CHAPTER SIX
The Girl from Highlight
The local coffee shop is a whirlwind of clinking mugs, quiet chatter, and the occasional hiss of steaming milk.
The walls are painted a faded teal, mismatched chairs crowd small tables, and the shelves are crammed with kitschy decor: ceramic roosters, vintage coffee tins, and a "Live, Laugh, Latte" sign hanging slightly crooked behind the counter. It’s like Pin-It threw up in here, but somehow, it works.
I stand in the long line, trying to tune out the guilt gnawing at the back of my mind.
Dad’s in a hospital bed, and I’m here. But I needed a breather.
A moment without Jasper and Brooks hovering like twin shadows, tag-teaming me every second I’m with Mom.
Jasper’s lack of trust stings, but maybe he thinks he’s doing the right thing. Maybe.
The bell above the door jingles, and the peaceful din behind me erupts into mild chaos as someone elbows their way through the crowd.
"Ah!" Brooks’ stupid voice cuts through the noise before his arm—his gross, unwelcome arm—snakes over my shoulders. "Couldn’t find a parking spot close by."
My mouth falls open as I spin to glare at him. "What are you doing?"
"The line’s all the way to the door," he whispers, his lips tugging into an infuriating smirk. "Saw an opportunity to cut ahead, so I took it."
"You just lied to jump the line," I groan, shoving his arm off me.
"A tiny, harmless fib," he says, winking.
The barista calls out, "Next!" just as we reach the counter, and I decide to let it go. Partly because I don’t want to cause a scene, but mostly because I’m too tired to argue.
"What can I get you?" the barista asks, her smile bright but impatient.
"A skinny vanilla latte," I say, then, on a whim, I loop my arm through Brooks’. "Oh, and a chocolate croissant." I glance up at him, my sweetest smile plastered across my face. "What about you, babe? What are you getting?"
His grin falters for a split second, but he recovers quickly, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. "Just a regular coffee. Leave room for creamer."
"That’ll be $11.78," the barista says, punching the total into the register.
I bat my eyes at Brooks. "Oh no, I left my purse in the car. And since you parked so far away…" I trail off, giving him an exaggerated pout. "Looks like you’re paying."
His eyes narrow, and I know he’s weighing whether this is worth the fight. Begrudgingly, he pulls out a battered leather wallet, muttering under his breath as he slaps a ten and a five onto the counter. "You’re lucky I’m a gentleman."
"Oh, babe," I say, the words dripping with faux adoration. "You’re the absolute best."
He’s about to retort when the barista’s eyes widen, her finger pointing directly at me. "Wait a second, you’re Elowen Donovan!"
Relief washes over me. Finally, someone who recognizes me for what I’ve built. "Do you want an autograph?" I ask, already reaching for my phone in case she wants a selfie instead.
The barista laughs loudly, almost obnoxiously. "Why would I want an autograph?"
Brooks lets out a snort, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
I blink, confused. "I just assumed… most people who recognize me from Highlight do."
"Oh, honey," the barista says with a pitying smile. "I don’t know you from social media. We went to school together. Our whole lives. It’s me, Trudy Walters."
I could melt into the floor. Scratch that. I could dig a hole straight through the earth and never resurface.
My stomach sinks, my face heating like it’s been set on fire. "Oh. Uh, sorry."
Brooks doubles over, howling with laughter, and this time, he doesn’t bother hiding it. The sound booms across the tiny coffee shop, drawing stares.
"Oh, that’s rich," he chokes out, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Highlight star doesn’t even recognize her old classmates. Classic."
"Shut up," I hiss, the sound barely audible over his obnoxious guffawing.
My face feels like it might combust on the spot.
Brooks plants himself right next to me as we wait for our drinks, his presence suffocatingly close. I cross my arms, staring intently at the counter, willing the embarrassment to leave my body. But it doesn’t. It clings to me like the smell of burnt chicken.
I can’t believe I assumed someone recognized me because of Highlight. Is that who I’ve become? Some narcissistic idiot who thinks my internet fame transcends city limits? It’s not crazy to think it could happen here, though, is it? It happens all the time in LA.
Brooks, of course, has to open his mouth. "I don’t get it," he says, exhaling like he’s been personally wronged. "You lived here for most of your life, but the moment you leave, you just… forget everyone? Forget where you came from?"
My head throbs, a sharp ache blooming behind my temples. "What do you want from me, Brooks?" I bite, turning to face him. "You want me to admit I’m embarrassed by what just happened? Fine. I’m embarrassed. Are you happy now?"
He shrugs, leaning casually against the counter like this is just another day in the life. "Not really. I’m just trying to figure you out."
I throw my hands in the air. "Figure me out? What’s there to figure out?"
He smirks, and it’s infuriating. "You’re just… different."
"Different how?" I snap, narrowing my eyes. "Different because I have a career outside of this town? Different because I don’t spend my days collecting pinecones and making whatever it is you and Jasper make?"
His expression hardens, but his voice stays maddeningly calm. "Different because the Elowen I remember didn’t care what people thought of her. She didn’t need strangers to tell her she was important. She already knew."
The words hit harder than I expect, knocking the breath out of me for a second. My fingers dig into my palms, a thin layer of defense against the truth in his statement.
"Are you serious right now?" I fire back, low and sharp. "This coming from the guy who’s been attached to Jasper’s hip his whole life. You’re still hanging around, still stuck in this town playing it safe. So don’t lecture me about who I am, Brooks."
