Copyright © 2026 by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To my babies, who were not impressed that their sister got a dedication and they didn’t

And for Maddie—happy birthday, dear friend

Autumn Ridge is a fictional town set in Vermont. All the books in the Falling for Autumn series are set in this cozy town and use crossover characters and events, creating fun connections throughout. Make sure to read all eight books so you can fully experience the joy of Autumn Ridge!

Every autumn, the earth exhales.

She is tired from her comings and goings, from the stagnant, oppressive heat of summer that still lingers. So she returns to her home and sighs with relief at the cool breeze on her skin—she breathes deeply of the crisp air scented with bonfire smoke and a hint of rain. She brews a mug of hot cider and makes herself warm and comfortable, pulls over herself the blanket of leaves that have begun to fall until she’s tucked in cozily.

She might stay awake and read a book. She might watch the glowing hearth and dream of her outstretched future. She might simply go to sleep.

But every autumn, the earth will rest.

I have a new roommate, and that roommate is my mother.

As I’m sure you’d expect, my feelings about this arrangement are mixed. I love my mother, of course. But while it’s one thing to have her living in the same house as me, it’s quite another to have her in the same room.

My life growing up here in Autumn Ridge was pretty good, honestly. My older brother and I got along well; we still do. My mom has never been the most maternal, and she’s a difficult woman, but I think she loves me in her own way. And my dad? He was awesome. The best. He was the heart and soul of our family. The anchor.

But he passed away before I went to college, and we were left operating on a skeleton crew. We muddled along, figured things out—or didn’t—and now here we find ourselves eight years later: all the Berkeleys back in town, in the same house where we lived with my dad. The house where Nathan and I grew up, where I learned to ride a bike and went on my first date and cried over my first heartbreak.

Except because Nate stayed here when I went off to school and my mother moved to the city, now that we’re back we’ve had to adjust to the way Nate kept things. Which means the master suite is now Nathan’s, his old room contains not beds but exercise equipment, and my old room is where my mother and I have been relegated.

My mother’s silky negligee is draped over the footboard of the bed across from mine. I simply cannot unsee such things. But I know there will be more to come.

I know this because I know my mother.

So, without further ado, I would like to present to you a sample list of advice I’ve received over the years from the esteemed Alvina Lucinda Berkeley:

“Never trust a man with a toupee, sweetheart. You don’t know what else he might be hiding.” Alvina changed after my dad died. She’s currently divorced from Post-Dad Husband Three, with each wedding ring having been shinier and gaudier than the last. It is therefore my assumption that this particular snippet of advice comes from personal experience, although I will never ask, so the world may never know.

“A vodka a day keeps the gloomies away!” I actually don’t drink, so I had and still have no response for this. I can tell you, though, that Alvina’s favorite drinks are (in order) vodka cranberry, Chardonnay, and scotch on the rocks. I don’t pretend to understand.

And finally, one last, admittedly relevant piece of wisdom Alvina felt moved to bestow upon me, her darling daughter:

“Berkeleys are criers, dear. Always wear waterproof mascara.” This tip was imparted over the top of her ritzy drink menu in the cafe where she forced me to accompany her for brunch. It also came as a surprise, because Alvina was still married to Post-Dad Husband Three at the time and was therefore not a Berkeley. After telling me this, she told me to sit up straight and asked what I was planning to do about my acne flareup, which until that point I hadn’t even noticed.

I straightened up when my mother criticized my posture. I bought a box of pimple patches off of Amazon that evening before bed. But I let her advice about waterproof mascara go in one ear and out the other.

I should have listened.

The music in the Maple Bar blares loudly, surround sound that drills into my skull from all angles. It’s tempting to bang my head against the smooth waxed wood of the bar in front of me, but I don’t, mostly because I already have a migraine. It’s pounding behind my left eye, like someone is gouging out my eyeball with a plastic spoon—a thud, thud, thud in time to the music.

Instead I press my cheek to the cool surface and let my lids flutter closed, trying to mitigate the near-tears situation I have going on.

I’m not even sad or angry or scared. Just exhausted and overwhelmed by yet one more thing being added to my plate. If Alvina were here to see me slumped over like this, she’d be disappointed in me.

Alvina is always disappointed in me.

I inhale deeply as my mind flits and wanders, taking comfort in the familiar smell of maple that permeates the bar. Autumn Ridge is home to the Carver Maple Farm, so a lot of our small town specializes in maple products—including most of the cocktails here.

I don’t need my maple syrup in a cocktail, personally. I’d just drink it straight from the bottle, or maybe a thermos—me and a cozy sweater and a flannel blanket, curled up with my syrup and a book on the porch of the house I grew up in.

I’m joking. Mostly.

Another deep breath helps to steady me further, and I force myself to sit up. I can take exactly—I glance at the neon-rimmed clock on the wall—ten minutes to feel gloomy. Only ten. After that my mother will arrive, because an hour ago she asked me to meet her here, saying she wants me to “meet someone.”

