Chapter Twenty-One
Nysa
The call with Atlas leaves me thinking about too many things.
Unsurprisingly, when Hopper arrives at his house I’m a little distracted. Thankfully, Maddie was still asleep. Instead of finding an excuse to stay, to linger until dinner so I can have Hop and Maddie time, I leave with a simple, See you tomorrow.
Hopper doesn’t question it. He knows I promised Grandma I’d help out at the bookstore, so I don’t have to offer an explanation. But the truth? I don’t leave because of that. I leave because I know myself.
This, what I’m starting to feel for him is nothing like the crush I had for him when he tutored me. Nope. This isn’t just a crush anymore.
It’s more.
And that terrifies me to the core.
I drive back to Grandma’s, park the car, and walk the rest of the way to the bookstore. Maybe the cool air will help clear my head. The town is the same as always. Just a few years older but nobody would notice if they are just visiting for the weekend. Maple trees line the streets, their leaves rustling as a breeze moves through. Mrs. Nolan waves me down outside the general store, reminding me to visit soon.
That’s the thing about Birchwood Springs. You don’t just nod in passing—you stop, you chat, you get a full rundown on someone’s family, their dog, and the shelf they just built in their kitchen. And if you don’t? They’ll track you down later because they have something for you. A butterscotch candy or a lollipop, usually, because they’ve known you since you were “just a peanut.” Their words.
Betty Lou’s Florals comes into view, the window display bursting with fresh sunflowers. Mrs. Edgerton used to run it, but now it’s just Mr. Edgerton, still keeping the place running. McNally’s Hardware is exactly as I remember—same weathered sign, same plastic flamingos for the yard. Has anybody bought one, like ever?
And then there’s Clark & Son’s Auto Shop, a handful of guys standing outside, leaning against trucks, swapping stories.
Birchwood Springs is like a picture frozen in time.
I shift the strap of my purse, turn onto Main Street, and spot the warm glow of The Honey Drop spilling onto the sidewalk.
I slow my steps.
Because once I walk through that door, Delilah will see right through me.
She always does.
She’ll ask questions. She’ll want to know . . . well, everything. And I don’t have answers I can give her. Not about Hopper. Not about Maddie. Not about why I left three years ago and how now I can’t seem to leave this town.
I breathe in deep, let the scent of coffee and vanilla curl around me, and push open the door. The bell jingles overhead, and just like that, I’m seventeen again, sneaking in before curfew for a caramel latte and whatever pastry Delilah snuck from the back. She always got in trouble with her mother for giving us pastries.
Nothing’s changed. Same honey-yellow walls. Same mismatched chairs. Same display case filled with pastries that make your mouth water just looking at them.
Behind the counter, moving with the ease of someone who owns the space, is Delilah. Her dark curls pulled into a bun, flour smudged on her apron. She’s got her back to me, but I can hear her humming.
“Still singing to the muffins, I see,” I say, leaning against the counter.
She spins at the sound of my voice, her eyes going wide before a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Nysa. I heard you were back, and I was wondering when you’d finally visit me, bitch.”
I snort. “Nice to see you too.”
She flicks a dish towel over her shoulder. “Took you long enough.”
“It’s been . . . complicated.”
“Yeah, I heard about everything going on at your place,” she says, voice dipping into something unreadable. “Is that why you left?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I just . . . felt like I had to go, you know?”
She levels me with a look. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’ll tell me eventually, but in the meantime, why didn’t you come here first? I would’ve thrown a welcome-back party.”
