Chapter 49
Chapter forty-nine
Brynn
There are certain rules to shopping at Lowery’s Market in Cedar Falls.
Rule number one: never show up without makeup unless I’m emotionally prepared to run into the mayor, my fifth-grade math teacher, and the guy who once saw me throw up at the fall festival pie-eating contest.
Rule number two: Avoid Lowery’s between ten and noon on Saturdays unless I’m in the mood to get verbally tackled by the Cedar Falls gossip militia—led, as always, by Haddie Carmichael.
I should know better.
And yet, here I am—in leggings, an oversized sweater, and exactly zero makeup—with a basket containing only coffee creamer, strawberries, and a box of frozen waffles. Breakfast of someone wildly unprepared to fend off attacks.
I’m mid-debate in the yogurt aisle—Greek versus Belgian—when I hear the unmistakable sound of Haddie’s heels clicking across the linoleum like a gossip countdown.
“Brynn Marlow, is that you?”
I freeze like I’ve just been caught committing a felony. “Hi, Mrs. Carmichael,” I say, forcing a smile as I turn slowly, like maybe if I move gently enough, she won’t detect weakness.
She’s in full Haddie regalia—lipstick too red for 10 a.m., pearls the size of gobstoppers, and a sun hat that could double as a UFO. Of course she’s carrying a clipboard while shopping for canned corn. She always has an agenda.
She leans in like she’s about to whisper nuclear codes. “I saw you leaving Knox Dalton’s house the other morning.”
Well, that escalated quickly.
“I—uh—was just…dropping off muffins?” I manage.
“Without a bra?” she counters, one penciled brow arching like it’s auditioning for Broadway.
How the fuck? My brain scrambles to respond. “It was early. The muffin emergency was dire.”
She grins like a cat who’s just opened a fresh gossip buffet. “You don’t have to be shy, sweetheart. People are very interested in your little situation.”
“My…situation?”
“Of course! I run the Cedar Falls Facebook page, remember? I know things before the post office does. I’ve already had three people message me asking if Knox is off the market.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because what does one even say to that? Congratulations? Please stop surveilling my love life like it’s election night?
She tsks, adjusting her hat. “You two were adorable in high school. Very photogenic. But Debbie—now Debbie and Knox would be magnetic.”
“Debbie?” I echo, wary.
“My granddaughter,” she says proudly. “She moved back after that brief stint in Nashville where she almost made it on American Idol. They called her ‘The Rhinestone Thunderstorm.’”
“That sounds…intense.”
“She’s passionate,” Haddie says with a wink. “And tall. Very firm opinions about leather pants. I think she’d be a good match for Knox. She’s got dominant energy.”
I choke on my own spit.
“She told me she’d make him ‘howl like a linebacker in a lightning storm.’” Haddie fans herself. “Not entirely sure what that means, but she was wearing fringe at the time, so I think it was meant as a compliment.”
I stare. Speechless.
“And you know,” she adds, voice dropping to a whisper, “she’s got very healthy childbearing hips.”
I gag.
“Well, not that he needs to settle down,” she says, breezing on, “but I’ve got a feeling he’s finally ready. You can only eat so many sad bachelor dinners before you realize you need a good woman to fold your towels properly.”
I grit my teeth and offer the most noncommittal smile in human history. “That’s…definitely a perspective.”
“Anyway,” she says, tapping her clipboard, “I won’t post anything just yet. But if things are heating up between you two—oh honey, you better make it official before someone else puts it in the group chat.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I mumble, tighter than intended.
She gives me a bright, knowing smile. “Timing is everything. And this town runs on speculation.”
And just like that, she spins her cart and sashays off toward the baking aisle, leaving behind a cloud of lavender perfume and a wake of anxiety.
I’m still holding a yogurt like it’s a weapon.
This is still the same Cedar Falls—where privacy goes to die, and your boyfriend’s future is one Facebook status away from being hijacked by a rhinestone-clad country singer with opinions on fringe and fertility.
By the time I make it to the checkout, I’ve made two decisions. One: I am absolutely telling Knox about the linebacker-lightning comment. And two: I’m baking something very public for him. Just to reestablish my muffin territory.
Let the gossip mill churn. I’ve got strawberries, a plan, and zero tolerance for rhinestones.
By the time I make it to Knox’s house, the chocolate cake box from Penny’s Café balanced carefully in my arms, I’m still riding a caffeine-fueled wave of indignation and disbelief.
The cake is a distress flare. Knox knows me well enough to understand: if I show up with Penny’s triple-layer chocolate cake, something went down.
He opens the door in sweatpants and a clingy gray T-shirt that really should come with a warning label. Damp hair, clean skin, bare feet—the casual hotness is rude, honestly. He takes one look at the bakery box and lifts an eyebrow.
