Page 5 of Everything Has Changed
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to get this place ready for the inevitable rush you have thrust upon us with that pesky little “Q” word you uttered earlier.”
“Oh, you were serious. We are just going to forget what I just told you. Pretend those words never left my mouth?”
“Yup.” I grab the broom and begin sweeping like my life depends on it. “Before I forget. Are you sure you are able to come in tomorrow for an hour or two? I know it’s your day off—”
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Of course. You know I like to keep busy. Besides, you also know I usually end up here either way. What’s tomorrow again?”
I fight the nervous flutter in my stomach so I don’t start bouncing on my toes from excitement. “I have that meeting at town hall. The one Margot Spencer asked me to join in on.”
Piper’s eyes grow big. “That’s right! Do you think it has to do with the Harvest Festival? Maybe she wants you to help with something this year? That’s always been on your yearly vision boards, so it’s about damn time if you ask me.”
I shake my head, the what-ifs and maybes having circled in my brain for days about what she could want me there for. But, I don’t get a chance to beat those thoughts into the ground, with Piper’s help this time, as the rush hits at that moment. I’m thankful for it, though, because it keeps Piper from asking if I’m okay for the tenth time and it keeps my brain from hyperfixating on the person I once called a friend until he wasn’t. Because why would I think about someone who never thought about me?
2
Logan
Iknew from a young age that whatever I wanted to do or whoever I wanted to be would never matter. Probably too young, if I’m being honest. But a Spencer doesn’t get to choose these things. The map to success is already drawn and, from the moment I started forming my own thoughts, I was reminded I was to never stray from that outline.
Since the creation of Willow Grove, one of my relatives has held the position of mayor. And their offspring were expected to follow in their footsteps. Granddad Ben passed it to my father, and my father has been priming me to take over whenever he decides to retire. Which, if you were to ask anyone, they would have thought that he would be one foot in the grave before he loosened his hold on that seat. He thrived with the power and attention that came with being the mayor of a small town. But I always knew my time was coming thanks to the reminders he was always tossing my way. I just thought I might have some more time to live for myself before he called me for service.
My dad didn’t love the idea that after I graduated college—from his alma mater, of course—that I would move to the city. So I prettied it up under the guise I was getting as much experience in the business and political world as possible. Truthfully, I was attempting to prolongthe inevitable with small hopes that maybe, just maybe, he would find someone he preferred to take his place. Luck wasn’t on my side when I got the call from him one Friday afternoon a couple months ago.
It was time for me to return; he told me in the gruff no-room-for-arguments voice I was too familiar with. It was time for me to prepare an acceptance for a position under him. Because when the first of the year came, he was going to announce his retirement, and I was to be a shoo in to replace him. Because no one would go against a Spencer.
Since then, I’ve been pulling all possible scenarios of why I couldn’t return and take my place beneath him out of thin air. Every time I began to tee it up for discussion, though, he pulled the guilt trip cards he clearly had been holding in his pocket all these years. Remember those hockey lessons he shelled out money for that I went nowhere with beyond high school? Or that Ivy League degree I didn’t have to pay a penny toward? Remember how I was free for years in the city without a care in the world?
And the worst one of all… Remember Jake?
Yeah, my father sure did during every phone call or dinner in the city we shared. I knew it was pointless when he got my mother to pipe in with how excited she was for me to return. To settle down. To be a member of their beloved town again.
Not that I have anything against Willow Grove. The people are wonderful, though a little nosy. And the town is beautiful with the surrounding mountains practically hiding it from the outside world. But at the same time, it felt stifling as I watched everyone I went to school with planning out their futures with big hopes and possibilities, while mine was already sitting in front of me—just waiting for dear old Dad to say go.
I had a good run of almost five years in the city post grad. But that came to an end officially yesterday, as I watched the moving truck pull away from the sidewalk. My new apartment fully furnished and ready to be lived in.
I could feel the nails in my coffin being hammered in. The final one, though, waited until this very moment as I walked into town hall and headed toward my father’s office.
“Ah, there he is now.” My father stands at the head of a conference table. A wide smile on his lips, but a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s not happy with my slight tardiness.
“Sorry I’m late,” I nod around the large oak conference table, catching my mother’s tense face to his right. The rest of the room is full of kind smiles on faces I recognize, as well as ones I couldn’t pull out of a lineup if I tried. Most wear business casual, but there’s a few in their everyday wear. Namely, those that are contributing members of the town sitting in on board meetings to make sure lines aren’t crossed and ink isn’t spilled where it shouldn’t.
It’s too late for that, I think to myself as I recall the conversations my father and I had when he called me those months ago. When he informed me of what was really going on in my hometown. Knowing what I know right now tells me that the meetings they aren’t privileged enough to attend are the ones they need to be concerned about.
“Nonsense,” Harry Lancaster, the owner of everyone’s favorite local diner, holds his hand out for me to shake as I take the open seat next to him. “Good to see you again, son.”
“We were just talking about how excited we are to have you back where you belong,” my father taps his fingers against the back of the chair in front of him. A tell that his patience has worn thin, and he is trying to squelch the bubbling anger.
A tell I saw too often in my childhood.
I swallow against the lump that builds in my throat at the thought and move my gaze around the room again, pasting on my second nature politician’s son smile and hoping it reaches my eyes. That way, no one can see how my body is fighting against this development in my life.
“I’m excited to be back. And I don’t want to steer from the usual, so let’s get right to it. What are we discussing today?” Any topic is better than the topic of me right now.
“The Harvest Festival,” Mother pipes up, a true light in her eyes now as her lips tip up in joy. Margot Spencer lived for events and charity, taking advantage of any chance to host.
The Harvest Festival was the biggest tradition in Willow Grove history and something she was proud to head every single year. She plops open the overstuffed binder on the table, leafing quickly to get to the page she needs. “We still have so much to do and not a lot of time to get it done. The date we are landing on is November first. So, we only have four weeks to get everything squared away.”
With a huff, my father takes his seat, his eyes glancing around the room as if making sure everyone was listening to what she had to say. Probably so he could get this out of the way and move on to more important things on his agenda.
