I turned to Greyson beside me. “Is it weird that I want to throw up?”
He reached down and squeezed my hand. “Completely normal. But if you hurl on the romance section, I’m not cleaning it up.”
“Thanks for the support.”
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “You’ve got this, my little honey bee. Now go shine.”
People were already gathered at the door, more than I expected. The front of the shop had been rearranged for the evening, cozy chairs set up in a semicircle facing the main table. My table.
Delilah opens the door, and people start to rush in. Familiar faces began to fill the room, people I hadn’t realized had come to mean something to me: neighbors, old classmates and customers from the bar. And in the front row, Madison was holding baby Olive, beaming like the proud best friend she was.
I walked up to the mic.
“Hi,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “Um, I’m Blair Cunningham, which most of you know because you’ve known me since I was eight and covered in glitter in Delilah’s kids’corner.”
That got a soft laugh.
“I left Wisteria Creek a long time ago. I thought I was running toward something, my dreams, my future. But the truth is, I was also running away. From pain. From silence. From the fear that I wouldn’t be accepted for who I really was.”
I swallowed and scanned the crowd. Greyson gave me a nod. Madison mouthedYou’re doing great.
“This book is fiction,” I continued, “but the heart of it, the longing, the healing, the coming home, that’s all mine. And I couldn’t have written it without the people in this room, this town, and the courage to finally speak up.”
Applause filled the room. I blinked fast and laughed once. “Okay. Time to sign some books before I ugly cry.”
The line wrapped around the shop.
Delilah floated around handing out cider and cookies shaped like little books. People hugged me and thanked me. They told me they saw themselves in the story. Even a few local teens asked me questions about writing. One girl clutched her copy to her chest like it was sacred.
“This book felt like someone understood,” she whispered. “Thank you for that.”
By the time Greyson reached the front of the line, I was barely holding it together.
“For you,” I said, handing him a copy with a grin. “Signed:To the man who makes me feel like I never have to run again.”
He leaned in. “I’m framing that page.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Later, after the last book had been signed and the last huggiven, I sat on the windowsill watching the sky darken over Wisteria Creek.
Delilah joined me, two mugs of cider in hand.
“You did well, kid,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You made people feel seen. And that’s the whole point of storytelling, isn’t it?”
I nodded, holding the mug close.
“I didn’t think I’d get to this part,” I whispered. “The part where the story doesn’t hurt anymore.”
She placed a hand over mine. “You earned every word.”
I looked out the window, toward the bar across the street, the glow from Greyson’s sign humming steadily in the night.
My story wasn’t just printed on paper now. It was woven into this town, this life, these people.
