps me awake again. I load the groceries into the car, hands a little clumsy.
Driving back, I catch sight of her through the store window, talking to the clerk, head tipped back in a smile. The image settles somewhere deep.
Some towns never really let you go.
I thought that leaving this town meant I would get over the only girl that I’ve ever loved.
I guess I was wrong.