Page 5 of Before We Break

“Isn’t it against some kind of bylaw to make your family members vote in your favor?”

She shrugs. “Maybe, but you know I’d do anything for him. He’s my favorite person in the whole world.”

Milton Catalano, known affectionately around town as Gramps, is Quinn’s grandfather. He’s the mayor of Willow Valley, though that position is largely considered honorary. Everything is run by a committee of three council members. There’s a monthly meeting, and the town votes on new resolutions, requiring 55 percent in favor to pass.

The greater Willow Valley area is home to roughly 600 people, with only 400 or so living in Willow Valley proper. Many of our older residents live on the outskirts of town on old farms or at the mobile home village near the border between here and Starling Falls. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure where I’d fit in when I moved here, but barely a year later, Willow Valley feels like home.

“I should get back to the shop,” Quinn says, glancing around the park. “This place is way too people-y.”

I pull her in for a one-armed hug before setting her free again. “Meet you there after work? We can walk to the meeting together.”

“Bring snacks. I heard something’s going down tonight.”

I steeple my hands and tap my fingers together like a cartoon villain. “Sounds like the perfect excuse for popcorn.”

NOAH

This has been the week from hell, and it just keeps getting hotter.

On Monday, a late-summer storm cut the power to the studio for three hours, and I had to cancel my afternoon appointment. On Tuesday, I had another run-in with my tenant about changing the bathroom tile to something with more personality—her words, not mine.

And yesterday, in the middle of my morning coffee, I got a call that my twin brother, Jonah, had been arrested, and he appointed me as his four-year-old son’s guardian. I haven’t seen or heard from Jonah in three years, and now I’m in charge of a four-year-old.

If that wasn’t enough, this morning, Ben Catalano gave me an ominous warning that I should attend this month’s town meeting, so I’m bracing for the worst.

I snatch my keys from the hook by the door and turn back to my sister, Emma. She’s seated on the rug beside my nephew, Auggie, with coloring sheets spread out across my coffee table.

“You sure you don’t mind staying with him?” I ask.

“We’ll be fine, right, buddy?” She ruffles his hair, and he grins up at her, nodding once.

“Thanks, Squirt. I owe you.”

She groans at the use of her childhood nickname, hurling one of her Doc Martens across the room. I’m at the door before she can hit her target, and the shoe collides against the wood with a muffled thud.

It’s a short walk to the library, but I decide to take my Harley instead. I park in the alley out back for a quick getaway and head inside the massive stone building where half the town is already gathered. The air is tinged with the scents of leather, paper, and something almost earthy.

Rows of chairs are set up in the large meeting space upstairs with a long table at the front of the room. Seated dead center is the Willow Valley mayor, Milton, more commonly known as Gramps, clad in his customary trucker hat, with his mustache freshly groomed. To his right is Janet, the septuagenarian librarian—try saying that five times fast—with her short grey bob, dressed in her Sunday best. I think she stopped aging around a decade ago.

To his left is my sister’s boyfriend, glorified nepo baby Teddy Sinclair. His dad is a bigshot hockey coach in Lexington. Their ancestors founded the town, and Teddy never lets anyone forget it. He resembles every rich kid you’ve ever met, in a pressed button-down and slacks, greasy dark hair with a classic side part, and way too much gel. The three of them, Teddy, Janet, and Milton, make up the town council.

I pick a spot in the back row and scan the crowd. All of the usual suspects are here: about fifty of the town’s more prominent—and nosy—figures. Ben waves from a few rows ahead. Seated next to him is his sister, Quinn, and beside her, on the end of the row, sharing a large bucket of popcorn from the Grove is my neighbor and tenant, Clio Marsden—beautiful, curvy, fucking infuriating. Sunshine wrapped in neon colors and a smile that could probably melt an iceberg—but not me. I’m immune.

Muffled chatter fills the room as the rest of the townies file in, filling most of the empty seats in the rows ahead of me. As usual, nobody sits beside me.

Gramps stands, the buttons on his plaid shirt straining against his midsection. He bangs his gavel twice and silences the crowd. “Welcome to the Willow Valley town meeting. Let’s cut to the chase.” His voice is rough as sandpaper. “Our first order of business is the issue of parking in the town square. It has been brought to the council’s attention that residents have been blocking the gazebo entrance on the east side. I would like to kindly remind everyone that there is a perfectly good parking lot on the other side of the square where you will not be a nuisance.”

“Oh, come on, Milton. It was one time, and my wife was in labor,” a masculine voice protests. “What was I supposed to do, let her have the baby in the middle of the Grove?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Landry.” Milton flips a page on a clipboard and runs his finger down the list, muttering to himself. “Oh. Right. The fiftieth annual Willow Tree Festival is coming up, and we’re looking for volunteers. The sign-up sheet will be at the front desk with Janet.”

He glances at Janet and winks. A furious blush spreads across her face, and she looks away, patting her cheeks.

For the next thirty minutes, we go over landscaping and HOA regulations, parking grievances, leash laws, and every other mundane small-town neighbor dispute you can think of, and I nearly fall asleep in the back row.

“The final order of business I would like to address was brought to me by The Willow Valley Business Association.”

Oh fuck.