Chapter 9

nine

WILL

The Saturday crew at Grandpappy's had things well in hand when I took off just before lunchtime.

My cousin Mac needed coverage at the farmers' market downtown today. She had to leave around noon, so I was handling the last two hours in the booth and then packing up any leftover produce and merchandise and hauling it back to Grandpappy's. I might even get home early enough to strip the wallpaper out of the upstairs bathroom if things stayed calm at the farm this evening. Only time would tell. All it would take was one lost toddler in the corn maze to mess up the delicate balance of entertaining the public.

Carl knew the drill and ran up to our booth halfway between 2 nd Street and 3 rd Street. He slipped under the table and settled in.

"Where's Mom?" MacKenzie asked when I ducked under the rope securing the white tent and took the empty seat beside her.

Mac's mother, my aunt Patty, was busy meeting a bride. "She had to go over the plans for the wedding ceremony next month with Stacy Fuller and her momma."

Mac frowned. "If I'd known she was going to send you, I would have canceled."

I was scanning the apples to see what had sold and not paying much attention. "Canceled what?" I asked absently .

Just then a man I didn't recognize walked up. He looked like a financial planner or, maybe, an orthodontist. "Hi, MacKenzie. Are you ready to go?"

My cousin stood and offered the stranger a demure smile that looked out of place on her face.

"Sure, David. Let me grab my things."

Turning, I gave Mac a flat look. "Did you really need coverage so you could go on a date? Seriously, Mac?"

She had the decency to look chagrinned. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I thought Mom would be the one coming to take over. She likes working the farmers' market."

My aunt Patty usually handled things in the General Store with her husband, Robert. They were great with tourists and upselling and all the stuff I typically avoided. But Patty was also the event planner for the farm. She coordinated weddings and parties, another side of the business I tried to steer clear of.

"Who's this, Mac Attack? Your new boyfriend?"

I closed my eyes and shook my head at the sound of Brady Judd's delighted voice coming from the next booth over where he was seated with Mark Mercer, one of the farmers over at Judd's Orchard.

Brady and Mac had probably bickered on and off all morning. Poor Mercer.

Honestly, I didn't know why our vendor tables were always beside one another. Probably because Eloise Carter, the head of the Kirby Falls Agricultural Committee in charge of the farmers' market and festival planning, couldn't wait to see Mac and Brady come to blows. The footage might get captured on video and go viral. Then Kirby Falls would attract even more tourists thanks to Grandpappy's Farm and Judd's Family Orchard.

The thought had me grimacing.

Mac glared at the middle Judd sibling, but the David guy missed the torturous glee in Brady's tone and stepped over to shake hands with the immature bonehead.

"Hi there. I'm David," he said. "Are you friends with MacKenzie?"

"I sure am," Brady replied .

At the same time, Mac said, "Hell no."

"Known her my whole life," Brady continued, unbothered.

I rolled my eyes and went back to taking inventory. The strawberry balsamic preserves were all gone as well as the white chocolate raspberry scone mix from the Bake Shop. Momma would be pleased.

Mac was growling quietly at my side as Brady continued chatting with her date.

"A daytime date is pretty ballsy," he said. And then turning to Mac, he called, "This guy already knows you turn into a gremlin after dark, right?" Brady didn't give her a chance to answer, just cheerfully slung an arm over Mercer's empty chair while he bagged up some apples for a customer. "Whatever you do, David, don't give her food after midnight or spill water on her."

"I am going to murder you in your sleep, Brady Judd."

The idiot smiled like Mac had just told him he'd won the lottery.

"Let's go," she snarled before tugging away a very confused-looking financial planner . . . or orthodontist.

Carl huffed out a beleaguered sigh from beneath the table, and I leaned back in my chair in silent agreement.

"You know, she really is going to kill you someday," Mark Mercer said in his low voice from Brady's other side. The farmer was a quiet guy, several years younger than me. I think he was in Laramie's grade in school, so he must have been twenty-five or twenty-six now, but he'd gone to college for agriculture science and was a good addition over at Judd's Orchard. Mercer was also one of the only employees they had who wasn't a blood relative. They ran a smaller scale operation, so I'd never considered us rivals like Mac and Brady did. There were enough tourists to go around. I didn't begrudge Mercer and the Judd family their fair share.

"It's okay," Brady murmured. "You'll avenge my honor."