In her language, that means she’s dating again.

The desire to bang my head against the bar top returns, and I groan.

“You’re too young to be making that expression, Miss Reese,” comes a voice to my left, and I look over to find Hal, the bartender who’s worked here as long as I can remember. He’s in his sixties with sparkling eyes and a quick smile, the kind of man who can put anyone at ease. He remembers everyone’s names and oftentimes their usual orders, too.

“Hi, Hal,” I say wearily.

“Come on, now,” he says as he rounds the bar. His wiry gray hair sticks up haphazardly, as messy as it’s always been. “What’s that frown for? You just came back. You’re not happy to see us?”

The words are good-natured, and I don’t want to rain on his parade, so I muster a smile of my own.

“Of course I am,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

It’s my standard excuse. My go-to when I don’t want to share my feelings but can’t quite hide them either.

“Well,” Hal says, shuffling around behind the bar, “let me know if I can make you anything. And in the meantime, tell me how long you’re here.”

“I’ll be in town until my lease starts in Burlington. About six months,” I clarify. Five months and twenty-two days, actually, but who’s counting? I go on, “I didn’t have anywhere to stay in between, so I came back.”

“And your mama, too.”

“And my mother too,” I agree as the image of the negligee draped over the bed flashes into my mind. I grimace and add, “I’m not sure how long she’ll be here. She was in Burlington close to me, but she wanted to come back here after her divorce.”

Hal grunts at this, and although he doesn’t say so, I know it’s a grunt of disapproval.

“Anyway, I’m not having anything right now”—I gesture to the menu written in cheerful handwriting over the bar—“but I’ll let you know if I change my mind!”

“Please do,” Hal says, smiling and accepting my subtle end to the conversation.

Even as he lumbers off and starts cleaning glasses, though, his grunt of disapproval echoes in my mind.

My mother has been back in Autumn Ridge for a month and a half—that’s it. I followed about a month later, when my lease was up.

How can she possibly have found another man already? Is there some sort of database she has access to? Is she on a dating site I don’t know about?

Would it kill her to be alone for a while?

I don’t know how to say these things to her. I’ve said them already, and nothing has gotten through. So when she arrives with some poor man in tow, I’ll probably try to look like I’m happy to be here. I am nothing short of elated, my expression will say. My smile will be warm and genuine.

I think I’m running out of those smiles, and I haven’t even been back in Autumn Ridge that long.

But it’s okay. Even though I don’t need this right now—even though it adds a layer of stress to my life—I’ll be fine.

I’ll be FINE.

I chant this to myself like a cheerleader on pep squad. I need the extra enthusiasm to get me through.

Little tendrils of panic rise like bile in my stomach, and I swallow before digging around in my jacket for my phone. It takes me three seconds to pull up Nate’s number and three more for him to answer.

“Hey,” my brother says when his voice filters down the line. It’s worth mentioning, by the way, that he rarely gets offered any parental advice. Maybe my mother is less skeptical about his ability to take care of himself.

“Hi.” I glance around the cheerfully lit bar in a very sketchy way, like I’m here doing something nefarious or embarrassing. Then I cup my hand around my mouth and speak, hoping Nathan can hear me. “Are you almost here?”

“Ah,” he says, a stilted, awkward sound that has me on alert immediately.

“Oh, no.” I sit straight up, my eyes widening. “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Look,” he says, that little traitor. “I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”

I’m already shaking my head when I respond. “No. You cannot do this to me. We’re meeting a new boyfriend, Nate! You’re going to make me go through that alone?”

“We don’t know it will be a new boyfriend⁠—”

“Oh, please,” I cut him off. “Who else would it be?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that—because he knows I’m right.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he finally says with a sigh. “But it’s going to be a bit. I have to restock this delivery and get it out of the way. Someone already tripped over one of these boxes.”

“Move the boxes to the back,” I say. “Restock later. I’ll help. I will!” I add when he starts to protest. “I totally will. So get your bum over here now. Now!”

And although he grumbles, it’s not an outright refusal I hear before he hangs up.

Good.

I set my phone down on the bar top and glance around the bar once more. The warm wood is cozy and familiar, and although there aren’t a ton of windows, the late afternoon glow of crisp September light streams in enough to banish the darkness. It’s a soothing atmosphere, overall, and I wish some of that peacefulness would rub off on me so that I could stop worrying so much.

Unfortunately, my mother’s romantic exploits are not the only thing on my mind. While she’s making new connections, I’m trying to avoid old ones.

Because I am now living in the same town as my ex.

And at some point, I will run into him.

It’s this, more than anything, that’s driving me slowly crazy. I can handle negligees and my mother’s faint snoring. I can even handle the memories of my dad that crop up everywhere I go.

But I swear every time I hear a door open, or every time I pass a car on Main, I find myself startling—waiting for the inevitable moment when I make eye contact with Dominic Harper. It’s going to happen.

