Chapter 5
Meet-n-Greet
Milly
Iwoke up before the sun, my nerves buzzing like I’d drunk three espressos in my sleep. Today is first impression day. The official debut of Milly Thomas, Everwood Resident.
Step one: wardrobe.
Outfit one—jeans and a button-down. Professional and business casual. Except the jeans have a mysterious smudge of fur clinging to the thigh. How? I haven’t even touched any animals yet.
Outfit two—green sweater. Too warm, too itchy, screams “school picture day.”
Outfit three—plain tee and cardigan. Acceptable. Except maybe too plain? What if they think I’m not trying?
I collapse back onto the bed, groaning. “This is ridiculous.”
Pumpernickel chooses that moment to rattle his cage like a prison break in progress. One glance and—yep, Houdini has escaped again. I dive under the dresser, spotting his tiny rump wedged halfway behind a stack of shoes.
“Don’t you dare disappear,” I mutter, scooping him into my hands. He huffs in indignation, quills bristling like he’s scolding me for ruining his adventure.
I return him to his cage, whisper a prayer to every saint of small animals, then flop back against the wall.
Step two: hair.
French braid? Too strict. Messy bun? Too much I gave up. Trustworthy ponytail it is. I pull a few strands loose in the classic “oh, this? I just threw my hair up, even though it looks messy and amazing,” and smile at my reflection. My face is already pink, nerves glowing like neon.
I flip open my notebook where last night’s scrawl waits: How to Succeed in Small Towns.
Smile
Don’t blurt “Please like me.”
Solid strategy.
Downstairs smells faintly of coffee, which means Austin is already up. Of course he is. I tiptoe in, trying to look casual. He’s at the kitchen table, laptop open, sipping on coffee. His shirt pressed, hair damp from an early shower. Every pixel of him radiates calm competence.
“Morning,” he says without looking up. His voice is low, steady. He gestures toward the coffeemaker. “Want some?”
My heart does a weird lurch. Coffee. He’s offering me coffee? My heart lurches again.
“Sure,” I say, aiming for casual, but it comes out too bright. I wrap my hands around the mug he sets in front of me, fingers brushing his when I take it. Warmth floods my skin, traitorous and impossible to hide.
He studies me for a beat, then: “What’s a social in Everwood like? You grew up here, didn’t you?”
I blink. Dusty, half-forgotten memories rise—summers with Aunt Penny, a blur of laughter and loud music, a table stuffed with so much food they had to bring out the card table, leftovers we’d eat for days.
I was six, maybe seven, too young to understand why my mother stayed home instead.
Just old enough to remember the sweetness of cherry pie and Penny’s laugh echoing in my ears.
“It’s… a lot of food,” I say, voice catching on something almost wistful. “I was maybe six-ish. All I remember are the pies, desserts, and enough leftovers to feed half the state. Everyone shows up. Everyone knows if you don’t and why.”
Austin hums softly, unreadable, then turns back to his laptop. But I catch the faintest tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Step three: survive until noon without making a fool of myself.
The first car pulls up at exactly ten o’clock, tires crunching on the gravel like a drumroll. Then another pulls in behind it. And another. By the time I reach the front door, my porch is brimming with neighbors.
I take a deep breath. “This is it. Are you ready?”
Austin shuts his laptop with a calm click and moves toward the door. He looks like he’s heading into a briefing, all steady steps and squared shoulders. I look like someone about to hyperventilate.
The screen door bangs open before I can collect myself. A petite woman barrels through first, a casserole dish balanced in her arms.
“Milly, darling! You’ve grown so much—I remember you when you were barely waist-high,” she cries, setting the dish into my arms and placing her hands on my cheeks. “That is a three-cheese casserole. Not for the faint of heart. And I’m Sue Carter, though everyone knows me already.”
Before I can answer, she thrusts a tote bag into my free hand. “That is your Everwood Survival Kit.”
The tote contains: a calendar of community events, a spiral notebook titled Neighborly Tips: Annotated, a crocheted dishcloth that could double as a shield, and a jar of what she calls “the best darn honey in three counties.”
Hot on her heels comes a shy woman with glasses slipping down her nose, cradling a stack of paperbacks. “Sarah Baldwin,” she says quietly. “I run the library. Thought you might want something to settle in with—comfort reads. These are a few of my favorites.”