Mercer huffed out a dry laugh. "Doubtful. No one will say a word about it because when Mac murders you, your pointless and idiotic feud will finally be over. The town will breathe a collective sigh of relief. "

Brady gasped, clutching imaginary pearls to his chest. Without missing a beat, his long, lean form peered around Mercer to meet my amused gaze. "Will, can you check"—he pointed over his shoulder—"just there?"

I shook my head and watched the overgrown frat boy stand and turn, giving me his back. "Here?" I asked, indicating the spot between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah, just a little lower," he confirmed. "Is there a knife sticking out from Mercer's betrayal?"

Mercer tilted his head to the sky and chuckled from beneath his ball cap. "Brady, you are an idiot."

But the bozo was grinning, pleased with himself.

My smile lingered as I focused back on Main Street, closed off from vehicular traffic for four blocks for the weekly farmers' market. The crowd of people had thinned a little, but there would probably be another rush after the brunch crowd finished up at the restaurants downtown.

I noticed workers hanging a new sign over Apollo's. Frowning, I said, "What's going on over there?"

Brady answered, "Becca Kernsy—this leafer who's been hanging around for a few weeks—helped design a new logo, and Magdaline loved it. It's the only thing her parents have agreed on in their whole marriage. So they had a new sign made up . . . "

Shock at hearing Becca's name come out of Brady's mouth had my gaze snapping to him. But he was watching the installation across the street.

The new design was eye-catching. I liked how it used the colors from the previous logo, so it was familiar . . . just upgraded, I supposed.

I considered the fact that Becca had helped with the new logo. What did that mean? Did she draw it? Was she an artist?

I thought of her many notebooks, all the time she spent on her computer, and the way she seemed to always have her phone out snapping photos of Carl or her lattes or apples on the trees. I'd seen her on her walks, in her own little world, taking pictures of everything at Grandpappy's. I'd chalked it up to standard tourist behavior, but maybe there was more to it .

Brady was still talking. "Sheila Jessup even asked Becca to be a guest on her podcast. That girl gets around."

Yeah, she did get around, I silently agreed. I didn't demand to know how Brady knew her . . . but I wanted to. Becca was all over Kirby Falls, getting absorbed into the fabric of the town. She had a bird-watching group and helped design logos for my favorite pizza restaurant. She talked to my own neighbors like she'd lived here her whole life. I didn't understand it. Who got so bored on their vacation that they volunteered to teach a class to teenagers at the local library?

Her constant involvement with all things Kirby Falls was confusing. I didn't know what it meant. Was she really a tourist? Or was she scoping the town out and planning on moving here?

That was the question I never let myself think while I was with her. When we spoke on the farm, when she was making me laugh, I didn't want to consider what would happen if the question slipped out. What if she stayed?

Yes, I was attracted to her. She was beautiful. Of course, I liked her. She was kind and thoughtful and funny. And after our recent interactions at Firefly and Legacy Hills, I knew enough about her that I couldn't accurately consider her a stranger anymore. She was fully formed in my mind and seemed to be occupying plenty of time there.

But it all came back to one thing. She was a tourist. If I found out she was staying, what would I do with all the what-ifs invading my brain every time I looked at her?

"Hey, there she is."

Brady's big mouth drew my attention once again.

I tracked the line of his gaze, and there was Becca, across the street and two booths down, browsing at the Bramble Pottery table.

Her hair was long and loose, nearly to her waist, and as bright as a beacon in the midday sun. She wore a long floral skirt and a tee shirt tucked casually in the front. She was smiling softly as she looked at every vase, mug, and place setting inside the tent. Her hand would hover over the clay pieces as if she might touch them but then lost her nerve at the last moment. Becca lined up shots with her cell phone and photographed the table from several angles before approaching Agnes Devon, the ceramic artist who ran Bramble Pottery .

I watched as they spoke, my eyes tracking between pedestrians still wandering up and down the aisles of the farmers' market. I wondered what Agnes and Becca were discussing. Was she signing up for a class on the pottery wheel? Designing a logo for her too? Maybe she was offering to help in some other way. As confounding as that was, it seemed to be her thing—making an impression and endearing herself to strangers.

A few customers wandered up to my table while Becca and Agnes smiled and laughed through their conversation. I was distracted, taking money and bagging items. I'd never been good at upselling or chatting with tourists about our farm and plantings anyway. But I was even worse now, waiting to see what Becca might do, where she might go. If she'd catch sight of me and cross the street. Smile and wave. Get flustered if I grinned back.

And then I felt like an idiot when she kept right on moving down the street. She wandered on the opposite side of the road, dipping into booths to check out their wares.