Right? I think it’s unavoidable. I’m going to be here for six months. And while I’m not a strategist or a mathematician, the odds of hiding from him feel smallish to none-ish.

My past will come knocking, as pasts often do, and I will have to answer that door. I don’t know how I’ll handle it. I have a plan, of course, a mature one that involves closure and overdue apologies so that I can move the heck on.

But how I’ll actually respond when we come face to face is another matter. Will I be able to smile? Will I be tempted to ignore him? It’s been so long.

Later I’ll go over my detailed notes for dealing gracefully with my ex, notes that involve practicing reactions in front of the mirror and memorizing scripts. Right now I’m trying not to think about it.

I rally my inner pep squad again, grasping for the enthusiasm I need. People soldier through situations like this all the time! I can do the same. Everything will be okay!

Was Dominic my first love, my forever-isn’t-long-enough person?

Yes!

Did I ugly cry for a full year when we broke up?

Sure did!

And does remembering him still make me want to scream into a pillow?

You betcha!

But until my lease starts, I’ll focus on myself and my family. I can do that. I’ll work my online job and save some money, try to keep my mother out of trouble, and help Nathan at the hardware store that once belonged to our dad. I might be stressed, but I’m not alone.

Ever, in fact. I will not be alone ever over the next six months, due to the roommate situation. If I had somewhere else to go, I’d be there in a heartbeat. The house I grew up in somehow feels small now, even though it was perfect when my dad was alive. We all fit comfortably then.

Pictures of the four of us are still on the walls. The wood mantel over the fireplace is still scratched where Nate threw his boomerang one Christmas morning. But there are new tan lines on my mother’s fingers, ghosts of the husbands that have come and gone since my dad died, and they take up space in a way I can’t describe. Like those men, those strangers, are waiting in the next room.

We’ve changed, my mother and my brother and me, and I’m not sure if it’s good, or bad, or just the way things are.

The jingle of a bell, footsteps, and then the scrape of a stool next to me pulls me from my thoughts, but I don’t turn to look at the newcomer. No one needs to see me fighting off tears. When a faint hint of crisp cologne finds me, though, accompanied by the heat of someone leaning closer, I sigh.

“I’m not interested, but thank you,” I say.

A soft chuckle answers me. “You’ve deeply misread this situation.”

My entire body freezes. More than just my body—the bar around me, the country music above, my thoughts. Everything except my heart and the adrenaline that starts shooting through my veins.

After that eternal frozen moment, things happen in slow motion.

Ice slips down my throat and into my stomach at that voice, so familiar and yet so foreign. I don’t even have a chance to prepare myself. I don’t have a minute to splash water on my face or give myself a pep talk, much less prepare a script or practice my perfect indifferent expression.

My brain is screaming at me to run away, but my body won’t listen. All I can do is turn slowly to look at him.

His appearance is rougher than it used to be; that’s what strikes me first. He’s scruffier, messier, and the hidden softness I remember is absent. Even so…I know that face. The glittering green eyes against the sun-weathered skin, the baseball cap with frayed edges, the sharp jaw and the amused smile.

Dominic Harper.

The man I once proposed to.

It’s him, undeniably.

And yet…this is not the man I knew. This is not the Dominic Harper of six years ago, the man with a rare but genuine grin, the one who carved pumpkins with me or snuck me a kiss when we passed each other on campus. I see it in his eyes.

That Dominic Harper is long gone.

And maybe it’s for the better. Because I’m not the Reese Berkeley I used to be, either, a silly dreamer, a people pleaser who loved love more than reality.

The smile slips from his lips when our eyes meet. Of course it does—he’ll probably never smile at me again. His gaze widens, like I know mine has.

It hurts. Seeing him hurts.

“Hi,” I say, except it’s more of a choking sound issuing from the back of my throat.

But this is me flying by the seat of my pants, figuring out what to say as I go, and it was never going to be pretty. I’d like to think I’m the kind of woman who can stay composed—he’s just an ex-boyfriend, after all—but…

He isn’t just an ex-boyfriend. He’s the ex-boyfriend. And because neither of us were stupid enough to think we could stay friends after we broke up, we didn’t.

I’m not sure I know this person.

Dominic’s expression has gone blank, and when he gives me a nod of greeting, it’s awkward and tense. He doesn’t meet my gaze, for which I’m grateful, because my pupils have been replaced by black holes of pure panic. For a second I think he’s not even going to speak. I stare at him, a landscape I used to paint daily, a home I haven’t returned to for years, familiar become strange.

When he finally opens his mouth, however, I blink.

“You have a little something right here,” he says quietly, pointing to the corner of his mouth. Then he slides off his barstool as easily as he slid on and walks away, tucking himself into the booth that’s as far from me as he can get.

I gape after him in indignation, lasers I direct at the back of his head. Yes, I was staring, but I wasn’t drooling.

