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Sly doesn’t turn to face me, only gives me a brief glance out of the corner of his eye. “Sisi could use a friend right now.”

I nod, still not knowing how to handle this awkward reunion. Instead, I look around the old garage that feels oddly comforting still. Scanning the room, it looks almost exactly like it did all those years ago, except for something that’s conspicuously missing.

“Where’s Dan?” I ask, clutching the cold bottle of soda in my hand.

Sly quirks a brow. “My uncle or the dog?”

“Well, I guess, both actually?” My voice trails nervously.

He huffs a laugh. “Dan retired a few years ago, and my dog, well… he was already old back then, Josie.”

My lips curl into an O. I remember that dog and how much Sly loved him. Outside of me, his dog was the only thing that could get Sly out of his shell. “Shit. Um, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago.” His eyes meet mine, and that icy stare still makes my breath stutter. “Things aren’t meant to stay the same forever.” With that, he grabs a shop towel and wipes his hands. Before heading to the same door his dad just went through, he stops and points behind me. “There’s another red cream soda in there.”

I look behind me to see the brown bag sitting on the desk. I must have missed him setting it down. I turn back to thank him, but by the time I do, he’s gone, leaving me wondering what the hell is going on.

CHAPTER 8

JOSIE

Memory Lane

Eddie might be one of the best—scratch that—the only honorable male role models in my life, despite being a prolific shit starter. He is not, however, an infallible man. As funny, kind, and undoubtedly good at his job as he is, the man was, in fact, not able to work a miracle like he’d hoped. That’s why I’m still in my motel room on Saturday morning—a week later—without a new transmission located for my van.

Of course, it’s not his fault. I’ve stopped into the garage each day this week, partially out of boredom in this small town and because I wanted to see if they’d made any progress. When I stopped in, I saw the list of parts warehouses and dealers he’s called, trying to find the unobtanium that my van apparently requires to be fixed. I guess Sly was right, like he typically is—vans like mine have gotten so popular that spare parts are hard to come by. I should probably consider myself fortunate that I haven’t had bigger issues in the past and maybe feel a sense of pride that I’ve maintained it so well—something even Sly seemed to acknowledge and appreciate. He did seem confident they would find one in time to get me on the road for the festival, though.

On the topic of my ex, he’s been all but a ghost this week, except for the one time I saw him at the garage. He was sparse for words—mostly producing a few grumbles and grunts—but what I did make out was something along the lines of ‘nice choice on the shocks’ and ‘sturdy ladder and roof rack’. When he uttered those compliments—if you could call them that—I felt some level of self-loathing because that ounce of validation gave me a dopamine hit that I wasn’t expecting. I wish I didn’t get that feeling from two sentences from him, because I don’t need his approval.

Of all the things he could compliment me on, it was my van. Building our adventure van to explore the country together was something we dreamed of doing, day and night. We’d talk about our grand plans for life—living in Sterling Springs, running our respective family businesses, and exploring the American southwest in our camper van when the itch to get away from our hometown became too much to ignore. That was supposed to be our thing, and while it eventually became my thing, hearing him have any opinion on the subject brings back the hurt that I felt when he cast aside the dreams we had, like they meant nothing to him.

Thankfully, outside of that interaction, we haven’t crossed paths this week. I don’t know if he was busy working under a car or his dad had him running out to pick up parts for other customers, but I didn’t concern myself with it. The only sign that he was around was the fridge that was suspiciously stocked with red cream soda.

Other than my interactions with Eddie and Sly at the garage and some meals at the diner, my only other face-to-face human interactions for the last week have been donuts and coffee with Sisi each morning in the lobby.

That’s how I ended up here—standing in front of Maribel’s—where I worked almost every weekend through high school and most mornings in the summer. I’ve been debating whether to go inside the bakery for what feels like far too long.

