30. Homecoming
Homecoming
Home turned out to be both places.
They stopped first at the house on Athens Street, a symbolic act as much as anything.
Jenna stared up at the familiar front porch, the crisp blue shutters, the curve of the live oak out front.
She had always loved this house. Today, it loved her back.
“Officially Hart S Cruz Estates, LLC,” Emmie said, trying out the pretend name. “Unauthorized entry by Baileys punishable by death.”
“Em,” Jenna said, but there was no heat in it.
“Too dark?” Emmie asked.
“Just dark enough,” Cole said.
They didn’t stay long. Just enough for Jenna to step inside, stand in the kitchen, and whisper a wobbly, “We did it, Gracie,” to the empty air.
Then they crossed Athens Street and headed toward the bakery.
The Blue Cypress looked the same as it had the day of the rally, sign bright, windows gleaming, the distinct scent of sugar and coffee already drifting out to meet them.
But it felt different now.
More theirs.
Steph was waiting behind the counter with Nicole when they walked in, like they’d been standing there all morning.
“Well?” Steph demanded, wiping her hands on a towel. “Do we bake a cake or burn something down?”
“A cake,” Jenna said. “Definitely a cake.”
“Good,” Nicole said. “Because I think we’re on a burn ban . . . burning things requires permits right now.”
They cheered when Jenna told them, Steph actually slamming a hand on the counter and yelling, “YES!” loud enough to startle the two customers in the corner.
Emmie grabbed a marker and marched over to the little whiteboard where Steph had written “TODAY’S FLAVORS.” In big block letters, she added:
PARTITION FREE SINCE 2018
Then, underneath, in smaller print:
FUCK TROY
“Subtle,” Cole commented.
Someone produced a bottle of sparkling grape juice from the back, Nicole, probably. She had a sixth sense about these things. There were also paper cups, because of course there were.
Jenna found herself with a cup in her hand, surrounded by the people who had kept this place afloat for months, her staff, her niece, and the man who had patiently dismantled some of her walls while helping her rebuild everything else.
Cole cleared his throat. “Can I?” he started.
Steph waved a hand. “Contractor Guy gets a toast,” she said. “But if you make me cry, you’re cleaning it up.”
He lifted his cup slightly.
“To Jenna,” he said simply. “Who could’ve walked away.
Who could’ve let this place be someone else’s problem.
But she didn’t. She stayed. She fought. She made spreadsheets.
” A ripple of laughter spread through the group.
“And she let us stand with her. This bakery may have Hart on the deed, but it belongs to all of us because she let us love it with her.”
Jenna’s eyes stung.
“To Emmie,” he added, turning slightly, “who declared war on apathy, weaponized the Rotary Club, and reminded all of us that anger can be holy if you point it in the right direction.”
Emmie sniffed, cheeks pink.
“And . . . to Grace,” he said, softer now. “Whose fingerprints are on every inch of this place. We did this for her. But we also did it for them.” He nodded at Jenna and Emmie. “So they don’t have to lose one more thing.”
They all raised their cups. “To Grace,” voices echoed.
The juice was sweet, fizzy, and perfect.
Once the staff drifted back to work, Nicole turned up the music while Steph started mixing a batter for what she was calling “Justice Jam Bars” and “Freedom Frosting Rolls”.
Emmie disappeared into the office to text every person she’d ever met.
That left Jenna and Cole near the front window, cups empty, plates crumb-dusted, and the afternoon light slanting in around them.
For the first time all day, it was quiet.
“We’ll erase the expletives off the board later,” he said. “Emmie’s earned her thirty seconds of victory gloating.”
She smiled. “I don’t know where she learned that language!”
They stood there for a moment, watching a kid lick frosting off a cupcake at the corner table.
“You know,” Jenna said, almost conversationally, “this is the part where I’m probably supposed to sit with my feelings instead of immediately burying myself in work.”
“What are the feelings?” he asked.
She considered it. “Relief,” she said. “Grief. Gratitude. Terror.”
He nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“And . . .” she hesitated, “something else I’m not sure I should say out loud in front of the pastry case.”
He angled toward her, curiosity and something warmer in his eyes. “I like dangerous bakery thoughts.”
Her heart thudded.
She hadn’t planned to say it today. She hadn’t planned to say it at all yet. But there was something about final judgments, gavel taps, and seeing their names alone on property records that made her want to stop waiting for the perfect moment.
There was no such thing. “Cole?”
“Yeah?”
She met his eyes.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
The words hung there between them: soft, certain, irrevocable.
For a heartbeat, he just looked at her, like he was letting the moment land. Then his mouth curved, slow and sure.
“I know,” he said, voice low. Then, gentler, “You too.”
A startled laugh slipped out of her, breathy and warm, and he laughed with her before leaning in. Their lips met, the kiss soft but sure, the kind that settled something instead of setting it on fire.
“I love you,” he said, each word deliberate.
For the first time, the future didn’t feel like a cliff. It felt like a road.
Messy. Winding. But hers.