No one ever hurt me as much as Dominic, because no one ever had enough of me to do so much damage. But I swallow that hurt now and whirl around to face forward again. My legs twitch, my muscles itching to run, run, run away from him, but I refuse to be so weak. I clench my hands instead, my thoughts spinning as memories try to claw their way from the vault where I’ve stored them.

I slam the vault shut. There will be none of that today, thank you very much.

I should have worn the freaking waterproof mascara. I should have brought an inhaler. Why am I having a hard time breathing? Why is there a weight on my chest, trying to crush my ribs?

Do I have asthma?

“Hal,” I all but gasp to the bartender. He pops up as though he’s been waiting for me, and when I gurgle at him for a glass of water, he nods. Thirty seconds later he plunks the cup down in front of me, and I drink half of it on the spot.

The cheerful jingle of a bell sounds through the bar again, and when a gust of wind hits the back of my neck, I know it must be my mother. I gulp in all the oxygen I can find in this oxygenless place, again and again until my head no longer spins. A second later I’m proven correct when I hear the clicking of heels coming closer.

“Hello, sweetheart,” my mother says from behind me. “Sit up straight; you’re not a rag doll.”

I do not sit up straight. Because although it’s not exactly what happened, I do feel like a rag doll, loved and worn and then discarded.

“Hi,” I say instead, in a strangled voice that I’m desperately trying to fix. I’m here for Alvina, not an ex from years ago. I look over my shoulder toward the entrance, where the door is swinging shut. After two very casual, very normal breaths, I say, “Did you come alone?”

“He’s on his way,” Alvina says nonchalantly. She settles herself on the stool next to mine with an ease that would be surprising if you didn’t know her. Then she drops her purse on the bar top and waves at Hal. “Hal, darling, I’d like to order, please.”

I can’t stop myself from looking her over as she talks to Hal. A rush of relief hits me when I see how different our outfits are. I’m in my favorite overalls and a sweater, half my hair hanging over my shoulders while the other half is in a careless bun on top of my head. My mother, on the other hand, is highly overdressed as per usual; she’s wearing a flouncy skirt, a soft blouse, and heels that could take out an eye. Her hair is a brown that’s no longer natural, several shades darker than mine, but the dye job is perfect, and it’s twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. A pair of sunglasses that are presumably very expensive are propped on top of her head, and while she gesticulates toward the menu, her rings and bracelet glint in the light.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care if we look different or similar. But I do.

And I know it’s partly because Dominic is here. Maybe even watching me right now.

A painful memory flashes through my head, words we said to each other that could never be unspoken—and a quiet, damning suggestion that still haunts me.

You realize you’re just like her, don’t you?

The migraine that’s been forming behind my eye begins to throb more painfully as I bite back tears.

I’m not like Alvina. I’m nothing like her. I blink forcefully, just in time for my mother to turn back and look at me. Her penciled gaze gives my face a quick once-over, and then she frowns.

“You should never wear these in public,” she says as her red lips curl down. She points to the corner of her mouth, the same place Dominic pointed to his. “They’re meant to be worn overnight, you know.”

With a frown of my own, I reach to my face and brush my thumb over the spot⁠—

Only to find the pimple patch I forgot to take off when I got up this morning.

After I excuse myself from next to my mother and rush to the bathroom, I spend a full minute staring at that pimple patch on my face. Then, once I peel it off and die a thousand deaths knowing Dominic saw it, I wash my hands and step out the back door for some fresh air.

I just need to breathe. Normal, regular air that does not smell like my mother’s perfume or Dominic’s cologne or even the delicious maple scent that permeates the bar. So I slip out and sit down on the curb, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“Dominic,” I murmur to myself. Even the pimple patch snafu can only live in my mind for so long when it’s competing with Dom’s reappearance.

I knew I would run into him, obviously. But what are the chances it would happen while I was sitting here stressing about it? Is he psychic? Is this town playing a joke on me?

You’re going to have to give him the letter now.

The little voice in my head is grudging but firm, and I sigh. It’s true; I have a note ready and waiting for him, and although I dread handing it over, part of me is excited too. That letter is my best and final attempt at owning up to my part in where things went wrong. Apologizing for the things I need to apologize for. It’s the key that will lock the door to the past for good.

No loose ends left, no unsaid words. Just me trying to let it all go and get on with my life.

I should probably figure out how to breathe normally first. It doesn’t help that my heart still knows how important he was to me back then. My pulse hasn’t totally calmed down, and the knot in the back of my throat lingers.

My phone is out of my jacket pocket and in my hand two seconds later, because I need to tell someone about this or I’m going to explode.

Me

SOS

I repeat, SOS!

It takes my best friends a full minute to respond, but I forgive them because their lives are crazy right now too.

Liv

What’s wrong?

Do you need me to come get you?

I can be wherever you are in ten minutes, twenty tops if my bodyguard shadow is weird about the speed limit.

Me

I love you so much.

And I don’t even know.

I just ran into Dominic.

Ari

!!!

How did it go?

Me

I had a pimple patch on my face and didn’t realize it.