His jaw locks, but his smirk doesn’t falter. "Touché, Ellie. At least I’m not pretending to be something I’m not."
"Pretending?" I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. "You think what I do is fake? Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to get where I am?"
The words come out rushed. Louder, too. A few people turn to look. I hate that I care.
"I think you’ve worked hard to forget who you were," he counters, quieter but no less pointed.
The barista places our drinks on the counter with a cheerful "Here you go!
" that feels absurdly out of place. I grab my latte with a little too much force, the warmth of the cup seeping into my hand as I glare at Brooks.
He picks up his coffee, as cool and collected as ever, and tilts it toward me in a mock toast.
"To forgetting," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"To leaving," I reply, my voice icy as I rip the croissant bag off the counter.
He grins, and for a second, I hate how much it rattles me. "See you around, Elowen," he says, strolling toward the door like he’s won some unspoken argument.
I stand there, my chest tight with anger and something a lot like resignation. I take a shaky sip of my latte, but it doesn’t do much to calm the storm raging inside me.
Once I’m safely back in the rental car, I take a sobering bite of croissant. It’s warm and buttery, exactly what I need to dull the sting of embarrassment still scorching my face.
I never meant to become this person. Someone who offers autographs and selfies instead of substance. Instead of real conversations and real connections. Someone who can’t even recognize classmates she grew up with.
The air conditioning roars to life, cold against my overheated cheeks, and I cling to the reminder that I’m not fully that person. I came home, didn’t I? I’m driving to the hospital. I’ll sit with Dad, talk to the doctors, face the hard things no one else will.
Maybe that counts for something. Maybe it proves I’m not as hollow as Brooks Mercer thinks I am.
The drive to the hospital is slow. I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, my knuckles pale against the leather.
I try not to think about where I’m headed or why.
It’s easier to focus on the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt, their rhythm a lonely, hollow soundtrack to the morning.
When I finally pull into the hospital parking lot, I head straight for the back, where the spaces are less crowded.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the dashboard as if it might give me answers I don’t have.
The half-eaten croissant Brooks paid for sits on the passenger seat, staring back at me like it’s judging me.
I grab it, tearing off another piece and forcing myself to chew.
I don’t want to cry again. Not over a croissant. Not over Brooks. Not over a family that doesn’t understand how we ended up here.
Angry. I’m so angry. And I don’t even know why I’m here.
Dad’s still not awake, and it’s not like there’s anyone else in the room waiting for him to open his eyes.
Jasper? Too busy babysitting Mom, even though she doesn’t need it.
She doesn’t leave the house. What’s he really protecting her from?
The laundry? Her afternoon soap operas? Dinner prep?
She’s a grown woman, for crying out loud.
The croissant disappears bite by bite, though I can’t taste it. When it’s gone, I crumple the paper bag into my fist and shove it into the cupholder. My chest feels heavy, like someone’s draped a weighted blanket over me, but I know I can’t sit here all day.
I step out of the rental car, the door closing behind me with a muted thud.
The hospital looms ahead, its sterile walls and too-bright windows feel unwelcoming despite the "Welcome" sign above the front entrance.
My feet drag beneath me, deadweight against the cracked pavement as I cross the crowded parking lot.
Each step feels heavier than the last, like the closer I get, the harder it is to move.
By the time I reach the sliding glass doors, my pulse is thrumming in my ears.
The buzz of people coming and going, the faint sound of wheelchairs squeaking and gurneys rolling in the distance.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the automatic doors as they open and close like a mouth that’s swallowing visitors whole.
And then, before I can think too much about it, I step inside and immediately run into a hard shoulder.
"Sorry," I mumble, steadying myself after the collision. But the apology dies in my throat the moment I see who it is.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," I groan. "What, are you stalking me now? Or is this your new brand of small-town ambulance-chasing?"
Brooks gives me a slow, deliberately fake smile, the kind that makes my skin crawl. "No, I’m working."
"You work here?"
I drag a hand down my face. He’s everywhere, like gum stuck to the bottom of my favorite shoe.
"No," Brooks says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I drive the shuttle van for the local shuttle company."
I blink, staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head. "You’re essentially a taxi for the town?"
"That’s one way to look at it," he replies, his voice flat but edged with annoyance. "Then again, I guess we can’t all be models driving Ferraris down Rodeo Drive, can we?"
"You sound jealous," I shoot back. "Seriously, Brooks? This is what you’re doing with your life?" I wave a hand in the air, motioning to nothing and everything. "Driving people around for tips?"
Hadn’t he once talked about leaving for college? About architecture, or something big?
His exhales, but he doesn’t take the bait. "Not all of us need Ferraris or fame to be happy," he says, his tone even, though his nostrils flare. "Some of us are perfectly fine with simpler things. Like warm homes and being surrounded by the few people we actually care about."
I scoff, crossing my arms. "There’s something wrong with this place if that’s all you’re hoping for in life."
Brooks clicks his tongue, shaking his head as if I’ve said something profoundly stupid.
"Maybe the real question is, what’s wrong with you?" His words are quiet but razor-sharp, cutting through my defenses in a way I don’t expect.
Before I can come up with a retort, he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he heads for the door. I turn to watch him leave, my chest tight and my mind spinning.
Maybe I didn’t outgrow this town. Maybe it outgrew me. But if that’s true… why does Brooks Mercer keep showing up like some stubborn reminder that I still belong?