I shook my head at how ridiculous I was being. She hadn't even seen me.

I looked down at Carl, fast asleep by my feet, knowing he'd be disappointed that he missed his new favorite human. And I didn't quite understand it, but I was disappointed too. Like the anticipation had been a balloon inflating inside my chest only to loosen its hold and collapse at the last minute.

There was no logical reason to feel that way. I'd seen her several times this week at the farm. Becca had caught up with me on Tuesday and thanked me for the desk chair, and then tried to give it back.

In the spare moments I actually got to use the office, I was just fine with the folding chair I had in there. Plus, it was a relief knowing she wasn't killing her back at that uncomfortable picnic table. On Wednesday afternoon, I'd happened upon another four-leaf clover and gave it to her. Becca had been just as awed and excited as the last time. She'd carefully flattened it in her notebook, and I liked knowing she had a collection of little things that made her happy. She'd thanked me again for the use of my chair, and I had to stop her before she offered to return it once more.

Then yesterday, when I'd sneaked a Danish and some coffee from the Bake Shop, she'd invited me to sit down and have breakfast with her. So I had. We'd talked about the places we'd traveled and the sights we'd seen. She asked me a little more about my family while Carl sat happily by her side. I'd guessed—incorrectly—that she was a YouTuber, and she'd bitten her lip and looked down at her plate, trying not to laugh.

Becca was clever and witty. But she was hard on herself, self-deprecating in a way that made me wonder if she saw herself differently than how I saw her—capable and sweet and open and accepting.

Yesterday, the breakfast—and the conversation—had been nice. She was nice. It was nice talking to someone who hadn't known me since the third grade. Who didn't think they already knew every single thing about me and all I had to offer. Sure, maybe nice wasn't what some guys were looking for. But I'd never been the kind of person who needed angst and drama and a whirlwind to shake me up. There was something to be said for steadfast and dependable. Becca was a breath of fresh air on a fall day. She was someone I could see myself being friends with, a person I wanted to get to know.

Right now, she was a mystery in that nebulous space where I was eager to learn more about her. See her. Hear her voice. Make her laugh. Know what she liked. How she'd react.

She was a million firsts waiting to happen.

Just not for me.

Ignoring the urge to track Becca's progress farther down the street, I tugged the bill of my cap down lower on my head and got back to work.

No sense in watching her walk away now when, in a few weeks, she'd be walking away for good.

Monday rolled around, and I thought I'd gotten out of socializing because Trivia Night was canceled, but then my dad reminded me that it was called off because of the Orchard Festival planning meeting.

I dropped Carl at home and made the drive over to the Kirby Falls Public Library. Mrs. Crandall, the ancient librarian, had the back door propped open for all the business owners, vendors, planning committee, and volunteers required to attend the meeting .

The Orchard Fest was a big deal and would be held this upcoming weekend. Our small county in North Carolina produced the most apples in the state and the eighth highest in the country. Over two hundred farms supplied apples and apple products nationwide to grocery stores, restaurants, markets, and everywhere in between. Kirby Falls celebrated all things apple every September with a three-day festival. All of Main Street would be closed off and lined with vendors and farmers. Every year, there were tables for local artists and authors and craftspeople. Several antique dealers would be on hand to entice out-of-towners with their goods. Then you had bands and performances. Some poetry and storytelling set up in one tent. And fair rides for the kids, and as much carnival food as you could eat. There would be a local food truck rodeo on the end of Main Street and a fun run as well.

Farms like Grandpappy's and Judd's would have booths selling apples and apple-adjacent items. We were one of the festival sponsors, so we'd have a pretty big booth with five to ten employees working steadily all weekend to cater to the thousands of tourists who would flock to the area.

And this year was the seventy-fifth anniversary of the event. They anticipated record numbers in town.

To someone like me who'd been working the Orchard Fest for nearly a decade, a planning meeting seemed like a waste of time. But Eloise Carter, the committee chair, was holding court at the podium near the front of the library's large meeting room as people milled about talking and grabbing some store-bought cookies someone had brought. As the representative from Grandpappy's, I was required to attend tonight, but this whole thing probably could have been an email.

It looked like Joan was the designated employee from Judd's Orchard. "Will," she murmured and gave me a brief nod.

"Joan," I replied, "how've you been?"