Liv

Oh boy.

Ari

If it makes you feel better, a lot of my students wear them!

During the day, out in public and everything.

Me

Is that something people do now? Guys, are we OLD?

Well, it does not make me feel better.

But thank you for trying.

Only a few people in this world aside from me and Dom actually know we once dated: Liv, Ari, Dominic’s sister Rosie, and maybe a friend or two of his. I didn’t tell anyone else because frankly, who would I tell? Not Alvina, definitely. She was going through her divorce from Post-Dad Husband One at the time. She would have sniffed, teared up, and then said something dramatic and passive-aggressive like “I’m sorry my love isn’t enough for you.” I wasn’t super close to my roommates, either.

It was easier to keep it to myself. I’m glad I have Liv and Ari to talk to now, though.

When my phone buzzes with a text from Alvina asking what’s taking me so long, I say goodbye to my friends and then tuck my phone back in my pocket, standing slowly and stretching my legs. I take a few more deep breaths, looking at the world around me.

And even though my day feels topsy turvy, even though Dominic Harper is right inside and my mother is trying to date the entire state of Vermont…it’s only a few moments before I start feeling better. Because if there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that this place will always soothe my soul. Even when I’m buckling under stress, or when I’m panicking and anxious.

I can see the white steeple of the church over the tops of yellow trees, leaves rustling faintly in the perfect autumn breeze. They’ll be turning brilliant orange and red any day now, and we’ll get floods of leaf-peepers coming to see the change. It’s already begun. The late afternoon air is heavy with the humidity, and it smells like the rain we’re supposed to get this evening.

Fall has arrived. This year I’m even helping run the pumpkin patch, which opens on Saturday. A month of shrieking children and giant slides and hay bales, of pumpkin launching and candy throwing and a mini hayride in the back of a tractor.

I went every year as a kid and then as a teen. I’m beyond excited to spend time there.

When I’ve finally collected myself enough to put on a brave face and a smile, I return to the bar. Alvina is still there, of course, taking dainty sips of her drink. When she sees me, she waves at me with one bony, pink-nailed hand.

“Come here,” she says, even though I’m already approaching. “I want your thoughts on something.”

Alvina rarely wants my thoughts. She wants someone else to echo her own thoughts.

“About what?” I say as I resume my seat. This time I make sure I’m not slouching, partly because I know she’ll say something about it but also because slouching hurts my back.

“About fall in Autumn Ridge,” she says. “It’s such a magical time of year, don’t you think?”

That, at least, is one thing we agree on. “It is,” I say.

She gives a brisk nod, and not one hair on her head shifts with the motion. It remains perfectly coiffed, perfectly in place, as only Alvina’s hair could.

“What I need from you is ideas about amusing things to do around here,” she says. She takes another sip of her drink and sets it down on the bar with a clink. Then she turns to face me more fully. “Romantic places to go, sights to see, enjoyable outings.”

So…date ideas. She wants date ideas for her and her new boyfriend.

I find myself wondering if we even live in the same version of reality. But I hold back my sigh, because letting it out won’t do any good. Alvina is going to do what she wants, when she wants, and she’ll shamelessly ignore anyone who disagrees.

“The pumpkin patch opens on Saturday,” I say, reaching for my glass of water and taking a sip. “Bugelbach’s Pumpkin Farm. I’m working there until it closes at the end of October. It’s always fun.”

Alvina blinks at me, her perfectly penciled brows lifting. “Oh, are you? You should have said something.”

I did say something. She wasn’t paying attention.

But I simply nod. “Yeah. The pumpkin patch is great.” I’m about to suggest the drive up to the Ridge—more commonly known as Make-Out Ridge—before I remember my mother is the one asking, and the last thing I want is to encourage her to play tonsil hockey with whoever she’s found this time. So I pause, forcing myself not to think about the weekend when Dom and I came to Autumn Ridge and did these things ourselves. “The Fall Festival starts in a week and a half,” I go on. “Lots of stuff there. And over at Horseshoe Holler they do a Sleepy Hollow thing too that’s pretty cool. I’m not sure on the dates.”

When Alvina stares blankly at me, I speak again.

“Horseshoe Holler. The stables,” I clarify. “Run by that guy who used to do the rodeo stuff? Over by the maple farm.”

“Oh,” she says as her expression clears. “I do remember something about that, yes. He’s young, isn’t he? And handsome.” Then she nods. “Could you send these to me, please?”

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “I can⁠—”

But I break off at the sound of the bell over the entrance, and my mother whirls around, straightening up like a prairie dog. Her eyes go wide and bright, and a breathless smile spreads over her face.

She’s beautiful, my mother, but never more so than when she’s genuinely happy.

“Oh, he’s here,” she whispers to me, reaching over to pat my leg but hitting my arm instead because she’s still looking at the man.

One last lighting-fast pep talk and then I look at him too, ready to see the new beau in my mother’s life. He’s just come through the doors, but I only get half a glance at him, because instead of heading toward us, he grabs a booth.

