Page 5 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Cozy Vibes and maybe a little magic
Cute. Inside, I peek in through the condensation on the window to see worn and mismatched tables just begging to be crowded with locals leaning in over their mugs and books stacked on every surface, waiting to be read. Well-worn quilts hang over chairs like they belong there as much as the people do.
This is all hers. It’s cozy, familiar, and beautiful, every detail.
Even out here, the scent reaches me. Cinnamon, roasted coffee, melted butter, toasted bread, and something else that I can’t put my finger on…
Then I realize—it’s her scent. Willa’s. And that makes my heart clench. I don’t see her, but I imagine she’ll be in there baking before too long.
It’s stupid how my chest tightens just thinking of seeing her. Just feeling her in every detail of her shop really gets to me. I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel when I finally see her. It feels like we are in another lifetime, I’ve been gone so long.
If anyone asked, I’d always said Willa and I were friends. Just friends. That was the safe word for it, the one that kept people from looking too closely.
But the truth was, there was always something simmering between us. A spark that never really burned out, no matter how much time or distance got shoved between us. She’d walk into a room, and the air would shift, like even the walls knew she was there, and I felt it every time.
We never crossed the line, though. Maybe because I didn’t want to risk ruining what we had. She was the one person Icould talk to about anything, my frustrations, plans, the weight of growing up in this town with a mother like mine. Losing that andher? That scared me more than anything.
And Willa’s always been good at tucking her feelings behind a wall of smiles and witty comebacks. If she ever wanted more, she never let me see it. And God knows I looked. I’d catch her glancing at me, and for a heartbeat, I’d swear there was something in her eyes. But then she’d blink it away, change the subject, and I’d tell myself I imagined it.
So we stayed friends, except I never forgot how close her laugh could come to undoing me, or how much I wanted to reach for her hand and never let go.
I finally step into the house, and the chill hits me first, cold and damp, heavy with that faint, briny scent of salt air that’s seeped into the wood after all these years.
The place feels smaller and hollow, like it’s been holding its breath since the day I left. Dust clings to every surface, and the floorboards creak under my boots, groaning like they resent my return. It smells stale, and I know it’ll take more than just an open window to wake this house back up. I have my work cut out for me.
But there’s a small mercy waiting, too. Pete’s left a lamp on in the corner, its golden glow softening the edges of the emptiness. A stack of clean linens sits neatly on the old bed, folded with a kind of quiet care that almost undoes me. I set my duffel down with a thud and let out a long breath, feeling the weight of this place settle into my bones.
It’s mine, technically, but it doesn’t feel like home. Home will never be here. This is the place where bad memories live.
After a long hot shower, I change into a clean T-shirt, make the bed, and stretch out after a long day. The sheets have a faint scent of detergent and salt. And kindness, if kindness had a smell.
Sleep takes me fast, grateful and heavy, even as the house creaks and sighs around me like it’s remembering.
It’s barely nine a.m., and I’ve already been lingering outside her bookstore long enough for the seagulls to give me side-eye. I probably look like some love-struck fool, loitering on Main Street, too damn chicken to actually walk in and face her.
I know exactly what people will think, I’ve already heard the whispers. Felt the weight of Old Pete’s stare down at the docks this morning when I was checking in, like he was already questioning when I was going to go see her. Everyone thinks I came back for her.
Maybe part of me did.
But mostly…I’m just tired. Tired of running. Tired of pretending this town doesn’t still have its hooks in me, no matter how far or how long I stay gone.
I rake a hand through my hair, fingers snagging in the curls, and shove my old Red Sox cap down tight. It’s not much, but it feels like a little armor between me and everything waiting for me on the other side of that door.
When I catch my reflection in the window of Wisteria Books & Brews, I barely recognize the man staring back. I look and feel older, harder. My jaw is shadowed with a few days of scruff, too short to call it a beard, too careless to bother shaving. The sun and salt have left their mark; my skin’s darker now, bronzed from summers spent hauling nets under an unforgiving sky, weathered in ways it never used to be.
Beneath the brim of my cap, my hair’s grown longer, darker, more chestnut than the sandy brown it used to be when I was akid. My eyes look sharper, tired maybe, like I’ve seen more than I should have by thirty.
The boy who used to laugh too loud in this town, who carried around a spark of recklessness, is gone. In his place is someone leaner, harder-edged, someone carved out by tide and storm. And for a second, I wonder if Willa will see the difference. If she’ll see me at all.
I catch a glimpse of her, her dark hair pulled up loose, her mouth curved into that soft half-smile that always made my chest ache. She’s laughing at something one of her customers is saying. Her sisters Rowan and Ivy are perched at the counter. Probably nothing has changed with them, either.
And Willa…God, she looks good. Softer but stronger. Comfortable in her skin in a way she wasn’t when we were kids, like she’s grown roots deep into this place, into this life. Like she belongs here. And I…I don’t. I should turn around and go back to the house and get started on the damn repairs and pretend I’m invisible. But my feet won’t move.
Then the bell above the door jingles, loud enough to cut through the soft hum of conversation, and before I can even think about it, I’ve stepped inside. Warmth rushes around me. The smell of coffee, books, candles, and cinnamon. Laughter and voices, chatter and life. Her life. And every single person in that shop goes still the second they see me. And then Willa turns. She freezes, just for a second, eyes locking on mine.
Deep, warm eyes that still feel like they can see right through me, even after all this time. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. She doesn't look surprised to see me. Nor does she look happy.
I force myself to speak first. But it comes out low and rough. “Hey, Willa.”
