Chapter 4 #2
I turn and there's a girl—early twenties maybe, dark hair chopped short and choppy in a way that screams DIY kitchen scissors at midnight—wearing cutoff jean shorts that have seen better days and a faded band tee.
Her eyeliner is sharp, wings so precise they could be used for geometry lessons, and she's got an architecture of piercings: three in one ear, two in the other, nose ring catching the light.
She's grinning at me like we're already friends.
"So," she says, propping her chin on her hand. "Holt Ward. How's that going?"
I blink at her. "Who are you?"
"Maeve." She says it like I should've known. "I work at Bend Supply during the week, here on weekends, and I've been dying to meet you since you showed up. You're Scout, right? The new girl sleeping in Holt's bed?"
My face goes hot. "I'm not—he's my landlord. And my boss. That's it."
"Sure." She drags the word out. "That's why half the town has a betting pool going."
I choke on my coffee. Actually choke, coughing into my hand. "What?"
"Betting pools." Maeve flags down Sunny for her own coffee, completely unbothered by my crisis. "Mrs. Castellano's got two weeks. Mitch says a month. Rhea's convinced it already happened and you're just being discreet, which honestly, respect if true."
"Nothing happened!" Too loud. Several people at nearby tables glance over. I lower my voice, lean closer. "Nothing's happening. He gave me a room because I needed one. My car died. I'm working for rent. That's the entire story."
"Honey." Maeve accepts coffee from Sunny and starts adding sugar—two spoonfuls, three, four, five, Jesus how much sugar does she need—without breaking eye contact.
"Holt Ward doesn't let anyone into his space.
Ever. I've lived here my whole life and I've never even been inside that loft.
The fact that you're living there? That he gave you his actual bedroom? That's huge."
"He needed someone to answer phones—"
"He could've hired literally anyone who doesn't require housing."
"My car died—"
"And he could've pointed you to a motel.
Could've told you to figure it out yourself.
Could've done any number of things that didn't involve giving you his personal space.
" She takes a sip of coffee, grimaces, adds another spoonful of sugar.
"But he didn't. He took you in. Made sure you had a job and a place to stay.
And I'm willing to bet he's not charging you market rate for that room. "
I open my mouth. Close it. "How do you know what I'm paying?"
"Small town." She shrugs like this is obvious. "Mrs. Whitlow told her daughter who told her husband who told Mitch who told everyone at Gas and Groceries. We don't have secrets here. It's horrifying but also kind of comforting? You get used to it."
"That's horrifying."
"See? You're learning already." She grins. "But seriously, you don't look like you're leaving."
The words slip out before I can stop them. "I'm not."
Her grin widens, satisfaction in every line of it. "Good. We like you. You made Holt smile, which is basically a miracle on par with loaves and fishes. And you give Finn someone to bother besides Holt, which means Holt might actually live past forty without murdering him."
"I haven't seen Holt smile."
She takes another sip. "So what are you doing today? Besides sitting here looking confused and sweaty?"
"Exploring. Seeing what this town looks like beyond the shop and this diner and the stretch of highway where my car died."
"Perfect. I'm off in twenty minutes. I'll show you around."
"You don't have to—"
"Too late. We're friends now. I've decided." She slides off the stool. "Finish your coffee. I'll be back."
She disappears into the kitchen before I can protest, leaving me sitting there with Sunny, who's trying very hard not to laugh.
"Don't fight it," Sunny says, refilling my cup. "You're hers now. Resistance is futile."
"Does anyone in this town understand the concept of boundaries?"
"Not really, no." She pats my hand. "But we mean well. Mostly. Sometimes."
I finish my coffee—add more sugar because if Maeve can drink liquid candy then so can I—and watch the diner flow around me.
Conversations layering over each other, laughter bubbling up from corner booths, the sound of someone's fork scraping against a plate.
It's loud and warm and chaotic in a way that should overwhelm me but doesn't. It just feels alive.
Like the opposite of every careful, controlled, quiet place I've been before.
True to her word, Maeve reappears twenty minutes later, apron off and ready to go.
"Okay!" She's practically bouncing. "Official Coyote Bend tour. You ready?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Nope. Come on."
I pay for the coffee—Sunny tries to wave me off but I insist because I'm not taking charity even if I'm barely surviving financially—and follow Maeve into the heat.