Joan Judd had been a senior when I'd been a freshmen back in high school. She was a straight shooter, and we'd always gotten along. When your farms were across the highway from one another and your town was the size of a postage stamp, you tended to know most people in your line of work. And Joan was a farmer, born and raised .

Tonight, she looked annoyed. Her chin-length hair had gone gray in her twenties, but it suited her. She could often be seen running around town or in the 5K held this weekend. Joan usually had a ball cap on her head and a don't-fuck-with-me expression on her face. Right now, it was dialed up to I-don't-have-time-for-this-bullshit.

But she replied easily enough, "Can't complain." Then she caught sight of something over my shoulder and rolled her eyes.

I glanced back to see a tall young woman with brown hair in a fancy updo wearing a pale pink pantsuit, blazer and everything. It had been a while, but I thought I recognized her. "That Candy?"

Joan sighed, eyes still fixed behind me. "She goes by Candace now." The eye roll was implied this time.

"I thought she was in New York or LA?" Candy Judd had lit out of Kirby Falls on graduation day. Her daddy liked to joke that she'd left skid marks on the auditorium stage after she grabbed her diploma.

"Yeah, well, she's back now," Joan admitted, her pale blue eyes finally coming back to me. "And she's involved." She said involved like Candy was a toddler who thought she was helping when, in reality, she was just making a bigger mess for someone else to clean up.

I was not touching that family drama with a ten-foot pole.

"Well, have a good night," I mumbled and then darted for the back of the room, away from the crowd.

But then I saw Jordan waving frantically at me from the third row. I just stared until he finally called out, "Saved you a seat!"

Sighing, I worked my way through the sea of neighbors. A few moments later, I made it through relatively unscathed with just a few hellos and nods. I slid into the uncomfortable folding chair next to Jordan and crossed my arms.

"You ready for this?" my friend asked.

"As I'll ever be," I replied.

Lazily, I scanned the folks in the rows ahead of us. My gaze snagged on a curtain of blond hair, and I straightened in my seat against my will. Becca was front and center, jean-clad legs crossed with a notebook in her lap and a pen poised and ready to go.

Jordan must have noticed where my attention had strayed because, for once, his big mouth told me what I actually wanted to know. "She volunteered for setup."

"Of course she did," I mumbled, forcing myself to relax back into my seat. She looked like the star pupil ready to make her favorite teacher proud on exam day. It was annoying how fucking adorable it was.

"The other volunteers voted her their leader, so she's here at the meeting on their behalf to take notes and communicate what needs to be done."

"God." I sighed. "Why is she like this?"

"What?" I could feel Jordan's eyes laser-beaming the side of my head. "Helpful? Involved? A damn delight?"

I turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "Why is she taking such an interest in the town when she's here on vacation ? It doesn't make any sense."

"Chloe thinks she's going to move here." Jordan said the words casually, yet my reaction was anything but.

"What?" My voice was sharp and too interested, impatient in a way that Jordan noticed immediately.

His eyes searched my face before he said slowly, "She loves it here. Chloe says her life back in Detroit doesn't seem like it makes her happy. She's been encouraging Becca to stay, to really get to know the town, and then make a decision. Plus, she did alright at trivia. I'd be happy if she stayed permanently. She and Chloe are getting close."

My friend fell silent as we watched Eloise Carter open her binder and get behind the microphone to start the meeting.

It was difficult to focus on the specifics of what was being discussed. I was distracted by Becca's presence as well as Jordan's offhand comment about the possibility of her staying. It was pointless to dwell on those same what-ifs, especially when I was in the same room with her.

As much as I didn't want to consider it, something in me wanted this girl. Wanted her smiles and her attention and her sweetness. Like a greedy bastard, I could feel myself getting my hopes up. Despite our circumstances and the fact that we were dancing around something, Jordan's gossip and Chloe's hearsay worked its way beneath my skin, making me wonder about Becca Kernsy over and over again.

The meeting seemed to take a lifetime. I didn't retain much in my distracted state. Jordan gave up listening halfway through and played Candy Crush on his phone. But not Becca; she took diligent notes and nodded along to Eloise's long-winded remarks. I knew the volunteers would be in good hands because Becca didn't do anything halfway. She was dedicated and enthusiastic, even when there wasn't anything in it for her.

During Eloise's final reminders, a text came through on my phone. It was Mr. Abrams returning my message about hiking the private trail on his land. My eyes scanned the reply quickly, and as the meeting finished up, I watched Becca stand from her seat.

I considered my schedule for the following day and nudged Jordan. "Meeting's over."

