Chapter 3 #2
That word—love—hangs heavy, too big, too soon, but exactly what I've always wanted, even when I told myself it was impossible.
Harper leans in, softer now. "He's been through hell, yeah.
But that didn't start with the move, and it won't end just because he's here.
Sarah broke a lot more than his heart. He's focused on Emma, and that's good.
But I saw the way he reacted when I mentioned you.
You fluster him, June. And Adam Lane is not easily flustered. "
I stare down at my coffee, voice a whisper. "I always had a crush on him. Now he's here and next door and I don't know how to deal with all of this."
Maya beams, and her smile is pure hope. "You just… see where it goes, okay?"
And for the first time, I almost believe that maybe, just maybe, something good is waiting for me right next door.
Maya curls both hands around her coffee, conspiratorial and delighted, her eyes crinkling above the rim. "The neighborhood block party is next weekend. You should invite him and Emma." The suggestion lands with a gentle thud in my chest—sudden, impossible, terrifying.
I nearly choke on my own pastry. "No way. That's way too forward. It's so obvious, Maya. What if he says no? Or worse, what if he thinks I'm chasing him? I don't want him to feel—I don't know—cornered."
Harper rolls her eyes, but with friendly affection instead of exasperation. "June. Breathe. This isn't a grand romantic gesture, it's a community event. You're not asking him to elope. You're inviting the man and his daughter to meet a bunch of neighbors and eat questionable potato salad."
Maya laughs, her voice soft and reassuring.
"Besides, Emma would love it. There's always a bouncy castle, games, face painting—last year, some teenager made balloon animals for hours just because my niece asked nicely.
" She reaches for another croissant, bumping her foot against mine under the table.
"And honestly, you're helping. Adam needs to find his footing here.
Emma's about to start school—she should meet the other kids.
You're doing them a favor, really—making sure they know they belong. "
The angle shifts something inside me. Being useful, welcoming—it's safe. It's how I survived every new chapter in Willowbridge. Maybe this isn't about my crush. Maybe it's just the right thing to do.
Harper reads my face—she always does. "You're great at this, June. Let it be simple." Her smile is soft now, almost wistful. "Don't overthink it."
Maya beams, adding, "Besides, you're the heart of this neighborhood. You delivered cupcakes when half the town came down with flu last winter. No one's ever accused you of being anything but genuinely kind, so… just invite them. As you."
I shake my head, but I can feel my resolve starting to melt into something eager and fragile. "Okay. I'll invite them. Casually. No big deal." Not that I believe myself.
My friends exchange glances that say they know exactly how big a deal this is, but for once, they don't tease. Harper reaches for her phone, probably plotting logistics in her own way. Maya leans in, her smile all encouragement.
"You'll text us after?" Harper says, gently insistent.
"I promise," I reply, voice steadier than I feel, but I already know this is something I need to do solo.
Something that matters, even if I pretend it doesn't.
***
The bakery empties as the clock shuffles past two, and I flip the sign with relief, letting Saturday's rush fade behind the glass. Afternoon shadows stretch across flour-speckled countertops. The ghosts of Mrs. Henderson's gossip cling to my skin, but now I'm alone—just me and my nerves.
I get home after locking up, considering. I could walk over there this instant, but the thought makes my heart thud recklessly.
Instead, I spiral into a familiar dance—because what do you do when you face the possibility of inviting the most attractive person you've ever known to a block party? Obviously, you overthink yourself into a panic—starting with what to wear.
The sundress is all wrong, too flowery and hopeful.
Jeans are fine, but what if Adam thinks I'm not making an effort?
The skirt feels like an interview. Back to sundress.
Maybe with a cardigan, just enough coverage to say casual and safe.
I stand in front of the mirror and talk myself down in the sternest baker voice I possess.
"You are a successful woman, June. You can cater weddings.
You can face Adam Lane. Lord help me, you're only inviting him to a party, not proposing marriage. "
I try writing a formal invitation, but the card looks ridiculous—like something Emma would send to a playdate. I type out a text. Too impersonal. Maybe a call? The idea makes me borderline ill. I need a buffer.
Cookies. Cookies will help. I know Emma loves sweets, and Adam's already proven he can forgive a buttercream mishap.
