Chapter 4 #2
I toss my phone onto the nightstand and press my face into the pillow. I’m not going to cry over a guy who clearly doesn’t give a damn. Tomorrow’s a new day.
And I’m still standing.
The next morning, I dress in a pale blue sundress with tiny white buttons and my cleanest pair of sneakers, pull my curls into a loose puff, and step out into the July sunshine. There’s still a faint, smoky tang in the air in the alley behind the café.
There’s not much I can do but hope it clears soon.
I head toward town, hands in my pockets, letting my steps take me where they want.
I haven’t done this in years—just walked without a purpose. Just wandered. The last time I strolled down this road, I was seventeen and furious at my mom for grounding me for skipping AP chem.
Now I’m twenty-four, fresh off a failed relationship, unemployed, and carrying a scent profile strong enough to set off an entire pack of Alphas if I’m not careful.
So yeah, full circle.
When I pass Lorelai’s bakery, the smell of fresh muffins and cinnamon hooks into my nose and pulls me toward the entrance like a cartoon character floating on scent.
I haven’t been inside since Lorelai passed away. Her triplet daughters—June, Cora, and Riley—took over right after her funeral. They kept the name, though. Out of respect, I guess.
The place still looks the same: worn teal booths, mismatched tableware, chalkboard specials hanging behind the counter in curly handwriting.
June is at the register and breaks into a grin when she sees me. “Wren! Holy shit, is that really you?”
“In the flesh.” I smile back. “And very much in need of coffee.”
She laughs and waves Cora over to get my order—a large iced latte with oat milk and two lemon poppyseed muffins. Riley pops her head out from the kitchen with a flour-smudged face, squinting like she can’t quite believe it.
“We heard about the fire,” June says as I pay. “Are you okay?”
“Grand,” I reply breezily, tucking the change into the tip jar. “Just slightly flammable, apparently.”
Riley snorts behind the counter.
They sent me off with a muffin bag, a cup of coffee so large it requires two hands, and a free cinnamon roll I hadn’t asked for. I wave goodbye and step back into the street, heart a little lighter.
That’s the thing about this town. You can hate it one minute, and the next, it hands you warm pastries and remembers your name.
Miss Thea’s apothecary sits a few doors down, tucked between the second-hand bookstore and the candle shop with the bell that always rings twice, even when nobody opens the door.
Miss Thea is… well, no one really knows her age. Some say she was born when the town was founded. Others joke she was summoned out of a forest, a full-grown witch with her hair already silver.
All I know is that she’s always been here. Always will be.
The place smells like cloves, citrus, and lavender, the scent so strong that it clings to my dress even after I leave. Miss Thea emerges from the back like she’s been waiting for me.
“Trouble finds you quick, child,” she says, not unkindly.
I shrug, scanning the shelves. “It’s got good aim.”
She hands me a new vial of scent balm—bergamot and mint this time—and I tuck it into my bag with a quiet thank-you.
She doesn’t ask questions. Never does. Just nods once, like she knows more than she should, and turns back to her mortar and pestle.
I step outside, adjusting the muffin bag in one hand, and promptly run into someone rounding the corner.
“Oh!”
“Oh my god, Wren?”
Norah Knightly. Until now, our conversations have mainly consisted of sending memes back and forth, with the occasional FaceTime, such as the one a couple of months ago when I called to wish her a happy birthday and mentioned I might be coming into town this fall to check on my mother.
She’s a little taller than I remember, though maybe that’s just confidence carrying her higher. The auburn curls are unchanged—wild, shoulder-length, only half-surrendered to the pink scarf she’s knotted on top.
Her green eyes are as warm as ever, her skin glowing in that effortless way only Norah seems to manage. A soft, grounding perfume follows her—roses, eucalyptus, and the faintest trace of earth.
She breaks into a grin. “I thought you weren’t coming until September!”
“I wasn’t,” I say. “Plans… changed.”
“I’ll say. I just got back into town today and heard about the fire—are you okay?”
“I’m good. Frazzled. Slightly scorched. But alive.”
She pulls me into a hug, warm and tight, before stepping back with a mock stern look. “You didn’t tell me you were back. And don’t think I didn’t stalk your Instagram to figure it out. Rob’s not in any of the recent photos.”
I laugh, a little bitter. “That’s because it’s over. He ghosted me the minute things got inconvenient.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Beta men, I swear. They think they’re so emotionally available until life throws a matchstick.”
I smirk. “You’ve clearly met a few.”
“Too many.”
I cock my head. “What about Dorian? I haven’t seen him on your social media in a minute.”
Her face changes the moment I mention her on-again, off-again boyfriend. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of something like annoyance, maybe regret, maybe something sharper.
She waves a hand. “Don’t get me started. If I start talking about him, I might be tempted to start my own fire.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You guys broke up?”
“We don’t talk anymore,” she adds. “He’s an architect now—big-shot design firm down in the valley. You know how he was—always building things. Still wears loafers with no socks. Still smug.”
“And still good-looking, I’m guessing.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She grimaces.
I laugh. “I feel so bad. I should have known that. Between work and Rob, I feel like we haven’t talked in so long…”
“We’ve been busy, babe. No hard feelings. I was waiting for your return so we could catch up on everything. It’s been months.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better.”
“We’ll both do better. I should have been better at staying in touch, too. Anyway,” she continues, hooking her arm through mine, “I was just heading out for breakfast.”
“I already got mine,” I say, lifting the muffin bag. “But if you want the company…”
“Lead the way.”
And just like that, it feels like no time has passed at all.
We walk side by side down the main street, her voice spilling memories and updates. Her flower shop—Knightly Blooms—is now entirely hers. She inherited it when her aunt passed, but the last few months she’s been trying to secure new vendors after a blight wiped out half the town’s flower gardens.
She talks with her hands, her words fast and bright, and I let them wash over me. Because for the first time in days, I don’t feel like a walking disaster.
I feel… home.