"Huh," he mumbled, thumbs still moving over his brightly colored phone screen. He finally glanced up to see people milling about and making for the exit. "Oh, thanks, man. Conditioning tomorrow afternoon?"

I resisted the urge to groan, but nodded instead. "Yeah. Tell Seth I'll be there." The exercise was good for me. So was getting out and doing things, even if it was subjecting myself to teenagers for a few hours every week.

I waited until Jordan headed out and then sat back down. Becca had packed up her notes and was introducing herself to Eloise Carter. She was networking and charming the typically stuffy older woman. It was interesting to watch it happen in real time and I wondered what I looked like mid-conversation with Becca Kernsy.

Probably like an idiot bobblehead. But hopefully not as bad as the cow-eyed teenagers.

By the time the women finished their conversation, the meeting room was practically empty, so I wasn't surprised when Becca's blue eyes found me seated only a few rows away.

Her smile bloomed wide and lovely, and my own emerged without conscious thought .

"Hey, you. I didn't see you there," she said, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear. I'd noticed the nervous habit before, and I wondered what it would feel like if I did it for her—touched her soft hair, ran my finger around the delicate curve of her ear. Would that make her more nervous?

"Yeah, businesses and vendors are strongly encouraged to attend. Heard you were volunteering," I said, rising to my feet and skirting the end of the row to walk to the front of the room to meet her.

"Yeah," she confirmed, stepping closer until we were only separated by a couple of feet. We weren't in dancing range, but it was close. "I wanted to help out." Then she straightened as if she remembered something.

"If you're about to thank me for the desk chair again, I'm going to go out and get a recliner and put it in front of the Bake Shop for you instead."

She laughed, her expression equal parts sheepish and embarrassed. "Busted."

"Busted," I agreed, but my tone was warm, unbothered by her persistent gratitude, and amused by it instead. "Hey, so I finally heard back from Mr. Abrams about that hike on the private trail. He offered up tomorrow morning if you don't have anything on your busy schedule."

Becca's face brightened. "No, that sounds great. I'd love to."

Squinting, I asked, "Is six thirty too early?"

"What? No! That's totally fine."

My dubious squinting intensified.

"Seriously, I'll be up. I'm an early bird of the highest caliber," she assured me loftily, upturned nose high in the air.

I thought of her buried under her covers in the tiny house while I'd tried to cajole Carl out of bed with her and smiled.

"If you say so," I replied, still grinning. "I'll get you back in time to work on . . . your . . . " She watched me struggle through another fumbling career guess with giddy amusement. "Content as a food blogger?"

Even white teeth bit down gently on her lower lip, and I got distracted at the sight. But she was shaking her head slowly. "Are you just googling ‘work-from-home jobs for nice girls'? "

I shifted a little on my feet. She wasn't too far off.

"Oh my gosh, you are!" Then she reached across the distance and whacked me on the arm.

I laughed, enjoying her casual touch. I fought the urge to snag her hand out of the air and tucked mine in my pockets instead. How the hell would I explain wanting to hold her hand? "Well, if you'd just tell me."

"No way. This is too much fun."

Eyeing her happy face, I considered that brand-new sign over Apollo's restaurant on Main Street. "What about marketing? Brand analysis?" Was that a thing? "An artist?"

It was clear by this point that I was the only one she was withholding this information from. I'd tried asking Chloe in a roundabout way last week at the Bake Shop, but she'd just smiled knowingly and shoved a cinnamon roll at me. Jordan wouldn't tell me because he thought it was hilarious that Becca was "keeping me on my toes."

Truthfully, I was glad she thought this little game between us was fun because I did too. It made me think about what else might happen between us if we let it. I wondered what Becca would do if I leaned in close and made my growing interest known. If I tucked some of that soft hair behind her ear. If I got close enough to touch. If I let my lips?—

"What made you guess those?" Becca asked, interrupting the direction of my highly inappropriate thoughts.

I went to tug down the bill of my cap but remembered I wasn't wearing one, so I ran my fingers through the strands that were too long and curled along my nape, in need of a trim. "I, uh, heard about you helping Madgaline at Apollo's with their new sign."

"Ah," Becca replied knowingly.

"You didn't really answer."

"No, I didn't." But she didn't look sorry about it at all. She looked pleased, her eyes soft as they traveled over my face. Her lips were still tilted in a smile but it was less amusement and more anticipation .

We stood staring at each other for a long moment, one in which I considered taking another step closer. I remembered how the dip of her waist felt beneath my fingers.

