Chapter 7
seven
LAILA
I’d forgotten about Fridays in Enchanted Hollow during high school football season. Friday carries a certain magic anyway, but when you add the extra layer of school spirit to the mix, it’s truly something.
I settle further into Holden’s hoodie that I stole, well aware of how frumpy I look. But I don’t care, because I’m not working and it’s like wearing my own safety blanket.
Homecoming’s tonight, and part of me knows I should be out there.
But walking into those stands would feel like summoning ghosts—the girl I was before we left, and the boy who used to wait for me after every game.
We’re not them anymore, but sometimes I still miss who we were.
Maybe that’s why I’m hiding here instead.
I came into Once Upon a Brew for yet another delicious concoction while I work, but now I’m just people watching.
Basically, making up stories about every person who passes by the massive window by the sidewalk.
People have always intrigued me. Learning about how we work and the psychology behind our decisions led me to become an influencer.
The free stuff didn’t hurt either. It just made it easier to ignore the noise for a while.
But then my mom got her fingers into it, and it became… less.
Less interesting. Less fun. Less… everything.
Walking into Holden’s bakery a few days ago was the first time in months that something felt normal. I can usually go longer stretches before my world goes topsy-turvy, but ever since last December, nothing feels like it’s enough.
I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m balancing a bigger workload than ever.
It could be because I’m chasing the dopamine hit I get every time I post on my secret account, and people love it. All the top gurus scream about what trends to chase and what viewers want, but in my experience, they’re only half right.
Yes, people want to feel angry, sad, or happy. It all drives views. But there’s a shift happening. People are tired of volatility; they want comfort. They’re reaching for nostalgia—something warm, safe, familiar. A simpler time when they could just exist.
A life without filters.
It’s ironic that the very thing Holden asked me for in Sweetheart Springs—to stop pretending and embrace our reality—is exactly what I’m trying to do with this new business.
My vibe for this account is a work in progress. I don’t want it to feel like what I do for Gilded Vows or what I do on my regular account. The end goal isn’t more followers or money or sales.
I simply want to share what makes me happy.
The “sweet” Holden always asks me about.
Maybe that’s a story about a family with a Tex-Mex food truck and some of the best street corn you’ve ever had in your life. Maybe it’s a photo of a fall-flavored coffee with clever foam art.
Truthfully, I think the bottom line is that choosing to experience a fake honeymoon with Holden changed me on a fundamental level.
I’ve been straddling both worlds ever since, and I don’t think I can do it anymore.
But I don’t know how to make the shift.
I don’t know what my purpose is, or how to find it. I do think I know what I should name my account, though: Sweet Things.
My iPad signals an incoming video call, so I tuck an earbud in my ear and press ‘accept’. Henry Gilmore’s face fills the screen.
“I was thinking,” he says by way of hello.
“You do that a lot.”
Henry is a folklore professor turned accidental mentor. I ended up in his inbox after binge-watching several of his videos on small-town myths and the way they shape people who visit those places. Somehow, we became fast friends.
He’s the one person I can brainstorm with—from a business standpoint—without feeling managed or like he’s expecting something from me.
I chuckle at his rumpled appearance and the stack of papers covering his workspace. The man is always knee-deep in something interesting.
“I was thinking about our conversation—finding a focus for your account. You don’t think you have one, but guess what, Buttercup? You do.”
I shift in my booth, half-dreading his insight. Henry is safely unattached to the idea of love, fascinated only by the stories it creates. But his way of seeing patterns—in myth, in people—always hits too close to home.
Holden and I have a pattern of our own, but it's shifting. And I don’t know what that means.
“And what do you think that is?” I ask.
He smacks his hand on a stack of papers, and some rogue Post-its go flying. “Modern folklore.”
“I’m sorry, what now?”
“Every small town has its rituals, Laila. They disguise them as festivals—fall, Christmas, etc. Enchanted Hollow has wishing wells and enchanted mailboxes. You already know this, but people don’t actually want trends, Laila. They want meaning disguised as something pretty.”
I lift my coffee, pausing halfway to my mouth. “Meaning disguised as aesthetics. That’s sort of brilliant. You should do a lecture on that.”
“Who says you haven’t inspired one?” He smiles.
“Folklore is narrative—it’s lessons dressed up as a story.
Take Hansel and Gretel—ignore the starvation bit—but the heart of it is about surviving what tries to destroy you.
” He moves some papers around and absently rubs at a spot above his eyebrow, leaving behind a smear of black ink.
“Henry, you’ve got a—”
“The story has changed a couple of times, but the overall lesson is clear. It’s about parental abandonment. These kids survive a witch. The point, despite how morbid the different versions are, is that they overcome adversity.”
I take another sip of my drink and nod. “Are you trying to tell me that pumpkin-spice reels are metaphorical breadcrumbs, Henry?”
“Exactly. You’re showing people how to find home again. We’ve talked about the shift you’ve noticed—well, you’re pandering to it in a pretty cool way, if you ask me.”
My chest tightens. He can’t know how much that means to me. Not really.
But when the call ends, I catch my reflection in the darkened window—me, in Holden’s hoodie, in my hometown—and I realize maybe I’ve already started finding my way home again. I just haven’t admitted it yet.