#BuckhornValentines #SmallTownMagic #LoveLivesHere
I feel good. But it’s still a little hard to breathe, to not expect the other shoe to drop. Everything's so easy now… almost too easy. But for once, I want to let it feel real.
The likes start popping up so quickly, it feels like watching popcorn.
A comment appears:Is Jet doing the cookies again??
Jet replies from the diner’s account like she’s possessed:Yes, and they’re better than ever!
Another:Where do we park?
Another:Can we bring dogs?
And then, a message that makes my throat squeeze:This is making me homesick, and I’m only in Eugene.
I swallow around it. Because of course it does. Buckhorn has that effect. It’s like the town reaches out with a mittened hand and tugs you closer until you remember what being known feels like.
“Faith!” Rose calls, waving me over from the cocoa station like I’m running for office. “We need you. Jet is about to commit a felony.”
“I am not,” Jet snaps, shoving a tray down on the table with enough force to rattle the cups. “I am feeding people.”
Boone stands on the other side of the station holding a heart-shaped cookie like it’s a suspicious object he found in the pasture.
“This one says ‘Bemine,’” he says slowly, squinting.
Jet leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Read it again.”
Boone rotates the cookie a quarter turn. “Now it says ‘B E…’”
“It saysBe Mine,” Jet repeats, each word a little sharper, like she’s trying to carve it into his brain.
Nash appears behind Boone like a heckling ghost. “He can’t read cursive, Jet. It’s a known condition.”
Clay steps in and slides Boone a cocoa with extra marshmallows like he’s defusing a bomb. Boone takes it immediately, betrayed by sugar.
I lift my phone without thinking and start recording.
Jet catches me and points a spatula at my face. “If you put this on the internet, I will fight you.”
“I would never,” I lie, smiling sweetly.
Rose leans in, whispering, “Please put it on the internet.”
I get Boone’s confused frown, Nash’s grin, Jet’s glare, and Clay’s tiny, rare smile all in one shot, and it feels… like I’m collecting proof that I’m really here.
That this is real.
That I’m not trapped in a glass conference room while someone closes a laptop in front of me like it’s a leash.
Someone bumps my shoulder gently, and I turn, expecting another crisis, but it’s my mom.
She’s bundled in her long wool coat, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tucked into her scarf, and she looks at me like she’s trying not to blink too hard, or she’ll cry.
Which is unfair, because now I want to cry too.
“You’re early,” I say, because I have no idea what else to say when my heart is doing that tender, bruised thing.
“I didn’t want to miss anything,” she replies, and the way she says it makes my throat tighten.
