Chapter 5
Wren
The air smells like a memory.
The closer I get to Main Street, the stronger it becomes—the briny pull of the lake, the earthy tang of damp soil, spring mixing with the faint sweetness of budding trees. It’s the kind of scent that seeps into everything: your clothes, your hair, your bones.
And still, when I step onto the sidewalk, my first thought is caffeine.
The sign above the shop is hand-painted, wood worn smooth at the edges, the kind of detail that catches your attention. Shoreline Sips. The perfect name for the coffee shop on the edge of Main. Their back patio gives an unobstructed view of Lake Drummond—the lake named after my family.
I pause, my fingers grazing the door frame as I stare inside the packed shop, my reflection faint in the glass. Loose taupe dress, hem fluttering against my thighs. Cream suede boots, scuffed enough to look lived in. Sunglasses shield my eyes from the locals.
I look like I belong here and nowhere all at once.
The bell chimes as I step inside, and for a moment, I’m swallowed up by it—the shop, the air, the soundscape of low conversation and soft indie folk humming from a speaker overhead.
The walls are creamy white with pops of exposed brick.
Plants spill from the ceiling in macramé hangers.
Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, with string lights draped between them.
Booths lined in leather the color of honey flank the wall, while a polished wood bar runs the length of the room.
It smells like heaven. Coffee, pastry dough, and a faint undercurrent of vanilla bean and cinnamon.
I inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. Maybe I can anchor myself before being discovered by the locals.
My boots click against the old wooden-planked floor, and a hush falls over the space. It’s so quiet I can make out the lyrics to “My Silver Lining” by First Aid Kit. With my shoulders pushed back, I let the whispers and stares fuel my walk.
The menu is written on a blackboard above the counter, script letters listing lattes, cold brews, and pour-overs. And, unexpectedly, matcha.
“Good morning!”
I glance down at the petite barista; her name tag says Julie.
She’s not much older than me, maybe in her early thirties, hair pulled up into a half-bun, half-chaos style that lets loose curls tumble in vivid indigo blue waves around her shoulders.
Against the muted tones of her chambray shirt and inked skin, the color shines like a secret rebellion in this small town where most people play it safe.
Her eyes hold curiosity, but not judgment. Not the kind coming from the patrons.
“I love your hair,” I tell her. “It’s gorgeous.”
She grins, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Thanks. There’s a little place off Main called Wild Mane Salon. They’ve been keeping me blue for years.”
I bob my head, already loving her energy. “Great, thanks. Now that I’m back home, I need a new salon.”
“I highly recommend anyone there.” She smiles warmly. “What sounds good this morning?”
I scan the menu again. “I know you have to say yes because you work here, but is your matcha good?”
She chuckles. “I do have to say it’s good because I not only work here, but I own the place.”
My eyes widen, heat flooding my cheeks.
“But it’s the best in the county. City life taught me well before I traded in the traffic for lake life.”
Something in my chest loosens. A transplant. Someone who chose this town, instead of being trapped by it.
“I’ll take one,” I say. “Iced. With honey and cinnamon.”
Her smile widens. “That’s the way I make mine. Cinnamon is the secret ingredient.”
She taps the screen before twisting it in my direction for me to pay. I graciously give her a twenty-five percent tip. Her smile and personality are infectious.
I step aside, busying myself by checking out the variety of baked goods. I don’t dare look around the room, too anxious to catch any stares. Julie moves around her station effortlessly. Whisking, pouring, layering milk over green.
“Are you visiting?” she asks, glancing at me as she seals the cup with a lid.
“Not exactly.” I hesitate, fingers tracing the strap of my bag. “I’m from here. I’ve…been gone for a while.”
Nodding, she slides the drink across the counter. “Well, welcome back. And if you don’t like the matcha, I’ll make you something else, but I have a feeling you’ll love it.”
Her words are simple, but they land heavier than I expect. No edge. No loaded silence. Only pleasantries.
I take a sip. It’s good. Like, really good. Smooth, earthy, and sweetened perfectly. Real matcha, like the kind I used to grab in LA.
“Thanks,” I murmur, then add, “For…this. And the welcome.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Small towns don’t have to mean small minds.”
