4. Lachlan
LACHLAN
The sun hasn’t quite bothered to climb over the ridge, but my kitchen is already alive.
Rainwater still makes a steady rhythm, a slow tap-tap-tap from the porch roof onto the dark, damp ground.
Inside, the air is ripe with the scent of cinnamon rolls baking, the sharp, clean smell of brewing coffee, and the salty promise of bacon.
I move on instinct, cracking eggs into a hot pan, flipping a row of pancakes, sliding a plate through the pass-through window without looking.
The dining room hums. It’s the usual morning crowd: loggers fueling up before their shift, Rosa from the diner escaping her own griddle for one of my omelettes, half the town council arguing over the budget in the corner booth.
The inn breathes in and out with the hiss of the espresso machine and the low rumble of gossip.
Then she appears.
At the top of the main staircase, Chasity pauses.
She’s wearing a grey university sweatshirt I left on the back of her door—it’s old and soft and utterly swallows her, the sleeves bunched up around her elbows.
A quiet ripple moves through the room. Forks pause midway to mouths.
Conversations dip by a decibel. Everyone sees her, a flicker of awareness that they try to mask by suddenly finding their coffee cups fascinating.
She just stands there, a castaway surveying a strange new continent, her hair a chaotic tumble around a face pale with uncertainty.
From my post behind the pass-through, spatula in hand, I watch her descend. It's a short walk to the only empty table, but she navigates it like hostile territory. Old Man Hemlock’s son, Jack, pulls a chair out for her, and she flinches.
“Oh—you don’t have to. Sorry.”
Rosa gives her a booming wave from across the room. Chasity jumps, offering a small, panicked wave back before ducking her head. She slides into the seat, her elbow bumping the little metal caddy holding the sugar packets. The slight rattle makes her wince.
“Sorry.” She whispers it to the table.
Each apology is a tiny, annoying needle prick.
It’s like watching someone apologize for taking up space in the world.
I get this ridiculous urge to march out there, clear a path, and glare at every single person until they stop looking at her.
I find myself wanting to physically remove every source of tension from her orbit, just to see what kind of person might emerge if she ever stopped bracing for impact.
Martha from the general store materializes next to their table, her smile a little too bright. “Well now, isn’t it a good thing Ben was working late last night? That road is a menace in the rain.”
Chasity’s shoulders bunch up toward her ears.
Before she can form a reply, I slide in from behind Martha, coffee pot in hand.
“Martha, you’ve got an eagle eye. Top you off?
” I don’t wait for an answer, just fill her mug.
“Speaking of menace, did you hear that bear got into the dumpster behind the bakery again? Full-on carb-loaded crime spree.” I guide her away with the promise of fresh gossip, leaving Chasity staring into her lap.
A logger from table three makes his move next. “That your little sedan out front of the garage? Axle looked pretty shot.”
I appear with his check. “It’s a work of art, isn’t it, Bill? Ben can fix anything. You know what he can’t fix? An empty stomach. Your crew waiting on you?”
I run interference like this for another ten minutes, a human shield made of sarcasm and breakfast specials. Each time a new question angles toward Chasity, I deflect it. I watch her from across the room, a knot of a person, slowly unravelling with every conversation she doesn’t have to have.
The morning rush thins, leaving a comfortable quiet in its wake. I pull a cinnamon roll from the warming oven, the icing still soft and melting down the sides. I carry the plate over, the sweet warmth a peace offering.
“On the house.” I set it in front of her.
Panic flashes in her eyes, stark and immediate.
Her hands flutter over the table as if to ward it off.
“Oh, no. I can’t. I can pay for it, really.
I have my card.” Her voice catches, thick with an emotion that has very little to do with money and everything to do with a simple kindness she cannot compute.
She looks from me to the pastry, her brown eyes shiny with unshed tears.
I lean a hand on the back of the empty chair opposite her. “Easy there. Are you about to get into a fight with a baked good? It’s not asking for your hand in marriage, just for you to eat it.”
