Page 11 of When Love Found Us
But I’m not on vacation, and this isn’t a social visit.
When I said I needed something cheap, I didn’t mean boutique charm with handmade quilts and locally sourced honey for your afternoon tea. I meant a room with a clean mattress and no bed bugs. Also, a lock that actually worked. Maybe running to the northeast wasn’t my most brilliant idea. I’m over four hours away from my parents, which isn’t nearly far enough. Just like Winston, they’re probably looking for me—well, for the version of me they expect to find.
Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain turned into an over-caffeinated accountant, crunching numbers and recalculating how long I could stretch what little money I have left.
The answer is definitely not seven months. If I have to stay in this place, the money will be gone in a couple of weeks. How am I supposed to survive until the baby is here—and after? I should start by going to the doctor. The over-the-counter test was positive, the morning sickness is obvious and . . . well, I need a professional to confirm that this is really happening.
Wouldn’t it be better if it’s some kind of bug that I caught and I only need some antibiotics? Stop, Henrietta, you’re delusional if you believe you’re not pregnant. I mean, Winston was trying hard to get me to do at least one thing right. Yep, that’s how he called it every time he . . . I let out a long breath because I shouldn’t be remembering what he did to me. It’s over. He’s gone.
I have to focus on the now and my future.
Delilah gave me the number for the free clinic. They have free services and medications. Once I feel good enough, I can start working with her. Of course, I didn’t tell her that according to my frantic late-night internet search, morning sickness could last another four weeks—at least. How would she take the news that I’m not only homeless but a pregnant runaway? The town will be kicking me out before I’m halfway through my first shift at the coffee shop.
And after yesterday’s little public humiliation at the coffee shop, I can probably cross Atlas Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is off the list of potential employers. Not that I wanted the job, but still. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust him. We have a mutual understanding, I suppose.
By six a.m., I’m knocking on the back door of The Honey Drop. Delilah has been here since four in the morning, which makes me question everything I know about human endurance. She opens the door, wiping her hands on her apron, her hair already wearing at least half a cup of flour.
“This is a little too early, don’t you think?”
“Baker hours,” she says with a knowing grin. “You get used to it.”
I doubt it.
“How are you feeling?”
I flash a smile so bright it could power the town square’s fairy lights. “Fantastic. I’m sure it was something related to motion sickness—delayed motion sickness?”
Showing that I’m totally fine when I’m not is an art, really—showing people exactly what they want to see. I learned at a young age. Mom might’ve not taught me how to look after myself, but she taught me things that have been useful during my adulthood. And, of course, my dear husband made sure I mastered it.
By nine, the café is quieter than I expected. The early crowd has disappeared, leaving behind a handful of regulars who sip their coffee and thumb through newspapers like Birchwood Springs is the only world that matters.
I envy them.
For me, the outside world feels uncomfortably close. The thought of being found lurks at the edges of my mind, keeping me alert. Even here, in this cozy, sunlit café that smells of cinnamon and fresh bread, I can’t shake the feeling that someone might walk through that door and drag me back to the life I left behind.
“Relax, Blythe,” Delilah had said earlier, tossing me an apron just before she flipped the sign toOpen.“You don’t need to look over your shoulder.”
I scoffed, forcing a laugh. “Of course not. Why would I be worried about someone finding me? No one’s looking for me.”
The lie came too easily, effortless as breathing. And just as involuntary.
Maybe it’s too soon to start planning my next move—find an even smaller town, something impossible to pin on a map. But the thought lingers, curling around the edges of my mind like smoke, impossible to ignore.
The bell above the door jingles, snapping me back into the present. I glance up just as a woman with dark hair and a kind smile steps inside, followed closely by a man whose gaze sweeps the café like he’s taking inventory of every detail.
The woman moves with confidence, heading straight for the counter. Her attention lands on me, her curiosity obvious. “Morning, Del. I’ll take my usual, please.”
Delilah nudges me with a grin. “Blythe, meet Galeana—my best friend. Her usual is a lavender latte and the pastry of the day.”
“Any pastry, really,” Galeana adds with a laugh, her voice warm, effortless. “I’m Gale. Nice to meet you . . . what did you say her name was?”
“This is Blythe,” Delilah says, turning back to her. “She’s working with us temporarily.” Then, her gaze shifts to the man beside Gale. “And this is Malerick Timberbridge. The sheriff.”
My attention snaps to him, surprised.
Sheriff?
He doesn’t look like the ones I’ve encountered over the last couple of years. They’ve always been older, pushing sixty, sporting Santa Claus beards and tired eyes that don’t miss much—mostly because there isn’t much to miss in small towns.
