Back to this small town with its smaller people.
The words echoed inside her head with venom.Theyhad never understood her, not really.Theseneighbors and classmates, these church ladies and softball players—they lived and breathed contentment, as though a porch swing and a family recipe could be enough to fill a life.ToBriana, it had always been suffocating, as though someone pressed a pillow to her face every time she walked downMainStreet.
They had no idea there was a wild, wonderful world beyond this sleepy place.Aworld that had welcomed her once.
She saw it again in her mind, clear as if it were yesterday: bright lights glinting off tall buildings, the rush of traffic and laughter spilling from rooftop bars, the feeling of possibility hanging in the air like perfume.Thereshe had been someone.Beautiful, admired, unburdened by the old stories of who she used to be.Shehad slipped into that world like sliding into silk sheets.Effortless.Intoxicating.
Until she crashed.
Her hand hesitated as she painted the bow of her lip, the memory of that fall sharp as broken glass.Shehad flown too close to the sun, dazzled by her own reflection in windows and champagne flutes.She’dmistaken attention for devotion, mistook desire for permanence.Andwhen it ended - when the city closed its doors to her - she found herself driving back toTennessee, nursing wounds too deep for bandages.
Coming back toPickwickBendhad been her only option.
She hated the sound of that, hated how it branded her return with desperation instead of choice.Shetold herself she had come back to take stock, to regroup, to remind herself of her roots.Butreally, she’d come back because there was nowhere else left to go.
And then, miracle of miracles,Acenhad shown up in town shortly after she’d arrived.
She’d thought fate was smiling on her again.
For weeks she had floated on that possibility, certain the universe had realigned in her favor.Theboy she had once known, now a man, returned at the very moment she needed a lifeline.Shesaw in him not just a chance at rekindling old sparks, but proof that she was still chosen, still worth fighting for.Shehad told herself stories of how it might unfold: the town buzzing with envy as they walked side by side,Acen’sgaze fixed only on her, the life she’d once dreamed of finally within her reach.
But that hadn’t turned out the way she’d thought.
RoseMcAlisterhad ruined that dream.
Rose, with her polished little coffee shop and her air of calm competence, with her untouchable reputation and her easy way of making people like her.Rose, who had managed to turnAcen’shead without even trying, whileBrianahad painted her nails and smiled too wide, offering everything and receiving nothing.
So now she’d get her own back the only way she could.
The thought curled in her chest like smoke.Sheleaned closer to the mirror, dragging the lipstick carefully along her bottom lip until it shone, until her reflection looked fierce enough to match the storm behind her eyes.
She didn’t need to see the ripple to know it was there.
Small towns ran on gasoline and gossip, and she’d poured enough into the tank to keep tongues wagging for weeks.
The art of it, she told herself, was subtlety.Youdidn’t shout the truth—or the lie.Youwhispered.Youdropped a phrase here, an observation there.Youlooked surprised when someone else repeated it, and you tilted your head just enough to suggest you knew more than you were saying.
She didn’t have to say the secret outright.
That was the beauty of it.Shedidn’t have to spell out the details, didn’t have to risk exposing herself to blame.Sheonly had to tilt the story so it slid inRose’sdirection.Justenough to remind people thatRosewasn’t perfect, wasn’t untouchable, wasn’t the saint they wanted her to be.
And once the idea took root, it would grow.
That was the thing about suggestion.Itbloomed wild, tangled, unstoppable.Likekudzu creeping up a fence post, once planted it covered everything in its path.Shehad already heard whispers of it—the way someone would lower their voice in the grocery aisle, the way a church pew would shift slightly whenRosesat down.Doubtwas a seed you never had to water; people did it themselves.
Her reflection smirked back at her, lips red as sin, eyes narrowed with satisfaction.Sheleaned back, taking in the whole picture of herself in the mirror.Shelooked nothing like the girl who had once stared out this same window and dreamed of leaving.Shelooked harder, sharper, like someone who had survived too much to ever be soft again.
The house around her was still the same—thin walls, sagging roofline, the faint scent of mothballs in the closets.Butshe was not the same.Sherefused to be.
When the game ended.Ifshe lost.Ifthe town wanted to make her the villain, so be it.Villainsgot remembered.
She reached for the perfume bottle on her dresser, misting the air until the room filled with the sweet, heavy scent.Sheclosed her eyes, breathing it in, letting the fragrance coat her skin like armor.
By the time she stood, smoothing down her skirt and slipping into her heels, the decision had already been made.
RoseMcAlistermight believe she had the upper hand.ButBrianaknew better.
Because inPickwickBend, it wasn’t the truth that mattered.