It hits like a wall. Like walking into an oven. Like God personally decided this town didn't deserve reasonable temperatures. The sundress immediately plasters itself back to my skin.
"First stop," Maeve announces, walking fast, "Gas and Groceries. Mitch's place. You'll love him. He's like if Santa Claus was a gossip and also sold lottery tickets."
She's walking at a pace that suggests the heat doesn't affect her, which seems deeply unfair. I'm already sweating in new and creative places while she just strolls along like we're on a pleasant spring morning instead of the surface of the sun.
"So," she says, glancing at me. "How are you really doing? Settling in okay? Because I know what it's like to be new here. Well, I wasn't new, I was born here, but I know what it's like to feel like you don't fit."
"Yeah." The honesty surprises me. "It's weird.
I've been here for only a short time, but it already feels more like home than anywhere I've lived in years.
Which is terrifying because I wasn't planning on staying.
I was just—passing through. Until my car died.
And then Holt gave me a room and Finn made me laugh and now I'm here wearing a sundress in hell's armpit because apparently I live here now? "
"That's Coyote Bend." She grins. "Place gets under your skin. You show up planning to leave and next thing you know you're arguing with Mitch about whether the gas pump works or if it's just slow. You're home before you realize you decided to stay."
"Is that what happened to you?"
"I never left. But I've watched it happen to plenty of people." She bumps my shoulder. "Also, for the record, the sundress is cute. Very 'I'm a functioning human' energy. Holt's probably having a stroke back at the shop."
My face heats. "I'm not—we're not—"
"Relax. I'm teasing." But her eyes are sparkling with mischief. "Mostly."
Gas and Groceries materializes ahead—single pump out front, hand-painted sign, mini-mart attached that looks like it might collapse if you sneeze near it. Maeve pushes through the door and immediately starts grabbing things off shelves.
"You need supplies," she announces, dumping items into my arms. Sunscreen—the good kind, expensive, SPF one million.
Electrolyte drinks in colors that don't exist in nature.
Chips. A candy bar that looks like it's from 1987.
"Hydration is survival out here. Sunscreen is religion.
This candy bar is—actually I don't know what this is but Mitch has had it forever and I want to see if it's still edible. "
"Maeve, I can't—"
"I'm buying. Consider it a welcome gift." She's already moving to the counter where a man in his sixties is grinning at us. He's got skin like leather, a beard that's more gray than not, and eyes that suggest he knows every secret in a fifty-mile radius.
"Well, well," he says. "This the new girl?"
"Scout Adler," Maeve says, dumping everything on the counter. "Scout, this is Mitch. He runs this place, knows everything about everyone, and will absolutely tell you things you didn't ask to know."
"Sounds ominous," I say.
"It's a gift." Mitch rings everything up, studying me with interest. "So you're the one living at Ward's place. How's that going?"
"Fine? Good? Everyone keeps asking me that like it's weird."
"It is weird." He bags the supplies. "Holt doesn't let people in. Doesn't talk much, doesn't share space, keeps to himself. The fact you're in his loft means something."
"It means I needed a room and he had one."
"Sure." He doesn't believe me. "That'll be fifteen dollars, Maeve."
She pays, hands me the bag. "Come on. More stops."
We hit Bend Supply and Feed next—bigger than I expected, proper store with farm equipment and hardware. Maeve introduces me to Patricia, her boss, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the competence of someone who could build a house with her bare hands if she felt like it.
Patricia takes one look at me and smiles. "So you're the one living at Ward's place."
"Why does everyone keep saying it like that?"
"Because it's interesting, honey." She pats my arm. "That boy doesn't let anyone close. The fact you're there means you're special. Whether you know it yet or not."
"I'm just—I'm filing invoices. Answering phones. Normal employee things."
"Sure you are." She exchanges a look with Maeve that I can't interpret. "You're doing great, sweetheart. Keep it up."
We leave and I turn to Maeve. "Does everyone in this town have opinions about my living situation?"
"Yes. That's how small towns work. Everyone has opinions about everything. It's how we pass the time." She's grinning. "Eventually it becomes background noise."
"I don't think I want to get used to it."
"Too late."
We keep walking—the library where the librarian asks if I'm "Holt's girl" and I don't correct her because what would I even say, the post office where there's apparently a package waiting for me—
"Wait," I say, stopping. "I don't get mail here. Nobody knows I'm here."