From the living room, the television blares a sports channel, commentators already loud though it’s barely eight. My dad’s stretched out in his chair, one arm slung over the armrest, eyes on the screen. He lifts two fingers in a greeting without looking away.
“Drive safe,” Mom calls after me, then adds, softer, “You’re here to visit. Not to run errands.”
“I know,” I tell her, hand on the doorknob. I do know. That’s the problem. Staying still in this house makes memories crowd too close. “Waffles taste better when you don’t compromise.”
She laughs, the sound bright. “You always were dramatic.”
“I learned that from you, Mom.”
Her laughter follows me out.
Outside, the cold bites immediately. It’s the kind that sinks into your knuckles and makes your breath fog. I pause on the porch, keys cold in my palm, and look back at the house.
White siding. The crooked step my dad meant to fix fifteen years ago. The upstairs window that used to be mine, where I’d lie awake listening to storms roll through and swear I’d never leave this town.
Funny how promises change shape.
Mom insisted I stay over when I showed up last night, damp and tired and smelling like smoke. Ever since Molly married andmoved to Indiana, the house has felt too big for her. I could see it in the way she hovered, in the extra place set at the table. I didn’t have it in me to argue.
I slide into the car and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, breathing. I outgrew this place, but it still knows me. That cuts both ways.
The drive into town is short. Willowbrook looks scrubbed raw by rain, streets darker with moisture, trees bare-limbed against the pale sky. A few people are out early, bundled up, moving with the slow care that follows a bad night. They nod when they recognize me. A wave here. A lifted chin there.
At the local store, the automatic doors sigh open. The place is nearly empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A bell dings somewhere in the back. It smells like coffee grounds and cardboard.
I grab a cart and start down the aisle, tossing in eggs, butter, real vanilla. Powdered sugar because Mom likes it dusted thick. A carton of milk. Strawberries, even though they’re out of season and expensive. She’ll scold me, but she’ll smile.
I turn the corner too fast and ram my cart straight into another one.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt, hands up.
The other cart rocks back. A hand steadies it.
I look up.
Caroline.
For a second, my brain refuses to catch up. She’s right there, close enough that I can see the faint pink at the tip of her nose from the cold. Oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, soft and worn. Black leggings tucked into boots dusted with salt. Her hair’s in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She’s holding a bag of cat food against her hip.
Still the sexiest woman I have ever seen. Time doesn’t touch her the way it touches everything else.
“Griffin?” Her eyes widen, then narrow slightly, like she’s making sure I’m real. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” I take a step forward without thinking, then stop myself. There’s a line you don’t cross until you know the ground will hold. “My parents. I’m helping out.”
Someone passes behind us, cart rattling. “Morning,” they call.
“Morning,” Caroline and I answer at the same time. The normalcy of it hits me square in the chest.
She glances down at her cart, then back at me. “You almost took me out.”
“Would’ve been a hell of a reunion story,” I say, aiming for light. My voice feels thicker than it should. “I swear I’m not usually a menace.”
She huffs a laugh despite herself. It’s quick, but it’s there. “You always were.”
I notice the cat food now. Black bag. The good kind. “Still spoiling your cat?”
Her mouth tilts. “Thistle has standards.”
