Chapter 6
Callie
Packing after a weekend like this always feels a little depressing. You can always tell when it’s the last day—the laughter’s softer, the music quieter.
The dishes are rinsed and stacked in the sink, the counters wiped down, the table bare except for the salt and pepper shakers at the center.
Towels are still hanging over the railing, dripping lake water and rainwater onto the porch. Brad and Luke are loading the trucks, Mitch is cleaning the fire pit area up, Macy’s cleaning the bathroom, Maddie’s vacuuming the bedrooms, and I’m just kinda floating around helping everyone.
“Can I take this cooler out?” Luke calls, one of Maddie’s bags hung over his shoulder.
“Check the freezer!” Macy yells from the bathroom.
I’m knelt by my duffel in the bedroom now, zipping it shut, when Mitch’s voice drifts through the room.
“You need help with that?”
He’s leaning against the frame, hair still messy from the wind that keeps picking up. His voice is quiet, almost shy, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that makes my heart twist.
“I got it,” I say, forcing a smile.
He nods, like he expected that, and takes a step back.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You sleep okay?”
“Eventually,” he says. “Took a while to fall asleep with all that thunder.”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Same.”
Our eyes meet, and it’s too quiet, too easy to remember how close we were again last night—his voice low, his lips brushing mine before Luke came barreling down the stairs.
Maddie’s voice breaks in. “You done in here, Callie?” She’s hauling the vacuum behind her, the hundred-foot cord all tangled up with her.
“Yeah,” I say, quickly slinging my duffel over my shoulder and grabbing my other small car bag and the folded blanket from the dresser.
By the time everything’s cleaned up, packed, and the house is locked, we’re hugging each other like we won’t see one another for years—like we won’t probably end up at the creek fishing by midweek anyway.
We split into the trucks the same way we came. Luke and Maddie in his. The rest of us in Mitch’s.
Mitch slams the tailgate closed with the heel of his hand, his hat turned backwards. Luke honks as he pulls out first, Maddie’s arm hanging out the window, waving until they disappear around the bend.
Brad rides shotgun, and Macy and I are getting comfortable in the back seat. Brad’s reaching for the radio before his door’s even shut.
Mitch follows Luke, tires crunching over gravel as we ease down the narrow drive. The road dips between the trees, sunlight flickering through the branches, the smell of the lake slowly fading with every mile.
My fingers tap absently against my knee, keeping time with “Small Town” by John Mellencamp. Brad hums along and Macy scrolls through her phone.
Every so often, Mitch glances at me in the rearview mirror. It’s quick, subtle, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.
But I am.
And every single time, those familiar butterflies take off in my stomach all over again.
* * *
By the time we hit the outskirts of Holland Valley, the truck smells like Funyuns, Dr Pepper, and the faintest trace of mint gum, now mixed with that familiar Holland Lake air that’s somehow so much different than the kind up at the lake house.
Macy’s got her knees pulled up, earbuds in, eyes closed, completely gone.
Brad’s scrolling on his phone, the speakers turned down now but his playlist still alive—“Drive” by Alan Jackson rolling through the cab, the kind of song that makes you want to miss your turn and keep going.
When we pull onto Brad’s street, Macy slips one earbud out just long enough to mumble a goodbye.
Brad thanks Mitch for the ride, hops out, grabs his bag from the back, and heads toward his house without looking back.
I slide into the passenger seat, and Mitch laughs under his breath at the switch.
Macy doesn’t care; she stretches her legs out with a groan, tight from being crammed in the back seat, earbuds already back in as she leans her head against the window and disappears again.
Mitch catches my eye again, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
The road hums under the tires. Holland Valley spreads out around us—porches draped with hanging ferns, the sound of lawn mowers somewhere in the distance, the early afternoon sun spilling gold through the trees.
When we pass Lulu’s Ice Cream, there’s a line out the door, everyone still in their church clothes, kids running with melting cones. Typical small-town Sunday.
Then we turn onto my street. The sight of all the cars out front hits like a jolt—Mom’s SUV, Dad’s truck, the pickup belonging to Josie’s fiancé, Tanner. I forgot they were coming for lunch.
Mitch whistles low. “Looks like you’ve got quite the welcome party.”
I groan. Josie’s going to clock my guilty face before I even make it up the steps. He eases the truck into a spot along the curb and kills the engine.
“I’ll grab your bag,” Mitch says, already opening his door.
I glance back at Macy. “Love ya,” I say, half-joking.
She blows me a kiss. “Love you too.”
I laugh and push my door open. It squeaks, loud in the quiet, and gravel crunches under my flip-flops as I step down. Mitch drags my duffel across the truck bed, then turns to look at me, bag hanging at his side.
I walk closer, instinctively angling us out of view from the house.
“You okay?” he asks.
It’s not that I’m not. It’s just…different now. Off-balance. Sneaking around felt easy up at the lake—contained, insulated by water and woods and the fact that it was just us. But here, back home, it feels heavier. Because it’s not just four friends we’d be hiding from. It’s the whole town.
And it’s not that I’m scared of people seeing us together. If they assumed we were dating, that part wouldn’t be so bad.
It’s the after. The “what if we don’t work.”
The explanations. The looks. The way everyone would suddenly feel entitled to an opinion.
Luke and Maddie can get away with being obvious—Maddie wasn’t part of the group until she started dating him. But Mitch and me? We’re already woven into everything. Every memory. Every tradition. Every summer.
If this goes wrong, it doesn’t just hurt us, it cracks everything around us too.
“Calliope,” he says, and my heart stumbles.
“Don’t,” I whisper, laughing under my breath. “You sound like my dad.”
He grins faintly. “You’re spaced out. You’re not answering me.”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks on the word. “Just…not ready to walk in there and pretend nothing happened.”
He studies me for a long moment, then shifts his weight. Sunlight catches the edge of his jaw, his shoulders still red with sunburn, the clean scent of his deodorant lingering between us.
“Least you don’t have to pretend when it’s just us,” he says quietly.
My pulse trips over itself. For a second, it feels like he might kiss me again, right here, but I know he won’t. Instead, he lifts the duffel toward me, snapping me out of the moment.
“Thanks for the ride,” I murmur.
“Anytime.”
He slams the tailgate shut and I head toward the porch. I glance through the window of the truck. Macy’s still in the back seat, earbuds in, completely oblivious.
When I open the front door, I hear Dad talking followed by Tanner’s laugh. Josie’s nearby, digging through her purse, which is hanging by the front door.
“No goodbye kiss?” she jokes, and I feel my cheeks burn instantly.
“Oh my gosh.” She nudges me. “Breathe, Callie, I’m just kidding.”
I let out a breath and laugh it off before I take my bags straight up the stairs.