Page 17 of The Last Call Home
ChapterSix
Delilah
“There are toomany changes happening in this little town.”I stare at my glass of wine, swirling it as if it might reveal something I haven’t admitted to myself yet.
I’m not even sure what I mean—or what exactly is bothering me.
“What exactly are we talking about?”Nysa lifts her glass, clinking it gently against mine and Galeana’s, like this, is just another casual girls’ night and not a low-key therapy session wrapped in wine and denial.“Is it the bar?I don’t think it’ll affect you.He opens by the time you’re closing—or something like that.”
I nod, because technically she’s right.
The bar itself isn’t the problem.It never was before it closed, and I doubt my sales will decrease now that it has reopened.It’s the man behind it.Cassian Harlan.
The name alone does something to my spine.Not a chill, not quite tension—more like a quiet disruption that hums beneath my skin.He’s ...off.Not in a serial-killer way.In a why-the-hell-are-you-here way.There’s something too polished, too observant.Like he’s not just watching the town—he’s ...I’m not sure what he’s doing here.
And, yeah, maybe I’m exaggerating.But seriously, who buys a bar in a town drowning in bad luck and whispered omens?
It’s like we’re cursed.
Every month, something else falls apart.
Businesses close.Pipes burst.The local vet’s roof collapsed on New Year’s Eve.Even my espresso machine gave up last week, like it sensed the shift and wanted out.I had to accept help from Galeana, who bought a new one—but not until after I made her sign a contract where I promise I’ll pay her.
Mom keeps lighting candles as if we’re living inside a spiritual siege.She has a rosary in hand and is praying every night.I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts sprinkling salt across doorways.She’s gone full-on telenovela mystic.Her anxiety?Through the roof.Beyond the roof.It’s orbiting somewhere around Mars.
This is one of the reasons I came back to Birchwood Springs: to help her with the bakery, but also because she seemed off.She keeps saying that she’s seen my father.Which would be sweet—if he weren’t dead.As in: died-before-I-was-born dead.
I want to believe her visions are just grief, stress, maybe a side effect of too much patchouli tea and not enough sleep.Every doctor I’ve taken her to insists she’s fine.Their words bounce around my head: “She’s cognitively intact,” “Mental faculties fully preserved,” “No cause for concern.”
While she was visiting my aunts in Mexico, they took her to doctors, even a tarot reader.She’s going to live forever—and her mind is sharper than many.According to my aunties, I’m just hovering.Me.I’m the one hovering.
So, basically, Mom’s brain is functioning better than mine on a Monday.
Still, something’s off.Something I can’t explain and definitely can’t say aloud without sounding like I’ve started drinking spiked holy water in my lattes.
Those are problems I can’t solve.Can’t even speak aloud without someone trying to fix them, or worse—trying to fix me.
“There’s a tattoo parlor opening,” I say, shifting gears, unsure if they’ve heard.“Do we even need one in Birchwood Springs?”
“It’s Atlas’s.”Nysa drops the information like a bomb, but she’s not even aware of the intensity.Just: boom.
My head jerks toward her.“As in Atlas Timberbridge?Your soon to be brother-in-law.”
Because what the fuck?
“My best friend,” she adds, “but yes.He’s opening it.Should be here soon, in case you’re wondering when it’ll happen.”
Of course, it’s Atlas.Of course, it’s one of them.
I don’t mind the Timberbridge brothers coming back—except I do.It’s not personal.At least, I don’t think it is.But they left.All of them.Ghosted this town like it meant nothing.Like we meant nothing.
Now they’re just ...showing up?
Planting roots?
Opening businesses like Birchwood Springs in some quaint little town that forgives and forgets?
Spoiler: it doesn’t.