I pull out cinnamon and sugar, start whipping up snickerdoodles until my nerves find their rhythm in the bowl.
The kitchen fills with a warm, nostalgic scent, the one that always made my grandmother's house feel like home.
Measuring, mixing, rolling—these motions calm me. But inside, my mind runs loose. What if he opens the door and smiles for real this time? What if Emma hugs me again? What if he says no? What if I'm coloring hope onto every word Harper said and it's all wrong?
I box up the cookies, looping twine around cardboard, hands still trembling. The invitation is just a simple note, neatly printed:
For Emma (and Adam).
– June
P.S. Block party next Saturday if you're interested?
I stare at the box, willing courage up from somewhere deep.
No matter how hard I try, wanting is written on every crumb, every word.
I slip on the cardigan, try not to fuss with my hair, force myself to breathe.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the cookies and the card, push out into the bright, crisp air, and march toward Adam's front door—letting hope carry me every step.
The cookies weigh heavy in my hands, warmth seeping through the box, grounding me.
I step out onto my porch, the air crisp against my flushed skin.
Gold spills across the neighborhood—late afternoon, my favorite light—casting long shadows over lawns and fallen leaves.
Someone nearby is burning applewood. It smells sweet and smoky, a reminder that autumn here is always slightly magical.
I set off, trying for casual confidence.
In reality, my legs might as well be pudding.
Every footstep across my yard stretches and magnifies, the twenty feet between our front doors feeling more like a five-mile hike.
My breath fogs as I walk, nerves twining tighter with every step.
It's just Adam. Just Emma. Just neighbors.
I repeat that, slow and steady, even as my pulse hammers for something bigger.
Adam's house glows—warm lamps through the living room windows, a halo of yellow softening the lines of his porch.
There's music, faint but unmistakable, drifting through the glass.
Classical piano, achingly beautiful and unexpected.
I wonder if he plays it for Emma, or if it's the kind of melody that steadies him in the quiet parts of the day.
At the steps, I pause, cookies trembling in my grip. I rehearse my words in my head. Casual, helpful, friendly. Nothing too eager, nothing that says you spent half an hour picking your outfit and longer fretting over the card.
I raise my hand to knock, the moment teetering, but suddenly freeze.
Voices spill out through a cracked window—soft, intimate, familiar.
Adam's low rumble, soothing and sure. Emma's lighter, pitched with worry.
I can't hear their words, but the shape of the exchange presses against something old inside me—the feeling of not wanting to interrupt, not daring to break a spell.
Maybe I should just leave the cookies, tuck the note under the box and run.
I hesitate, rocking on my heels, debating.
They're having a moment—important, private.
I don't want to intrude, but I can't walk away either.
Something keeps me here, heart pounding, wanting to be part of whatever gentle magic is knitting this family back together.
I clutch the cookie box a little tighter, the note fluttering. The world holds its breath around me—fallen leaves, soft light, the trickle of piano song. I wait, hand poised in the air, hovering somewhere between courage and retreat.
I linger on the porch, letting the swirl of piano and muffled voices fill the gap between my nerves and the door. I shouldn't be listening, but the words slip through the late autumn air—small, vulnerable, unmistakably Emma's.
"What if the kids at school don't like me? What if I don't make any friends?" The tremble is clear, curling outward and snagging at something deep in me. For a heartbeat, I'm eight years old again, stomach hollow with that desperate, silent yearning to belong.
Adam's voice answers, steady and calm and rough at the edges. "Em, listen to me. You're smart and funny and kind. Any kid would be lucky to be your friend." I can nearly picture him crouching in front of her, hands gentle, eyes serious in that way that makes you believe every word is true.
"But what if they ask about Mommy? What do I say?" Emma's worry is so present it stings. For a moment, silence wraps everything tight—I hardly breathe.
Adam finally replies, voice thick with feeling. "You tell them the truth. That Mommy lives in Ashbury, and you see her sometimes, and that's okay. Families look different, but that doesn't mean they're not full of love."
"Do we have enough love? Just us two?"
The quiet that follows is long and pulsing. When Adam speaks, it's soft—raw enough that I feel it behind my ribs.