“Let’s go, then, sweetheart—come on,” my mom says, gathering her purse in one hand and her drink in the other. “I want you to meet Daryl.”

Daryl. I don’t like that name, although I might just be petty.

I grab my drink too and follow Alvina to the booth, half-waiting to make sure she doesn’t teeter right over in those heels. But she makes it just fine, beaming at the man⁠—

No, I realize as my brain stutters to a halt. My mother is beaming at the men. Because next to Daryl, pushed to the inside of the booth, is none other than Dominic freaking Harper.

He doesn’t look up when my mother and I arrive, but even with his face downturned I can tell he’s as thrilled about this as I am. A sick, horrific sense of dread sinks low in my gut as I try to make sense of what’s happening right now.

What is this? What’s going on?

I take another drink of water, trying to give my mind a chance to work.

“Darling,” my mother says to me—she only calls me darling when she wants to sound sophisticated—“I would like you to meet someone very special to me. This is Daryl Harper, the man I’ve been seeing for a couple weeks.” Then she turns to me with a radiant smile and speaks the nine most horrible words I’ve ever heard in my life:

“And this handsome young fellow is his son, Dominic!”

I try to stop it, but it happens too fast. In one hacking, spitting, coughing mess, every last drop of water spews out of my mouth—and all over the table, my mother’s new boyfriend, and my ex.

My brain is dissolving.

There’s water and saliva dripping down my chin, and Daryl has a few droplets of spit on his cheek, and I keep looking from Dominic’s horror-stricken face to my mother’s scandalized expression, and none of it makes sense.

I may as well have a sign on my forehead that reads Does Not Compute.

“I’m so sorry.” They’re the first words I’m able to get out. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. Here.” I dive for the wad of paper napkins in the middle of the table. “Here. Let me just—I’ll just—” But I break off, frozen, because I cannot and will not wipe spit off of my mother’s boyfriend’s face. Even if it’s my spit. So I shove the napkins in front of Daryl’s nose. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, but the words are more miserable now.

“Really, Reese,” my mother says, and although I’m not looking at her anymore, her voice is as scandalized as her face still must be. “What’s wrong with you?” She lets out a tinkling laugh. “She’s quite something today.”

Daryl waves one hand good-naturedly. “No harm done,” he says as he accepts the clump of napkins I’m still holding out. “No harm done at all.”

Well. I guess Daryl isn’t such a bad name.

Except, of course, that it’s attached to the last name Harper.

“Reese, sweetheart, introduce yourself properly,” my mother says with a nudge of her sharp elbow and a smile that bares clenched teeth. “And scoot in the booth, will you? Being next to the wall makes me feel claustrophobic.”

“I’m Reese,” I say with a stupid little wave at Daryl, who’s still wiping his face. He gives me a distracted nod, and I can see the resemblance to Dominic. They have the same eyes, the same hairline.

Which, you know, of course they do. OF COURSE THEY DO. Because they are father and son.

My mother. Is dating. Dominic’s father.

I’ve seen Daryl around town. I know Daryl in the same way I know most of the people in Autumn Ridge. We’ve never chatted, but I know who he is. I once even wanted him to be my father-in-law.

But now?

Bad. This is bad. I’m an openminded woman, but my mother cannot date my ex’s dad. It’s too much, too tangled, too weird.

This is no good. No good at all.

Dominic clearly agrees, because he’s staring at me like he’ll die if I slide into this booth.

But what else am I supposed to do? Our parents don’t know we dated. So I ignore his silent signals and sit on the bench, light brown vinyl worn and cracked. I scoot over, wiping the table with the sleeve of my sweater as I go, until I’m directly across from Dom. He watches with irritation, but when I give him the tiniest, panickiest look—one he will clearly interpret as It’s not like I have a choice—his eyes tighten, and he jerks his gaze away from mine.

“Hi, Reese,” Daryl says with a smile at me, setting the used napkins off to the side. “It’s good to meet you. I know your family, of course, but we’ve never formally talked.” His voice is deep, manly, direct. “You might have seen Dominic around, though”—boy, have I ever, Daryl—“and my girls couldn’t be here today, but you’ve probably seen them too. Rosie’s over at the inn, and Emma works at the library.”

Daryl’s smile is genuine, and he seems overall very kind and normal as he talks a bit about his daughters.

If he’s kind and normal, why is he dating Alvina? What could they possibly have in common? Isn’t there someone nicer he might like to see?

Someone less related to me, perhaps? Literally anyone at all?

When my mother reaches across the table and places her bony hand on top of Daryl’s, dread coils in my gut, and I swear Dominic almost throws up. He swallows as the corners of his lips curl down, and a pale shade of green enters his cheeks.

Maybe I should be offended on behalf of my mother, but to be honest, I don’t even blame him for his clear disapproval. My mother is nothing but bad news when it comes to dating and marriage and men in general. I don’t know how she and my dad stayed together so long.