While catching up with Sisi has been… cathartic, maybe? Yes, I think that’s the word I’m looking for. Dumping our collective emotional baggage while we hung out around the motel was exactly what we both needed. While staying there has been nice, that doesn’t mean there aren’t issues.

Namely, I’m getting tired of motel lobby donuts and diner food. Surprisingly, the diner has been a welcome, safe space. Sisi explained that the new owner, Riley, moved to town not that long ago and bought the diner from the old owners, so she has no preconceived notions of me. There are still some locals who cast me the stray disapproving glance—either from recognizing me or from my appearance. Really, god forbid a girl have bright red hair—which is entirely natural—visible tattoos, and a septum piercing. Mostly, my tattoos are hidden by my pants and hoodie.

The smell of fresh baked goods wafts out of the propped-open door, confirming my decision. While Maribel’s is known for their donuts—ones I’ve been enjoying free of charge in the motel lobby—I know if I actually go inside, the selection of donuts, pastries, and maybe even something a little heartier, will be even better. That’s why I put on my big girl pants, which today is my favorite pair of faded blue jeans, and walked to the bakery.

Despite my attempt at being a slightly more functional human today, I can’t bring myself to go inside the old bakery and sandwich shop. I was so close with Maribel after the amount of time I spent there, either working behind the counter with her or sitting at the small bistro table that was always empty except for when Sisi would come to mooch pastries off me. Inevitably, I was either here or somewhere with Sly.

Everyone who’s known me—or at least the post Sterling Springs version of me—would say I’m fearless, shameless, or defiantly independent, and maybe even a bit unhinged. I’m the one who doesn’t just pleasure myself on camera, I take joy in it and crave the power over my own life it gives me. I’m the one who has no problem letting a stranger at a tattoo studio pierce my nipples while I crack jokes about if she’ll buy me dinner afterwards. What they would never expect is to find me standing outside of a bakery run by a little old lady, completely afraid to go inside.

Big girl pants or not, I don’t want to feel ashamed like I did the last time I set foot inside the hole-in-the-wall bakery I used to love spending time in.

When the allegations that my parents had basically fleeced the resort out of millions, the town didn’t initially react. It was even a shock to me. I had no clue what my parents were up to. Sure, they were always busy, on the phone or traveling for business, but I thought that was normal business stuff. Of course, high school me didn’t know what the day-to-day operations of their business were like. Presumably, that’s why they wanted me to get a business degree. At the time, I was far more focused on my boyfriend than knowing what an amortization table was or what’s an acceptable debt-to-liquidity ratio.

After a few weeks, as people from the area started coming out with their stories, it became clear that they were, in fact, guilty as hell. I didn’t want to believe it. The people in town were my friends. I also couldn’t believe my parents would ever do that, but eventually it became too hard to ignore. People had lost money they invested in the condos at the mountain, others lost good-paying jobs. It was terrible.

By the end of that summer, it was almost impossible to show my face anywhere—partly from guilt, partly because people were just cruel to me. Outside of hanging out with Sly and Sisi at the garage or the Sterlings’ house, there wasn’t anywhere I could go where I felt remotely welcome. Everywhere I went, someone was impacted one way or another by what my parents did. The cold stares and things people would say to me were so hard to process. In a matter of weeks, I hated the town that I had always dreamed of calling home.

That sentiment alone is almost enough to make me head back to the diner and get an iced latte and avocado toast from Riley. Maybe I’ve been standing here, peering in the window like the weirdo I am for too long, because eventually, the teenager behind the counter enthusiastically gestures for me to come in. I finally cave, summoning my confidence from said big girl pants to cross the threshold. I tell myself it’s because of the delicious smells emanating from the door, not the girl’s red hair or welcoming smile, or her far too enthusiastic waving for this time of day, that reminds me of a distant version of myself.

Walking up to the counter, I practically drool when I see the menu. It’s still on the same old chalkboard hanging on the back wall and hasn’t changed in a decade, like most everything else around here.