For the first time in a while, I believe her.
Cup nearly to my mouth, I pause, realizing that I never introduced myself. “I’m Wren Drummond, by the way.”
“I know.” She smiles, chuckling. “I own a coffee shop in a small town…I know everything that goes on in Silo Bay. Unlike everyone else, I don’t judge people on our first meeting. It was nice meeting you, Wren. I hope to see you again.”
With my drink in hand, I turn to leave the quaint shop. With matcha this good and a barista this sweet, Shoreline Sips will definitely be my go-to.
I step back outside where the street greets me with sunshine, bright and high now, the shadows of early morning gone. I smooth the hem of my dress as it sways against my thighs, the fabric light enough to breathe but heavy enough to remind me I’m here, not somewhere else.
I can feel eyes on me as I travel deeper downtown. A part of me wants to shrink. Another part of me—the one who survived LA, the one who leaned into every spotlight even when it burned—forces me to square my shoulders. If they're going to watch, I’ll give them something worth seeing.
Reality TV taught me how to fake it in Hollywood.
Paparazzi and strangers looking to cash in a photograph were everywhere.
My life was on display twenty-four-seven.
Going to the grocery store, visiting the beach, working out—it didn’t matter how mundane the task; there was always someone out there with a camera.
But even with cameras everywhere, no one captured the monster.
Taking another sip of the cool matcha, I keep walking.
Cars idle past as I stroll across the sidewalk, leaving the smell of exhaust in their wake.
I stop in front of a shop window. It’s lined with pottery, mugs glazed in earthy neutrals and greens that look like lush trees on a summer day.
Candles flicker on display tables, their script-written labels promising scents of bergamot, juniper, and marine, “like stepping outside early in the morning when the air still feels untouched.” Another says, “layers of tobacco leaf, leather, and cognac.” Reading about layers of tobacco leaf and leather, my pulse quickens with the first person who comes to mind when I think of those scents.
But it’s the one described as “smells like nostalgia, and open skies.” The candle with the amber, jasmine, and woods notes causes my breath to stutter as I’m transported to simpler times.
“C’mon, guys, are you sure we should be doing this?” I whisper-shout from my place next to Jett.
It’s nearly two in the morning, and darkness cascades around us. The only light comes from the soft glow of the scattered streetlamps and the looming moon. We’re in the neighboring town, home of our rivals. Everything is completely dead, with businesses closing hours ago.
“It’s fine, Wren.” Heath nudges his shoulder into mine. “We’ve got masks on, we’re dressed in all black, no one is going to suspect us.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Greer grumbles. “Your dad isn’t the mayor.”
Baker throws an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve got you, G.”
Jett and Levi stop outside a business on their Main Street, the two of them dropping and rummaging in their black backpacks.
“Levi, are you sure you should be doing this?” I question, placing a hand on his forearm. “You have a daughter to think about.”
Jett stops what he’s doing and turns to Levi. “Yeah, Welles, Wren’s right. You should bail.”
The two of them stare at each other, their eyes having a conversation before they both burst out laughing.
“Would you idiots shut up?” Davis hisses as he turns his head from side to side, double-checking the coast is clear.
“I’ll be fine, Drummond, but thanks for the concern.” Levi pulls out a jug of acrylic paint.
Jett sidles up next to my side, warmth radiating off him.
It’s a crisp fall night, temperatures hovering in the fifties, but whenever he’s near, it feels like we’re on the third rock from the sun.
Piercing blue eyes stare at me through his black ski mask as a strong, gentle hand cups the side of my face.
“You don’t have to do this, baby. You can go sit in the truck and wait for us.”
And I know he means that. He’s giving me permission to back out of their antics without making me feel guilty or making fun of me.
If I get caught, my parents will kill me.
No matter how much they love the Riggsbys, they’ll know it was Jett’s idea.
When I announced two years ago during our sophomore year that Jett and I decided to start dating, my parents weren’t thrilled or surprised.
It was inevitable. Our families have been close since the dawn of time, both of our moms are best friends, and our dads work close with each other through their own farming businesses.
For as long as I can remember, it was the Riggsbys and the Drummonds.