Sometimes I even wonder⁠—

No. Nope. Not going there.

All that to say, Dom never thought Alvina was good for me—even though we were in college when we were together, so he never formally met her. Now that he’s meeting her for the first time in person, his feelings are probably cemented.

“So tell me,” he says, his eyes trained on where our parents are now holding hands over the table and smiling at each other. “How did you two get together?”

Good. Good question. There must be some logic behind this pairing.

“I’d love to know as well,” I say, and my voice is only slightly strained.

“Well, really, it was meant to be,” my mother says, beaming at Daryl.

He nods back in agreement.

No, Daryl! I think. Do not be taken in!

“Your mother was seated in front of me at church,” Daryl says. His words are softer now, even dazed, as he continues to stare at Alvina. “Even from behind I could see she was beautiful. I’d seen her around, of course, but something was different this time. She was so focused on the pastor. I could see that fervor for righteousness. I admire that in a woman.”

I have so many responses to this, but I can only get out a few words. “At church,” I say with a weak laugh. “Imagine that.”

My mother attends church for one purpose and one purpose only: It gives her a legitimate reason to dress fancily and show off. She is not a woman of faith.

Alvina Berkeley is her own higher power.

“It started with brunch,” my mother says, patting Daryl’s hand. “And the rest was history.”

“History?” I say blankly, my voice a little too high-pitched. “It was two weeks ago—ow.” I push myself closer to the wall so that Alvina’s elbow can’t do any more damage.

When I glance up at Dominic, he’s watching us with eyes narrowed again, irritation still etched in his features. He turns that glare on Alvina—where it belongs, I might add—and then he speaks.

“Careful,” he says lightly to my mother, perfectly casual, even bland. His gaze jumps to where Alvina’s bony elbow has probably bruised my ribs. “I heard recently that involuntary twitches can be a bad sign. You want to take care of your health.” The smile that glazes over his face a second later could almost be called friendly, except that annoyance still lingers in his eyes.

Alvina sniffs and tucks her elbow closer to her body, away from my side. “Such a considerate young man,” she says with brittle affection, false but significantly better than what I would receive if I had said the same thing.

“He is,” Daryl says with a genuine smile, and he claps Dom on the shoulder. “He’s grown up to be a great young man.” He doesn’t notice Dominic shrink under the praise.

I want to shrink too—not because of anything Daryl has said but because I am so, so tired. It hits me like a sack of bricks. I would love to go to sleep and wake up and realize none of this actually happened.

Please let this be a bad dream. I will wake up in my old bed in the room I share with Alvina in my old house, and she will be snoring and drooling but not dating my ex’s father, and we will all go about our business as normal and usual and everything will be fine.

“Anyway, kids, we know this is all a bit sudden,” Daryl says—sweet Daryl with that smile on his face and absolutely no idea of the train wreck he is hitching himself to—“but we wanted to let you know what was going on, in case you see us together.” He directs a smile at me. “Your mother has been coming up with some fun fall activities for us to do together.”

My laugh is hollow but also slightly manic. “Has she really?”

Alvina has the audacity to look completely at ease, like she didn’t just ask me to do that bit of legwork for her.

Daryl gives one brisk nod. “So if anyone would like to join us, we’d love to have some good old-fashioned fun!”

I would rather be strangled to death with my mother’s negligee.

“Probably gonna have to pass on that one,” Dominic says, the words breezy. “A lot of business at this time of year.” Then he gives the table a thump and nudges his dad. “I have to go.” All he offers me and Alvina is a brief nod before he and Daryl stand. Daryl shifts out of the way so that Dom can leave, and I hurriedly tap Alvina’s arm.

“I need to go too,” I say quickly. Then, paying very little attention, I add, “Have a good—fun!”

Because Alvina does not possess the same manners Daryl does, she does not move for me. So I end up basically sitting on top of her and then emerging on the other side, darting toward the entrance as fast as possible. When I push through and find myself in the front lot, I look around, searching for Dominic.

I find him as he’s disappearing into his old Ford, a green baseball hat pulling my eye. Even though I hate running, I break into a jog anyway, making a beeline for the pickup.

I remember that truck, by the way. An old clunker, red-orange and battered but apparently still chugging along. There’s a stain on the passenger seat belt from a bottle of nail polish I spilled. The rearview mirror has a tiny crack in one corner.

I kissed Dominic in the bed of that truck, too. So many kisses, so many ways, so many things we laughed about together.

When I huff and puff up to the Ford and knock on the window, however, neither of us are laughing. I’m completely winded, and Dom is looking at me with furrowed brows.

He rolls the window down slowly, his gaze wary on me. He reaches over and then holds up a water bottle. “Want a drink to go with that stitch in your side?”

I frown. Then I reach through the window to flick the bill of his hat before pushing it off his head.

“Don’t be childish,” he mutters as he grabs for the hat. He swipes it up and jams it back on his head. “Did you need something?”

