Knox
Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we wind past a row of sugar maples and the small apple orchard my grandfather still insists on pruning himself. Headlights sweep over a stretch of manicured lawn before resting on the house: three stories of white clapboard and green shutters, every window glowing like a memory.
I ease off the gas as the wraparound porch comes into view, columns straight and proud despite their age. My grandparents’ house has endured generations and maybe even a few family secrets.
A porch light flickers through the dusk, warm and steady, like it’s been eager for me to come back.
Vermont air feels different, cooler, lighter somehow, steeped in pine, cut grass, and a hint of sweet apples from the orchard. I used to take it for granted growing up here, back when leaving felt like the only way to become someone else. Now, easing into this driveway, I can’t tell if I’m coming home or revisiting a piece of myself I thought I’d buried.
Beside me, Cami leans forward, eyes fixed on the house. “It’s gorgeous,” she says, face beaming. For a moment, I watch hertake in what I’d stopped seeing years ago: the porch swing, the lanterns, the amber glow from the kitchen window.
Her gaze catches on the porch light. “I love how it flickers before steadying. Feels alive somehow, like it’s happy to see us.”
“Yeah.” I throw the gearshift into park, eyes tracing the silhouette of the orchard through the trees. “House hasn’t changed much.”
She glances over, her smile as genuine as ever. “Why would it need to?”
I’m not sure if the quiet wrapping around us feels like peace or if it’s the certainty that I’m already in much deeper than I ever meant to be with a woman who doesn’t need perfection to see something beautiful.
I’ve pulled into this driveway with someone else before.
Different car. Different lifetime.
Back then, Jenna had called it “tasteful,” as if she were reviewing a real estate listing instead of meeting my family. She never noticed how the porch light flickers.
Cami notices things that may not matter to anyone else.
And that’s what scares me most.
Because every time she does, I fall harder.
Headlights fade when I kill the engine, leaving the porch light to hold its ground against the dark.
For a beat, neither of us moves.
I open my door and step out, pebbles shifting under my shoes, night air raising goose bumps along my arms.
Somewhere out in the orchard, crickets chirp as I open the passenger door.
Cami steps out, her hair lifting in the apple-scented breeze.
She surveys the house, head tilted back. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
Hands in my pockets, memories find me before I’m ready for them. “Grandpa always says that porch could fit three families if we ever run out of room inside.”
Her mouth curves. “I believe it.”
“Come on.” I clear my throat, shifting my focus to the tall, green door. “Let’s get inside before mosquitoes decide we’re dinner.”
As I push open the front door, its familiar creak greets me like an old friend. The scent of Grandma’s homemade laundry soap lingers in the air, fresh and unmistakably home.
Cami steps in beside me, gaze flicking to the framed photos lining the hall.
She pauses in front of one. “Is this you?”
A photo catches my eye—me at ten, all elbows and an oversized baseball cap, holding a fishing pole half my size.
“Yeah.” My mouth pulls to one side as the memory surfaces. “Caught my first trout that day. Grandpa made me clean it myself.”
