Page 25 of In Somnis

“Come to me.”

The three words echo in my head.

Right.

I signed a lease, unpacked nothing, but somehow managed to avoid the one thing I drove three thousand miles to do.

Time to fix that.

I grab my sweater off the floor where I dropped it last night and shove my feet into my shoes. My hands are shaking from exhaustion or nerves, I can’t tell, but I head for the door before I can overthink it.

If I’m going to fall apart, I might as well do it in motion.

“Universe, be good,” I whisper, and step out of my apartment.

The morning air is cold when I leave the building, enough to make me regret not grabbing a real jacket, but the sweater will have to do. I glance at my Bumble Bitch, her yellow paint catching in the morning light, and consider driving. It would be faster and warmer, but after four days of white-knuckling the steering wheel, I think we both need a break from each other.

Vernonia is small, so small, you could sneeze and miss half the town. Main Street has a coffee shop, a hardware store, a post office that looks as though it hasn’t been updated since the seventies, and not much else. I pass a mom-and-pop grocery store with faded awnings and a sign advertising fresh pies.

No flower shop, though.

I keep walking, scanning storefronts as if one might magically appear. There’s a thrift store with dusty window displays, a bar that won’t open for hours, and a tiny library that’s probably charming when you’re not having an anxiety spiral.

Still no flowers.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “What kind of town doesn’t have a single place to buy flowers?”

Apparently, this one.

I could go back to the grocery store—they probably have those sad cellophane-wrapped ones near the checkout—but the thought of showing up at Tessa’s family mansion with gas station flowers makes me want to sink into the pavement.

And over my dead body will I show up with store-bought muffins.

So I’m showing up empty-handed like an asshole.

Great. Perfect. This is going great.

I take a breath and keep walking.

The town gives way to quieter streets lined with trees that are showing off their fall colors like they know they’re pretty. The houses get bigger, more spaced out, and then there it is. The Vaughn mansion.

I stop at the end of the driveway and just… stare.

It’s exactly as imposing as I remember. Maybe more so now that I’m standing here alone, uninvited, in my stress-sweater and the last shreds of hope I have left. The house is all cream-colored stone with perfectly manicured hedges. I’ve been here before—once, years ago—when Tessa invited me to spend a holiday break with her. Back then, it already felt fancy enough to trigger my inner imposter syndrome.

Now my anxiety dial is officially on “crispy.”

My feet don’t want to move. They’re very invested in staying right here, at the edge of the property, where I can still pretend this is a reasonable thing to do, but I didn’t drive across the country to stand at the end of a driveway.

I force one foot in front of the other, crunching up the gravel path. The walk feels impossibly long. Twenty steps. Thirty. By the time I reach the front door, I’m wheezing like a broken kettle, and I’m not sure if it’s from the walk or the panic.

I stare at the door.

Knock, Lennon. Just knock.

But what if…

No. No more what-ifs. I’m here. I’m doing this.