Avalon
Clarke had been right—as usual—about Opal Springs taking Pelican Fly Day seriously.
The entire town was drenched in bright yellows and soft oranges, even though summer had officially ended a few days earlier.
Banners fluttered from every storefront, and pelican-themed decorations clung to every available surface.
Bakeries and shops displayed special treats shaped like the birds this unofficial holiday celebrated.
In the surrounding lots, trailers and vans unloaded show ponies and horses destined for the auction. Clarke had told me most of the proceeds would go toward rebuilding the town — expanding the high school gym, lengthening the football field. It felt like everyone had a hand in making today happen.
By the time we were finally ready to head into town, I could barely contain my excitement.
I’d asked Mrs. King if Melody could come with us, but she wisely declined.
Colton and Delia’s wedding was only days away, and Melly needed to save her strength.
Two big outings would drain her completely.
I promised I’d bring her something special.
Clarke tried to keep a brave face, but I knew today was going to hurt. Artemis’s new buyers would be at the auction, ready to take her home. Clarke had spent most of last night in the barn with her — it must’ve been close to four in the morning when she finally crawled into bed beside me.
Mr. King and Colton had left before sunrise, their trucks kicking up gravel as they drove off with empty trailers—all except one horse. Mrs. King stayed home with Melody, leaving Clarke, Delia, and me to haul all the baked goods into town in Clarke’s shiny Bronco.
Delia sat in the backseat, still buried in wedding plans, tapping her pen against her notebook the entire drive.
Clarke’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her mind clearly somewhere else.
I wanted to say something—anything—to help, but nothing felt right.
Words couldn’t change the buyer’s mind. Words couldn’t make this easier.
I could tell her Artemis would be happy with her new owners, but how could she be happier anywhere else when Clarke was all she’d ever known?
So instead, I stared out the window at the passing fields. The leaves were beginning to change, drifting from their branches and leaving the trees bare.
The drive dragged on in silence—just static on the radio and Delia’s pen tapping. When we finally reached Opal Springs, Clarke’s mood had softened a little. Halfway through the drive, she’d taken my hand and traced slow circles across my skin with her thumb.
“Hey… can we just sit for a minute?” she asked once Delia leapt out of the car, announcing she was going to find Colton before the auction got too hectic.
I looked up from my seatbelt and met Clarke’s eyes. They were puffy, rimmed with red. Her grip on my hand tightened.
“Yes, of course.” I shifted in my seat, tucking my boots beneath me and resting my knees on the console. “What’s wrong.”
It was a stupid question—I knew exactly what was wrong—but I wanted her to have the space to say it herself.
Clarke sniffled, dragging her thumb beneath her nose before folding her hands together. “I don’t want to go to the auction house,” she whispered. “I don’t want to see my Artemis hauled off to some other state.”
I squeezed her hand. “I know, honey.”
“I don’t want her to be treated badly,” she cried.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she tried wiping them away.
“They won’t know she hates storms, or that she needs someone to stand outside her stall while she eats breakfast—” Her voice cracked.
“No one knows her better than me. And he thinks he can just give her away? It’s not fair. ”
This time, she didn’t bother trying to stop the tears. I cupped her face gently; her tears cool against my palm. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She blinked slowly, trying to steady herself. “And with Melody getting worse… Artemis has been my only comfort. Until you, of course. It’s not—it’s not right or fair, but I can’t keep crying over spilled milk.”
My heart stuttered at those words. Until you. Until you. Until me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I blurted, an idea forming. Clarke looked up, lashes clumped with tears, cheeks flushed pink.
“I can’t—the baked goods—”
I laughed and kissed her nose. “Delia can handle it. She’ll probably take over anyway. That girl loves being everyone’s boss.”
A small smile tugged at Clarke’s mouth—faint, but real. I held onto it like a lifeline.
“Come on,” I urged, unbuckling and stepping out of the Bronco. Clarke followed, and soon both our boots hit the ground.
“Where are we going?” she asked, slipping her hand into mine.
“The library,” I said brightly—then frowned. “But you’ll have to show me where it is. You know this place way better than I do.”
She laughed softly, her voice still thick from crying. “It’s this way.”
