1
SADIE
Igently wipethe dust off the shelves, which have housed every friend who has known me beyond flesh and fleeting feelings. I’m not surprised Ginny hasn’t kept up with the library. She’s here for the paycheck, not the praise. I wonder what that’s like . . .
I sigh, my gaze dropping to the stack of books in my arms.
Little Womenfor Jo, obviously.
The Bodyguardbecause Katherine Center is a literary genius.
Hunger Gamesto lend my support to Team Peeta.
The Notebookbecause Allie kissing Noah is as close to unbridled passion as I’ve had in the last decade.
These are comfort reads—reads that allow my mind, body, and soul to swim in something I’ve already known, where I’ve already been. People who have made me feel seen when I felt like a ghost of myself and places that lend their magic to my mundane.
My mundane, which lately has felt stifling, as if I’m a candle that’s been snuffed out by the last of the liquid wax. Nothing left to burn even though I’m still here. Still present. Still alive.
I sink to the burgundy shag carpet and openLittle Women, inhaling the yellowed paper. It smells of dried-up tears, hope, and a hint of dark chocolate. I wonder what would have happened if Jo married Laurie.
Personal opinion: I think Jo loved him more than she let on; she just didn’t know how to be herself and be in love.
I hear my phone buzz in my purse. Sometimes I wish responsibility was still attached to a cord, where it couldn’t find you when you weren’t at home. I ignore the buzzing even though my fingers ache to respond.
It’s been an exhausting week, and if I could morph myself into fibers and become one with this aged carpet, I would.
But downtown closes in ten minutes, and I still need to run to the bank.
I stand and weave back through the aisles of books to the front counter, where I notice Ginny’s jaw is slack and bright color has flushed her enthusiastic expression, which is now directed at me instead of her phone screen.
“Sadie Summers. Oh, girl! Did you hear?”
I shake my head. I don’t gossip, but it’s just the thing Genevieve Johnson has been doing since second grade.
Ginny isn’t exactly a friend. She’s my librarian, which makes her important, but we didn’t grow up whispering secrets in each other’s ears or exchanging BFF necklaces that left green stains on our skin. It’s a strange stretching process growing up in the same small town and then never leaving. Well, basically never leaving. Two years away at college doesn’t count.
But what does count?
Every mistake you made or didn’t make. Who you once were—who everyone remembers you to be—is permanently inked upon your forehead.
For Ginny, it’s her mistakes. For me, it’s the lack of them.
Even though I know I’ve made mistakes. People just choose not to see them. Not when those mistakes aren’t loud or uncomfortable.
“Milo’s back in town.” Her voice is low as she leans over, and her eyes are wide in anticipation as she watches me very carefully.
I stare at Ginny with a steadiness I’ve learned how to harnesseven when my pulse is in my ears and my heart is twisting within—like what’s happening right now.
Milo Carter is in Dusty Hollow.
I raise one brow as I set my stack of books down on the counter. “Oh, he is?”
She leans over even more, her chin resting heavily in her hands as she continues to study me. “Oh,he is. Looks like he took a job at the school. Dusty Hollow High just made the announcement.” She blows a huge pink bubble that matches the rims of her glasses, and then it loudly pops, echoing through the emptiness of the library on a Friday afternoon.
“Oh.” It comes out more of a sigh than a word.
He’s not just in Dusty Hollow. He’s back. To live.
