Sparkly heels are a practical life choice
Chapter two
Penny
The train slows gradually as it pulls into the station, the brakes kicking in with a low grind that rumbles through the carriage floor.
I’m already reaching for my bag before it stops entirely, pulling it down from the rack and slinging the strap over my shoulder as the train jolts forward that last little bit.
Around me, people move at an unhurried pace.
No one is rushing or pushing for the doors like they might miss their chance if they don’t get there first.
Once the doors slide open with a hiss, the cold air hits immediately. It’s sharp enough to make me blink as I step down onto the platform, but somehow it feels cleaner than the city cold. It doesn’t cling or feel like it’s trying to get under my skin the way it does in Toronto.
“Okay,” I mumble to myself as my boots crunch lightly against the frozen platform. “I can work with cold.”
Probably.
Maybe.
I adjust the strap of my bag and take a few more steps away from the train, my eyes moving over the platform to take it in properly for the first time.
There’s a handful of people grabbing their things and moving on like they’ve got time to spare.
A guy a few steps ahead of me drags a suitcase that keeps catching in the slush, and someone further down the platform laughs easily, like they’ve got no worries in the world.
No one waiting to ruin their day or tell them they’re not good enough, or they’re the reason for some sort of inconvenience.
I glance down at my boots, with a scuff already marking the toe, and let a breath out. No one knows me here. I don’t have to pretend, or brace for a sideways comment or a pointed stare that says I’ve failed at something I didn’t even know I was being measured for.
My gaze moves over the platform more casually this time. There’s a sign bolted to the wall that reads MAPLEWOOD, sitting just slightly crooked as though whoever put it up decided that was close enough.
“Yeah.” A quiet laugh escapes me. “I like it here already.”
It feels normal. Welcoming somehow, despite the cold. I’m not used to that.
I reach into my pocket for my phone out of habit, thumb brushing the edge of it before I stop myself. It would be easy. Pull up maps and directions, let the screen guide me exactly where to go without having to think, without the risk of making the wrong choice and disappointing someone.
But where’s the adventure in that?
Instead, I tug my hand back out and shift my bag higher on my shoulder, falling into step behind the others heading toward the station doors.
Inside, it’s just as quiet. A ticket window sits empty behind the glass, and there’s a bench seat against the wall that looks like it’s been there a while, with a map pinned up above it.
I pause in front of it, skimming it without really taking anything in. It doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out. I have to, because there’s nobody else left to decide things for me or nudge me toward what suits them.
For the first time in years, what I do next is entirely mine.
With a deep inhale, I turn and push through the exit doors and step out onto the sidewalk. The cold bites a little sharper now that I’m not moving with a crowd around me, and I shove my hands back into my pockets.
The street stretches out in front of me, and I take it in the details for the first time. Low, pretty brick buildings sit along the road, and maple trees line the sidewalk. It’s completely at odds with the harshness I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Alright, Maplewood,” I say under my breath, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin a little higher. “You’re my fresh start. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Then I start walking.
I make it about ten steps before I realize I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
“Strong start,” I mutter.
The street slopes down into what I assume is the main part of town, so I follow it on instinct alone. Worst case, I loop back and pretend I meant to take the scenic route.
It’s quiet, but not in a dead way, and I fall into an easy pace without really thinking about it. It’s strange how quickly it happens. In the city, you move fast or you get swallowed up. Here, it feels as though I’d look like a psycho if I rushed around too quickly.
If I were still in Toronto, I’d probably be halfway through a twelve-hour day by now. Same towering glass building, same cold, polished office. Same people repeating the same conversations that never really went anywhere.
No one cares how you feel, Penelope. They care how you make them look.
A bell chimes as I pass a café, the door swinging open just long enough to spill out a rush of warm air and the smell of coffee. Real coffee. Not the burnt, train-station-desperate kind. Someone laughs brightly from inside, and for a second, I catch myself slowing, tempted to venture in.
“Don’t,” I tell myself quietly. “Focus.”
Food, caffeine, and poor decision-making by way of sweet pastries feel like such great choices right now. Still, I have things to do first, like finding somewhere to sleep. I take three more steps, then stop.
“Five minutes wouldn’t hurt…”
I’ve made far worse decisions with far less justification in the past.