“Oh no,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Who do I need to fight?”
“No fighting,” I mutter, brushing past him. “Just strategic emotional cake consumption.”
“That bad?”
“I got ambushed at Lowery’s.”
“By?”
I set the cake down on the counter, spin dramatically, and point at him. “Haddie Carmichael. Dairy aisle. Full eye contact.”
He winces. “You poor thing.”
“I was trying to buy yogurt, Knox. Yogurt. And instead, I got cornered and hit with a full-scale matchmaking campaign involving your name and her granddaughter, Debbie.”
“Debbie?” he repeats, dragging out the syllables like he's searching the depths of his memory and coming up with glitter and chaos. “Rhinestones? Loud laugh? Once rollerbladed into the Fourth of July parade float?”
“That’s the one. She’s apparently back in town and quote-unquote ready to make you howl like a linebacker in a lightning storm.”
Knox chokes, mid-sip of water. “She said that?”
“She did. Haddie said it with pride. Like it was a credential.”
He sets his glass down and tries to school his face into something resembling sympathy, but he’s fighting laughter. “And you brought cake because…?”
“Because I needed to feel powerful,” I say, cutting us two generous slices. “And because chocolate cake doesn’t ask invasive questions or try to offer you up as tribute to a woman with sequined cowboy boots and an unsettling amount of fringe.”
“She wears fringe year-round,” Knox confirms, taking a bite. “Even to funerals.”
We settle into our usual spots on his couch, plates balanced on our laps, the glow from the kitchen light soft and warm against the early evening shadows.
Outside, the air smells like leaves and chimney smoke, and there’s a hint of winter coming—just enough bite to remind me that Thanksgiving is in less than two weeks.
How that snuck up on me, I don’t know. Time in Cedar Falls is weird like that. Slow and fast all at once.
“You know,” Knox says after a few quiet bites, “you don’t have to hide out like this forever.”
I glance at him, fork mid-air. “Like what?”
“Showing up here with cake like it’s some secret mission. Sneaking out of my place like a raccoon with a hoodie.”
My stomach flips. It’s the kind of flip that comes with someone seeing you clearly, even when you think you’re being subtle.
“I’m not hiding,” I say, then pause. “Okay, maybe a little. But only from the Haddies of the world. And Debbie. Definitely Debbie.”
He chuckles, setting his empty plate on the coffee table before turning toward me, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch. “I get it. It’s a small town. People talk.”
“You’re being very understanding for someone who had to lie to his mom about a plumbing emergency to keep me hidden in the laundry room.”
“That was heroic,” he deadpans.
“Truly. Medal-worthy.”
He watches me for a moment, the teasing falling away just enough to let something quieter settle between us. “You know I don’t care if people know, right?”
I meet his gaze, heart stuttering just a little. “I know.”
“I’m not saying we make a public announcement,” he adds, tone easy but intentional. “Just that...I wouldn’t mind not pretending. I know what I feel is strong enough to battle the gossip mill.”
I nod, keeping my voice light. “Well, if we’re going to go public, we need to do it after Thanksgiving. You know how Haddie gets when she’s mixing family gossip with stuffing.”
Knox leans in, brushing a kiss against my temple, then my cheek, then lower, his lips trailing down my jaw until I forget what we were even talking about. His hand rests on my thigh, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of my leggings.
“You’re stalling,” he murmurs.
“I’m distracting,” I correct. “It’s different. Strategic.”
He smiles against my skin. “Works for me.”
We don’t talk much after that. There’s laughter and kissing and a little chocolate smudged on his neck that I’m definitely responsible for.
And later, when we’re curled up under a throw blanket on his couch, half-watching some forgettable action movie, I rest my head on Knox’s shoulder and let the quiet settle around us like a soft, heavy quilt.
And that’s when it hits me—this tug in my chest that says maybe going public wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Not because I want the attention or the validation or even the town-wide chaos Haddie would unleash.
But because hiding this—us—makes it feel like it’s something to be ashamed of.
And it isn’t. It’s steady and warm and kind.
It’s second chances and soft touches and Knox looking at me like I’m still the girl he picked first, even when I didn’t pick myself.
I want to hold his hand at Gordy’s without dodging glances. I want to lean over his shoulder at the field and not feel like a walking secret. I want to stop shrinking the best thing in my life down to whispers and drive-bys.
But I’m also scared that once it’s out there, it won’t belong to just us anymore.
It’ll become town property, something dissected over Facebook threads and covered-dish dinners.
People will talk. Just like they did six years ago.
I can just imagine a well-meaning ‘don’t break that boy’s heart again’ being flung my way.
Maybe the fear will always be there. Maybe the whispers will come. But if I’m going to take the risk, I want it to be for something real. Something worth defending.
And Knox Dalton is worth every bit of it.