Page 131 of When Love Found Us
Maybe he heard something at the coffee shop. That’s where everyone learned I was back—after almost a year of being here. As long as you stay away in a remote cabin by the lake, no one will ever give two shits about who you are or even try to figure out why you’re here.
Here’s a tip for anyone who comes to Birchwood Springs: if you want to hear the latest gossip in town, drop by The Honey Drop for excellent pastries and all the information you can swallow. By now, many believe that I used to sleep around like my mother—a total lie. That my grandfather ran me out because I was just like her—I left of my own will. That I came back smaller somehow, like a shrunken version of the girl I used to be, all because I’m a medical failure.
If I were a terrible doctor, I wouldn’t be here. It’s because of my credentials that they shoved me in this forsaken town. But I can’t say anything because it’s part of my contract. I just smile and avoid everyone outside office hours.
They love a good cautionary tale in Birchwood Springs.
You are free to leave this town. You can even change your name if you’re desperate enough.
But you can’t outrun a reputation that doesn’t belong to you.
Since things have settled, I peel off my gloves. My palms are damp, but there’s nowhere to wash them, so I settle for a squirt of hand sanitizer. I duck out of the tent and lean against the frame. The lake glimmers with carnival lights, reflections dragging across the surface as if they’re trying to escape.
It’s beautiful, but only if you don’t look too hard.
“Hey,” Del, one of my only friends in town and the owner of The Honey Drop, says as she walks over with two paper cups.
“My savior,” I claim.
She hands me one of the cups.
I sip from it and breathe in the tea latte. “Thought you weren’t coming tonight. Too busy to save my ass.”
She waves a hand as if saying I’m being just too fucking dramatic. “I closed a few hours ago and just finished cleaning up,” she shrugs, brushing a curl from her face. “The town board begged me to stay open past midnight, but I had zero fucks left for the day. Brought your tea latte. I owe you the pastries. We sold out.”
“Thank you.” I lift the cup and take another sip—hot, earthy, with just the right hint of sweetness. My throat warms before I say, without thinking, “When I was away, this festival might’ve been the only thing I missed.”
Del gapes in mock horror. “Thank you, bitch. I feel all fussy and warm on the inside.”
“You left before I did,” I repeat because maybe if she had stayed . . . I don’t know what would’ve happened though. “So what’s there to miss, right?”
It doesn’t come out bitter. Just . . . tired. But it’s all true. She wasn’t here anymore. Del was two years older—one grade up—but we were close. I worked my ass off trying to graduate early just to leave with her class. My grandparents put their foot down. Even when I had enough credits, sixteen was “too young” for college. They didn’t care that I was ready to pack and forget all about this place.
I don’t share that with Del. There is no point in rehashing what happened then. I glance around searching for a safer topic. Something neutral. Something that doesn’t feel like salt in an open wound. I just can’t go there. I don’t want to remember.
If Gale, Nysa, or Blythe were here, it’d be easier to have a conversation, especially if Blythe brought baby Everly. Believe it or not, most conversations are less dangerous when explosive diapers are involved. You just offer to change it and let the conversation shift naturally.
“Why did you leave before senior year?” Of course, Del doesn’t let go. She leans into the silence, trying to ensure I’m ready to speak up because she’s done waiting. “Mom told me you left only a week after I did.”
My grip tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pressing against the warmth. No one’s ever asked me that out loud. Not Nysa nor Atlas. They saw me leaving and accepted it. In fact, they helped me pack my grandfather’s truck when I stole it just so I could get across the country.
Why can’t Del do the same?
I could lie. Say something flippant. Play it off as if I had a better offer, as though I were chasing dreams and freedom instead of running half-wild and panicked with barely a plan.
“The same reason everyone left,” I say with a casual shrug that feels brittle in my bones. “Even you bailed. I was just done. What I can’t understand is why you came back.”
Yes, I’m flipping the conversation and focusing on her because I hate to remember how it all happened, how it began, and how it ended. The middle though . . . the middle was agonizing. The wait, the knowledge that I would lose everything all over again. No one wants to remember any of that. No one.
Since I want this to stay on her side of the court I add, “You’ve been to France. New York. Why come back to this backwards-ass town with its bake-sale politics and maple-flavored judgment?”
That’s the question that matters. Why come back when you could’ve had everything? I know why I’m here.
Because when I said, ‘Please, get me out of here,’ someone listened. Someone offered me a hand and helped me, but I made a deal. Favors don’t stay favors forever—they become debts. And not long ago they called me during one of my shifts at the hospital, saying:We’re collecting. You have to move to Birchwood Springs. It’ll be two years. Maybe three.
That was the agreement.
Lend my skills. Keep my head down, watch the town. Watch it very closely because things in here are not what they seem.