I glance back at the door, weighing it up like this is a serious life choice, then force my head back in front of me.
“No, Penny. Later,” I decide. “We’re doing it later.”
A block further down, a dog darts out from between two parked cars, skidding on an icy patch of sidewalk before righting itself. It pauses, tail beating happily, then takes off again as someone barrels after it.
“Scout! Get back here!”
The dog ignores the voice completely.
“Scout, you chaotic maniac!”
A small smile pulls at my mouth as I step around the same patch of ice, watching the owner careen after his excited escape artist. My dad would’ve loved it here. It’s the exact type of charming he used to love.
My eyes catch on a sign across the street—it’s a bar, with a dark-painted exterior and a sign hanging above the door that says ‘Neverland’ in looping text.
“Dangerous,” I huff under my breath. “We’ll circle back to that one when we’re feeling more emotionally stable.”
Which is… definitely not now.
The vague smell of smoke hits me a second later, lingering in the air as I cross the intersection.
I glance down the side street where the buildings thin out, opening up into what looks like a park.
A frozen lake spreads out like glass, with dark, charred patches breaking through the white around the edges. Bonfire remains, probably.
I’m not surprised. A small town like this at the start of a fresh year with a pretty lake—I’d bet money they’d celebrated with mulled wine, fireworks, and probably butter tarts. I’m kinda sad I missed it.
My gaze drifts back toward the town buildings, landing briefly on the clock tower rising above them.
It’s not huge, but it stands out, the face of it visible from the street.
The minute hand creeps forward if I watch closely enough.
A constant reminder that time’s moving, even if it feels like it isn’t.
I keep walking.
A woman steps out in front of me, from another café called Flora’s, balancing a tray of coffees that immediately starts to wobble.
“Oh—nope—no—”
I move before she finishes the sentence, grabbing the tray before it tips.
“Here,” I say, steadying it with a soft smile. “I got it.”
She laughs a little breathlessly as she wrestles her keys out of her coat pocket. “Thank you. I absolutely did not have that under control.”
“Convincing performance, though,” I tell her, holding it level while she unlocks her car.
“I try.” She shoots me a quick smile before pausing on me properly, tilting her head. “You’re new.”
I hesitate for a fraction before nodding. “Is it that obvious?”
“Small town,” she says with a shrug. “We notice.”
“Good to know,” I murmur, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ll work on my blending-in skills.”
“You’ll get there.” She grins, taking the coffees back once the door’s open. “You heading somewhere specific?”
“Currently wandering with intent,” I admit. “Trying to find somewhere I can stay for a bit.”
Her brows draw together momentarily before she purses her lips thoughtfully.
“There’s a motel a couple blocks that way.” She points down a side street in the next block. “Nothing fancy, but it’s clean.”
“That’s exactly what I’m after,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Tell ’em Remi sent you.” She slides into the car, then pauses. “And welcome to Maplewood. Hope you enjoy your time here.”
I step back with a smile, raising a hand in thanks as I watch her drive off, then I turn in the direction she pointed.
“I hope I enjoy my time here too,” I echo under my breath.
The street Remi pointed me down is quieter than the main stretch, but not empty. A couple of cars are parked along the curb, and halfway down, there’s a low building with a faded sign out front
that reads ‘Maplewood Motel’ in peeling blue lettering.
I slow a little.
“Well,” I murmur. “At least it’s self-aware.”
It’s not bad, exactly. Probably the kind of place that’s seen a lot of people come and go, and gave up trying to impress anyone about ten years ago.
And honestly, I respect that. After years of feeling like my entire existence was about managing impressions and being agreeable enough to avoid harsh whispers behind my back, this kind of authenticity feels oddly refreshing.
I push open the reception door and venture inside. There’s a counter at the front with a laminated surface that’s seen better days, a rack of brochures no one’s touched in a while, and a heater humming quietly in the corner.
Behind the desk, a woman in her fifties looks up from a crossword puzzle, pen still poised in her hand. She takes me in with one quick glance—my bag, my boots, the fact I’m very clearly not from around here.
“You looking for a room?” she asks.
“No,” I say cheerily, stepping up to the counter. “I just thought I’d pop in and admire the décor.”
There’s a beat, and her mouth twitches.