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The wind is warm as it snakes through the car, twirling my hair away from my neck before fluttering the pages of a book on my front seat.
I take a deep breath and trap the familiar scent of juniper and marigold in my lungs. The ache of familiarity sits heavy in my heart.
Being in Rosewood has always been like that for me—bittersweet. I've always loved my time here, but in the back of my mind, there was always a clock. A timer slowly counting down the minutes, hours, days until I had to leave.
But this time will be different.
I take the familiar curves of the roads, passing reminders of my youth. Passing Nana Jo's street, childhood friends' neighborhoods, the drive-in theater tucked off the road and closer to the woods.
The soft notes of a teenage love lost provide the soundtrack. Memories seem to pop on each corner and building, like fireworks frozen in time. The last time I was here,really here, I had taken Nana Jo thrifting a few towns over, followed by Uncle Harry's, of course.
Life's more fun with ice cream, she'd say.
Downtown Rosewood greets me the same way she always does: like a movie set for a quirky rom-com.
Lights twinkle from storefront window displays, couples stroll hand-in-hand down the sidewalks, little kids chase one another down the hill of the nearby park.
Everywhere you look, there are touches of whimsy. From the annual summer sidewalk art contest to the crisscrossed strings of fairy lights and Edison bulbs, Rosewood's charm is irresistible.
The brick buildings haven't aged in all the years I've been here, standing strong and silent against the backdrop of the rolling hills above them. Pink wild rose bushes stand tall in barrel planters outside each building, these bright explosions of color. The only other place I've ever seen this particular type of rose is in the pacific northwest. Nana Jo used to tell us stories about Rosewood, its origin and how the quirks became traditions. I never could tell if she took creative licensing with her version of history.
I pull into an open parking spot on the street and check my phone. Cora texted me when she left, so she should be here soon. Which gives me enough time to check out the weekly flavors.
Uncle Harry's has the best custard I've ever tasted.Ever.
And I've had the pleasure of tasting some of the freshest custard the dairy state has to offer a few years ago.
I roll up my windows and lock my car more out of habit than necessity. There isn't much crime here, but that's more from the Rosewood Reapers than the idyllic rom-com movie set.
A group of allegedly reformed bad boys who ride motorcycles, fix cars, keep the town safe, and throw some of the best parties in town.
They've also raised an alarming amount of money for various charities every single year, including Cora's personal favorite fundraiser: the annual Reapers car wash.
The way she hypes it up, it sounds like a literal fantasy. Another perk to spending the summer in Rosewood.
I marvel at the quiet hum of activity as I walk down the block to Uncle Harry's. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, the steady stream of people always out and about. But it's different here than back in the city where I live.
Where Iusedto live.
I packed up everything of importance and tossed it in my trunk. I'm not sure if I should be happy or depressed about my considerable lack of must-have material possessions.
There's a part of me that recognizes that Pine Valley never really felt like home to me, but it was the place I wassupposedto be.
There, the hustle and bustle is no-nonsense. Quick steps, rigid shoulders, and straight faces. Unapproachable.
In Rosewood, it's all smiles, ten-minute hellos to your neighbors you saw yesterday, and people meandering around downtown with lattes and ice cream cones.
It's nice. Really nice. For the first time since I got the devastating phone call about Nana Jo, I feel like I can take a breath.
I stand in line behind a trio of teenage girls, who chat and toss around ideas on what to order. I glance at the menu board overhead and try not to eavesdrop, but their giggles and lively banter make it difficult to ignore.
The blonde girl in the middle scrolls intently through her phone while the line moves forward in stuttered increments. “Oh my god,” she breathes out, her head bent over her phone. “Did you see what Rose wrote yesterday?”
The tall brunette on her right snorts and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Duh, Kelsey. Why do you think we're here?”
The blonde, Kelsey, jerks her head up. I catch the glare she sends her friend. “I know that,Anna,” she says, an edge of annoyance in her voice. “I meant about the nanny thing. Do you think we should apply?”
The other brunette on Kelsey's left shakes her head immediately. “No way Silas pays a bunch of sixteen-year-olds to watch his kid when he's got all of those women around the club offering for free.”