Before I can thank her, a man in a baseball cap lopes in, juggling envelopes and a basket of muffins.
“Ed Simmons. Mailman, muffin man, sometimes gossip man. Hot tip, Milly: Saturday pancake breakfast. Don’t let Carl talk you into syrup duty unless you like blisters.
Oh, and here’s your mail.” He drops the letters onto the counter like a dealer at a card table.
Names, casseroles, tote bags, books, muffins—they stack faster than I can process. My brain scrambles: Sue = casserole queen. Sarah = librarian. Ed = possibly runs this town.
Austin slips in behind me, freeing one of my overloaded arms by sliding the casserole onto the counter and the tote by the stairs.
When I glance up, he winks, and suddenly the chaos feels less crushing.
Neighbors greet him too, handshakes and hellos, folding him into the welcome as though he belongs.
Sue notices. “Isn’t it lovely,” she says, patting my arm, “that Milly has such a capable housemate?”
Heat prickles my cheeks, and I deflect. “So, uh… about that pancake breakfast?”
Sarah ducks behind her books to hide a grin.
The door creaks again, this time accompanied by a near-toppling stack of greenery. A redhead wrangles her way inside, curls everywhere, arms full of houseplants.
“Sorry! Nearly dropped these on the driveway. Cassie Grant,” she introduces herself, dropping the plants onto the console table with a grin. “Welcome committee! I bring…”
“Chaos and cheer,” Sue laughs, and Cassie nods.
“She’s right. Welcome.”
We end up cleaning soil that spilled onto the rug. She steadies the pot rim while I pat soil around the roots.
“First survival tip,” Cassie says, brushing off her palms. “When someone offers you seconds, take them, but you don’t have to eat them. Thirds? Claim a stomachache.”
“Any kind?” I ask.
“Guaranteed to work.”
We swap numbers, her thumb flying across her phone. “Text for help if you get trapped in the knitting circle. I’ll send backup. Trust me, it’s a trap.”
Something eases in my chest. She feels like an ally.
Sue beams at us both, satisfied. “See? You’re already finding your people.”
When the crowd thins, what remains is foil-wrapped generosity stacked across every surface. The fridge, however, is still untouched. Its reckoning waits. Meanwhile, I stare at the leftovers in horror. I’ll never eat it all.
By the time the last neighbor waves goodbye, the quiet that follows is welcome. I sag into a chair, arms slack. Austin pats my shoulder as he walks by. “You survived,” he says, sitting across from me.
Cassie lingers, though, sliding into the chair next to me. “Are you ready for Tupperware Tetris time?”
“You make it sound fun,” I say skeptically.
We tackle the fridge together, shoving, stacking, laughing when one precarious container nearly takes us out.
“Welcome to Everwood,” Cassie says, triumphant as the last dish slides in, “where having a minor in Tetris is a must. You survived your first fridge Tetris trial.”
We collapse onto the back step. Sherlock eyes us from the fence, chewing on what appears to be paper.
Cassie groans. “Last year, he ate the parade banner right off Main Street. The town had to march under a strip that said, ‘Welcome to Everw—.’ That goat is a menace.”
“He’s a goat,” I say, grinning. “They tend to be like that.”
By the time Cassie heads out with promises to text, the kitchen is back in order, my fridge is groaning, and I feel a little hopeful.
Inside, Austin is at the sink, sleeves rolled, rinsing mugs. “You handled that well,” he says without looking up.
“Did I? I felt like a juggling circus act.”
He glances over, mouth quirking. “A successful circus act.”
Something flips in my chest, inconvenient and warm. I busy myself with a dish towel. “Well, at least I didn’t drop anything.”
He chuckles once, rare and soft, then returns to his work.
Later, upstairs, after I get ready for bed, I scribble in my planner: I survived fridge Tetris. Call Cassie. Buy goat-proof fencing (??).
My phone buzzes. A text from Cassie: Welcome to the insane asylum . No refunds. A dancing frog GIF follows.
I laugh, flopping back onto my pillow.
Out the window, moonlight spills over the fields. Sherlock stands near the fence, head raised like he’s on watch his ears prickling. He snaps his head to the west field, pausing mid chew. I swear he’s more K9 than goat.