Inside the library—which doubled as the elementary school—Clarke whispered, “Okay, what are we doing here?”
I followed the librarian’s directions toward the archives, weaving past the fiction and romance sections. I hadn’t realized Opal Springs had so many books, but I guess that’s what happens when you live somewhere with terrible cell service and worse cable.
“It’s Pelican Fly Day,” I said, pulling a heavy book from the shelf and nearly stumbling under its weight. “So why not learn the history of the holiday?”
Clarke rolled her eyes. “Avalon, I know the history. I explained it to you the first week you were here.”
I nodded. “And you remember what you told me about Sonja and that doctor?”
Her brows furrowed—then shot up. “You want to figure out who he was?” She hurried to my side, scanning the page. “I never thought to come down here to find out.”
“What year am I looking for?” I asked, flipping through the thick, dusty pages.
“1864, I think,” she said. “Yeah—I remember learning about the Civil War at the same time.”
I flipped to the tabbed section and skimmed the pages until something caught my eye—a newspaper clipping from that winter, accompanied by a photograph.
A pale-haired woman with soft features held an enormous pelican in her arms. Behind her stood a man—presumably, the doctor—wearing a short-brimmed hat and a stethoscope. His hand rested lightly on her elbow; a faint smile carved into his face.
Beside me, Clarke sighed and stepped back. “I’m not sure what I expected. The doctor was just a man. A regular schmegular man.”
“Schmegular is not a real word,” I laughed, following her to the window. “I’m sorry we didn’t find what you were looking for.”
She shrugged, folding her arms. Her face fell again—her thoughts drifting back to Artemis. I hadn’t distracted her after all.
“Hey,” I whispered, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. I tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and cupped her cheeks. “Don’t think about it. I’m banning that thought from your head.”
Clarke laughed softly, her hands settling at my waist. “Banning it, huh?” The twang in her voice made butterflies erupt in my stomach.
“No more thoughts about buying or selling horses. No more thoughts about regular, schmegular male doctors.” I kissed the tip of her nose.
She hummed and pulled me closer, her warmth wrapping around me. “I thought you said that wasn’t a real word.”
I shrugged, smiling. “It can be whatever you want it to be. Just like today. Whatever you want—” I pointed a finger at her, inches from her face. “—as long as it’s not moping or sulking or crying.”
She threw her head back in a full-bodied King laugh—the same one her father had, the same one Colton had, the same one Melody had when she was strong enough. The one I had come to love and wait for.
“Yes ma’am.”
I kissed her, wanting to drown in her. “Mmm,” I murmured against her lips, “say that again.”
The Saturday of Colton and Delia’s wedding arrived faster than I expected, and for reasons I couldn’t quite name, I was nervous. I wasn’t the one getting married, but a tight knot of energy sat coiled in my stomach anyway.
Clarke and I spent the few short days leading up to it cramming in every spare second we had away from Delia and her never-ending list of to-dos, working on our album.
One afternoon, we ended up on the floor of her music booth, surrounded by half-finished lyrics, two guitars, and one giant stress ball she kept launching at the ceiling whenever she got stuck.
She chewed on the tip of her pen—the teeth marks looked like they’d survived several albums—and tapped out a rhythm on her knee.
“Try it slower,” she murmured, leaning in as I hummed a melody.
She matched it, then shifted it, then added a harmony so soft it felt like a secret.
For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist—not the accident, not the wedding, not the ache sitting heavy in both our chests. Just the music. Just us.
Finding inspiration was easy when your muse sat across from you at dinner. Or laughed at your stupid jokes. Or held your hand during thunderstorms. Clarke and her family were so vividly painted into every line I wrote I might as well have become Leonardo da Vinci.
Melody sat in on some days, or rather Clarke and I set up camp in her room. She helped with more than she would ever know, and in the evenings, when we were all too tired to even think of writing another word, we curled up—one on each side of her—and fell asleep to the sounds of the TV.
And while the ridiculous feeling of anxiety continued to burrow in my belly, the rest of the King family moved through the morning with their usual calm. We all woke at our normal times despite staying up late drinking and laughing at the rehearsal dinner.
Mrs. King made breakfast as she always did, and we ate together — minus Melody, who was saving her strength for the ceremony.