The tension in her face doesn’t just break, it shatters. A small, surprised laugh escapes her lips, sharp and real. It transforms her entire face, erasing the fear and leaving behind the first genuine smile I’ve seen since she blew into town.
I pull out the chair and slide into it. The old wood groans a complaint. “See? Cinnamon rolls are rarely the enemy.”
Her laugh fades, but a shadow of it stays in her eyes. She picks at the edge of the plate with a meticulously clean nail. The last of the rain makes a steady plink-plink-plink from the gutters, a patient count against the quiet hum of an old country ballad from the speakers.
“It wasn't just my car that broke down,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her gaze travels to the window, to the wet street and the mountains still shrouded in mist. “I needed some air.” The lie from last night sounds even thinner in the daylight.
A moment passes. “That's not true.” Her eyes snap back to mine, wide and hunted.
“I left. I left my wedding. It was supposed to be in two days.”
The confession lingers in the quiet air between us.
I wait for the part of me that judges to kick in, but it never arrives.
All I see is the terror still clinging to her, a ghost she couldn't outrun. It’s not the triumphant look of someone who broke free; it’s the panicked stare of an animal that just chewed its own leg off to escape a trap.
Underneath the panic, there’s an exhaustion so profound it seems to have settled deep in her bones, a weariness beyond simple lack of sleep.
The words begin to spill out in a careful, controlled rush.
She describes floral arrangements and catering deposits, seating charts and family expectations.
She speaks of it all with the flat, detached tone of someone describing a job they hate but feel they can't quit. Her hands remain clasped in her lap, a tight knot of knuckles. Every so often, her expression goes vacant, a painful blankness that washes over her features as if she’s looking at a life that belonged to someone else entirely.
Then she catches herself, a flicker of awareness, and forces a polite, brittle smile back into place.
A sharp, unpleasant twist tightens in my chest. This isn't the story of a careless woman who got cold feet. It's the story of someone who looked down the path of the rest of her life and saw a slow, quiet annihilation. She didn't run away. She ran for her life.
I stack dirty plates, the clatter of ceramic a sharp counterpoint to the soft country strumming from the speakers.
The dining room is mostly empty now, a battlefield of crumpled napkins and abandoned coffee cups.
Through the pass-through, I see Chasity still at her table, her cinnamon roll half-eaten.
She stares out the window at the misty street, a solitary figure in a sea of empty chairs.
I grab a rag and a tub for the dishes and make my way over. Her head snaps up as I approach, the familiar flicker of alarm in her eyes. I start wiping down the adjacent table, keeping the motion casual.
“Figured I’d rescue you before the breakfast interrogation squad did another sweep.” I gesture with my head towards the door where the last of the town council just disappeared.
A small, tight smile touches her lips. “Thank you.”
“So, I’ve been thinking about your little roadside friends.
” I dump a collection of salt shakers and sugar packets into my tub.
“Did you know a group of possums is called a passel? Sounds way too polite for a gang of furry little delinquents who throw themselves at cars.” I glance at her.
“My theory is they were staging an intervention. ‘Chasity, your driving is a problem. We’re here because we care.’”
Her polite smile wavers. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Then it happens.
A laugh bursts out of her, a bright, startling eruption of sound that’s so loud she almost snorts the coffee she’s sipping.
It’s not a giggle. It’s a full-throated, uninhibited laugh that makes her gasp for air.
It echoes in the quiet room, raw and beautiful.
For a split second, we both just freeze, surprised by the noise.
She presses a hand to her mouth, her face flushed a deep, lovely pink.
The guarded, anxious woman from this morning evaporates.
In her place sits someone younger, lighter, her eyes sparkling with tears of genuine mirth.
The weight that seemed to press down on her shoulders is just…
gone. She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand, still catching her breath.
And as I watch her, something shifts inside my chest. It settles low and dangerous, a warm, heavy weight that roots me to the spot. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long, long time. In that moment of sudden, stark clarity, I realize I want to hear that sound again. I need to hear it again.