Page 2 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
I swallow hard. “I just... had a rough day.”
She doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch in that comforting way of hers.
“I was thinking,” she says after a moment. “You know how I’ve been meaning to clean out the attic? You could come help me. When you get a break from that big job of yours.”
“Could I stay for a while?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
She doesn’t even pause. “Of course you can. For as long as you need.”
“Eric and I... it’s over,” I add quietly.
“Good,” she says without missing a beat. “I never liked him.”
That makes me laugh. It comes out watery and cracked, but it’s real.
“You’re welcome here anytime, Camellia. No expectations. Just come home.”
By next morning, I’m ready to leave. My apartment, my so-called love life, and even my new fancy job. It all belongs to a past version of me that I don’t even recognize anymore, like I’d been so busy running away from who I am that I’d forgotten my way.
Time to redirect. Time to set my compass back home, to Starling Grove and all the painful memories I’d desperately fled.
Chapter two
Cam
The attic smells like dust, lemon polish, and the ghost of a life I haven’t lived in five years.
I sit on the old cedar chest by the window, surrounded by boxes of mismatched photo albums, out-of-season wreaths, and things that once mattered. My hands are wrapped around a chipped mug of lukewarm tea I brought up two hours ago, and I can’t seem to make myself move. The late afternoon light filters through the gauzy curtains, turning everything the soft color of memory. My nose tingles with the scent of old paper and lavender sachets, faded with age but still clinging to the corners of cardboard and linen.
Gram calls this room the treasure trove. To me, it’s more like a landmine field of grief and bad timing.
I let out a breath and lean forward, squinting at the faded label on the top box. Zae’s handwriting, loopy and sure, spells out:Spring Formal, 2009 - Danger: Frizz.
My chest tightens.
We’d spent an entire afternoon trying to tame her curls with a flat iron she bought on clearance and a prayer. She ended uplooking like she'd wrestled a balloon in a wind tunnel, but she laughed so hard she nearly peed herself. I didn't think I'd miss that laugh this much. I didn't think it could still sneak up on me like this.
I came home to help Gram clean out the attic. To escape the big city and Eric’s betrayal. Now I’m here, in this attic that smells like memory and regret, wondering how everything unraveled so fast.
“Still hiding out up there?” Gram’s voice floats up the stairs like the scent of her cinnamon scones.
I smile despite the ache. “Not hiding. Strategically avoiding.”
“Well, your tea’s probably turned to mud by now. Come get something warm.”
I don’t need more convincing. My legs are stiff when I stand, and I carefully sidestep the precarious tower of forgotten holiday decor. As I head down the stairs, the creak of the wooden steps is as familiar as the rhythm of my own name.
Gram’s in the kitchen, her silver hair pinned in the same loose twist she’s worn since I was a kid, and her floral apron dusted in flour. The kitchen smells like home—brown sugar, vanilla, and the butter she never skimps on. The scent wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.
She’s pulling a tray of scones from the oven when I walk in. “Thought I’d tempt you with your favorite.”
“Cinnamon pecan?” I ask, heading for the kettle.
“With extra pecans, just the way you like.”
I prepared two mugs of chamomile tea and then sink into the cushioned bench by the window as she sets the scones to cool and joins me. The mug warms my fingers as the window fogs faintly with the change in temperature. Outside, the forsythia are just starting to bloom. Starling Grove always wakes up in spring like it’s remembering how to be beautiful.
We sit in comfortable silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of teaspoons and the distant call of a mourning dove.