But then the lights in the meeting room clicked off, and Becca made an alarmed sound. Mrs. Crandall appeared in the open double doors at the far end of the space, silhouetted and backlit by the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. "Oh! I didn't realize there was anyone left. Becca honey, is that you?"

"Hi, Mrs. Crandall. Sorry, we were just finishing up."

It's Will, too, I wanted to say. You know, the person you gave a library card to when he was five years old. Or the guy who helped you load your groceries in your giant Cadillac a week ago at the Winn-Dixie.

But then I pushed away the annoyance at being overlooked and interrupted and thought it was probably a good thing Mrs. Crandall had intervened when she had.

I'd been distracted, staring at Becca's lips like I'd lost my damn mind for a moment. There wasn't a point in thinking misguided romantic thoughts . . . unless Chloe was right and Becca was considering staying in Kirby Falls.

I wasn't interested in a fling. I was thirty years old and past that phase in my life. A part of me saw the easiness between Jordan and Chloe and wanted that sort of relationship for my future. But those two had a bond that came from friendship and a long history.

Finding something meaningful seemed nearly impossible. I didn't have the patience for most people and the thought of playing games or wasting my time with someone just didn't do it for me.

And even if I wanted a casual hookup, I didn't know if Becca was capable of a short-term arrangement like that anyway. She had monogamy and matrimony stamped all over her.

There was also the fact that we were dancing around each other like freshmen in homeroom. But there were moments. Like when she blushed and got flustered or embarrassed around me. The pageant wave flashed adorably across my mind. But Becca was kind and sweet and friendly with everyone. I'd only ever seen her less-than-upbeat following that phone call with her sister two weeks ago and the night she'd told me about her family .

I wondered how many people got to see her that way—vulnerable and off-balance, less than perfect. I nearly cursed my relentless curiosity aloud as Becca gathered her things, and we hurried toward the exit.

Would I always find myself wondering about this woman? Was that how you knew someone was important? Because you couldn't seem to stop thinking about them? I didn't know. The only thing I had experience thinking about this often was baseball.

With a sigh, I watched as Mrs. Crandall retrieved a book she'd set aside for Becca. They chatted for a moment while I hovered nearby. Then Becca thanked her and apologized again for keeping her late.

We escaped through the back door and into the parking lot. Only three vehicles remained: my gray truck, Mrs. Crandall's Caddy, and Becca's dark blue SUV.

I walked her to her car, keeping a safe distance between us that didn't feel safe at all. I wanted to carry her bag and hold her hand and drive her wherever she wanted to go.

God, Jordan would have given me endless shit for such ridiculous romanticizing.

When we reached the driver's side, Becca broke the silence. "So, I guess I'll see you bright and early in the morning?"

"Maybe not bright. The sun probably won't be up until we're driving over to the trailhead," I said. "I'll have a backpack with some emergency gear just in case, but it's a pretty easy four miles roundtrip. Dress in layers and bring a water bottle."

Becca nodded. "I can do that."

She was leaning against the back door, and I dipped in close to open the driver's side for her. I caught a hint of honeysuckle sweetness and heard her sharp inhale at my sudden nearness.

"Thanks," she murmured unsteadily once she realized I was being a gentleman and opening her door for her. Then she bit her lip and shook her head, and I found myself desperate to know what she was thinking. I didn't make it a habit to feel desperate about anything, so I was a little unsteady myself as I took a step back so she could climb into the vehicle .

"Drive safe. I'll see you in the morning," I said before closing her door gently.

She smiled behind the dark glass before carefully reversing out of the parking spot.

I watched until her taillights disappeared from view. Then I waited for Mrs. Crandall to lock up and made sure she was safely on her way too.

Tomorrow, I would show Becca a part of Kirby Falls that wasn't on any tourist map or in any online article. It was a firsthand resident-only experience. A part of my adolescence. A part of me.

It had been quite some time since I didn't know what the next day might bring. My hometown return hadn't been the kind with fanfare and applause. It had been marred by regretful glances and sympathetic smiles. The life I led now was the same thing, day in and day out. But Becca Kernsy was a change, for sure. I hadn't decided whether it was a good or bad one yet. She was popping up everywhere, infiltrating my life and leaving a mark on Kirby Falls.

I had no idea what sort of mark she'd leave on me, but I wasn't going to find out by sitting in this parking lot worrying about tomorrow. So I put my truck in gear and let myself feel excited about something for the first time in a long time.