Chapter 4
Blair
The nickname hadn’t come from nowhere. When we were kids, I’d followed him around like a bee to sugar, always hovering, always drawn. I used to scribble “Blair + Greyson” in the margins of my notebooks. He probably never knew.
Hearing him repeat it now, soft and slow like a memory dusted off, made something ache deep inside me.
I blamed it on nostalgia, on long days and longer years, on not having seen him since before everything fell apart.
I curled up on the couch at Madison’s house with a cup of chamomile tea. Madison came in quietly, rubbing her back.
“So,” she said, smirking. “You went for a walk and bumped into temptation?”
I groaned. “I didn’t go looking for him.”
“But you found him.”
“He owns the bar now.”
“Of course he does. Greyson always was the town’s golden boy.”
“He’s... different,” I admitted.
Madison sat beside me. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated. “It was good to see him.But it’s also weird. It feels like I never left and don’t belong all at once.”
“You belong wherever you decide to be,” Madison said, her voice fierce. “And for the record, wanting something sweet again is okay. Even if it comes with baggage.”
I looked down at my tea. “He called me honey bee.”
Madison grinned. “Still got it.”
I shook my head, laughing softly.
Madison gave me a tight smile. “I’m trying to picture what life’s going to look like in a few months. Just me… and her.”
I moved to scoot beside her, both of us facing each other. “You’re not alone.”
“You’re here for now.”
I paused. “I’m here. Period.”
That got a soft look from her, the kind I’d only seen a handful of times, the kind that said she believed in me even when I didn’t.
She adjusted herself on the couch and winced. “My spine feels like it’s about to break in half.”
“Want me to bring you ice cream or your heating pad?”
She gave me a smirk. “Or both.”
We laughed, and for a moment, it was easy. Comfortable. Real.
“You know, I used to think we’d end up in New York. You would be publishing bestsellers and I would be running a glamorous PR firm.”
I smiled. “You in your power suits. Me in a cardigan and coffee-stained jeans.”
“Exactly.”
There was a beat of silence. Then she looked up at me, her voice gentler. “You didn’t call for a while after you left. And I didn’t ask why. I figured when you were ready, you’d come back.”
“I wasn’t ready,” I admitted. “For anything. Not to write. Not to face what happened. Not even to be myself.”
She reached out and grabbed my hand, her grip strong despite the swelling in her fingers. “But you came back.”
“Because I knew you’d still be here.”
Her eyes softened. “Of course I am. We don’t quit on each other.”
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “You were the only person who never made me feel like I was too much. Or not enough.”
Madison squeezed my hand again.
“That’s what best friends do. We are here for each other no matter what. I knew you needed space and that was okay. I was always just a phone call away, even if it was just to vent, talk, or listen. You have been my best friend for as long as I can remember, Blair.”
As we sat there, surrounded by boxes and unpainted walls and the anticipation of everything about to change, I realized something profound and straightforward: Madison wasn’t just my past. She was my anchor.
And no matter how messy, broken or unfinished I was, she never stopped holding space for me to come home.
The next morning, the brass bell above the door jingled as I stepped into Delilah’s Bookshop. Suddenly, I was ten years old again, clutching a summer reading list and a crumpled five-dollar bill.
The air still smelled like old paper and lavender.
Dust mites floated in the sunlight that poured through the tall windows, landing softly on the cracked leather chairs in the corner and the stacks of forgotten classics that seemed to multiply with every visit.
The place hadn’t changed much in the decade I’d been gone. But I had.
I moved slowly past the display of bestsellers, letting my fingers trail along the spines like I was saying hello. It was comforting, grounding. For so long, books were the only place I felt safe.
“You look like someone who belongs here,” came a voice from behind the counter.
I turned, startled, and found a woman with short silver hair and red-framed glasses peering at me over a worn copy of Rebecca . She looked like she could read me cover to cover with one glance.
“You must be Blair,” she added, setting the book down. “Madison told me you were back in town.”
I smiled. “Guilty.”
“Delilah,” she said, walking around the counter to greet me. “Owner, reader, unofficial town gossip, depending who you ask.”
We shook hands, and I laughed. “This place looks exactly how I remembered.”
“Well, I don’t believe in fixing what isn’t broken.”
Her eyes twinkled as she gestured to the shelves. “Looking for anything in particular? Or just feeding the addiction?”
“Mostly feeding it,” I said. “Though… I am a writer now.”
Delilah’s eyebrows rose, intrigued. “Oh? What kind?”
I hesitated. “Literary fiction. Emotional stuff. The kind that gets dog-eared and cried on.”
She nodded solemnly. “The best kind then.”
For a while, we wandered the shop together, chatting about favorite authors, old editions, and the way certain books feel like old friends. When we circled back to the counter, she paused and studied me.
“You know,” she said, “if you ever want to do a reading here, when your book comes out, I’d be honored.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Of course. This town could use a little more story. And you’ve got the kind that sticks.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest, slow and wide.
“Thank you, Delilah.”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Welcome home, Blair.”
As I stepped back out into the afternoon sun, a paper bag of books in my hand and her words tucked in my heart, I realized something. Maybe I hadn’t just come back. Perhaps I was meant to come back. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to be seen.