I can read all the words he’s not saying in his tired expression. Memories of drawn-out arguments where we tried desperately to piece together something we’d already broken and didn’t know how to fix. Fresh pain I thought I’d buried.

But right now, I know what I need to say. So I take a deep breath, composing myself and trying to calm my racing heart—racing because I ran over here, obviously, not for any other reason.

“Our parents cannot date,” I say. And really, my voice sounds pretty good. Normal. I’m impressed.

Dom’s glittering eyes dull as his lips twist into a grimace. “I know,” he says. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Wait,” I say before he can roll the window back up. When he shoots me a questioning look, I go on. “Wait. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I said I’ll figure it out.”

“No, wait—wait!” I say again as the window begins to inch up. “We can’t barge in.” I pause briefly. “I just meant we needed to keep an eye on things to make sure they fizzle on their own. It’s probably not very serious.”

“Alvina has a track record four marriage certificates long.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But your dad doesn’t, does he?” I pause. “I really think it will die down.”

“I bet it won’t,” Dom says flatly. “And why are you pulling back now? You were the one who said they couldn’t date.”

He’s not wrong, but it’s complicated. “Should we tell them we⁠—”

“No.” He throws the word out, curt and firm. “Your mother would lose her mind if she found out we dated, and my dad would want to know why I didn’t tell him before, and then I’d get flak for how everything went down.” A muscle jumps in his jaw as he speaks. “I’ve already disappointed him enough for one lifetime. I don’t want to relive the whole thing.” He shoots me a look full of challenge. “Do you?”

My body sags. “No,” I admit softly.

The hard look in his eyes fades for a second, so briefly I might be imagining it. But then he clears his throat and faces forward once more. “We need to break them up. And it needs to be permanent so they won’t go back for round two later on. If we can get your mom to reveal her true colors⁠—”

“Hey.” Hurt twists my insides—and, if I’m being honest, embarrassment. I swallow past the emotions even as heat rises in my cheeks. “It’s not—she isn’t—” But I break off as my explanation deserts me, partly because Dominic is right. “She’s trying to be happy,” I finally say, but the words are halfhearted.

Dominic sighs. “Yeah. And she’ll be happy—for five minutes, and at the expense of everyone else.”

It hits me like a blow to the chest, but I don’t respond. I don’t know how.

When he sees I’m not going to say anything, Dom goes on, his voice gruff and reluctant. “Did she hurt you?”

“What?”

“She elbowed you pretty hard.” It sounds like he’s wrenching the words out with pliers now, and his expression is a mask of passivity. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh,” I say tiredly when I realize what he’s talking about. “It’s fine.”

When his brows twitch with skepticism, I go on. “It is,” I insist. “It really is. I’m used to it.”

“Good grief.” He exhales roughly, sliding one hand down his face as he stares out the windshield. “That’s worse, Berkeley.” Then he shakes his head. “I heard you were back in Autumn Ridge,” he finally says. “In your old house?”

“Yes.”

“With Alvina?”

“We’re sharing my old room.” The words are trembling and small, but I keep my head high anyway.

He’s quiet for a second. “Are you here permanently?”

I try not to wince at this. It’s not like I can blame him for asking. “Don’t worry,” I say lightly, although I’m not sure my tone lands. “I’ll only be here for six months.”

“Right,” he says on an exhale, his hand flexing on the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “Okay.” He looks at me, but the angle of the sun and his hat now makes it difficult to see his eyes.

I think I prefer it that way.

“Your dad seems—” I clear my throat. “He seems great. I think this will die on its own. But see if you can feel out how serious they are. I’ll do the same. If we need to, we can figure something else out.”

“Don’t bother,” he says, resigned. “I’ll do it.”

I shake my head. “If it comes to that, I’ll help.”

“You’re not going to break up Alvina’s relationship,” he says. “I’m not sure you could.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” I say, and once again, I keep my voice very light, very calm and normal like the grown woman I am. I give myself another mental pat on the back, even as that knot in my throat grows.

“Sorry,” he says grudgingly, holding up his hands like he’s backing off. “Sorry. But…” He shifts. “It’s true.”

“Just try to figure out how serious they are,” I say, and even though I’m not fighting back, my gaze on him is harder now. “This will die down on its own.” I pause. “But if it doesn’t, I’ll personally split them up. Me. Myself.”

I turn away and rub my back for effect—twenty-seven isn’t too young to get a sore back from standing around, is it?—but really I just don’t want Dominic to see the tears I’m trying to hold in. Then I point at the glove compartment, hoping I’m pointing in the right direction because I’m not even looking anymore. “Pass me something to write with, please.”

He hesitates for only a second before I hear the sound of him reaching over to the compartment and pulling out the pad of paper and pencil I knew would be stashed there. When he hands them out of the window to me, I make sure our hands don’t brush. I scribble my number in shaky writing—I deleted his number years ago so I wouldn’t be tempted—and then drop them back to him.

“Give me yours,” I say, keeping my hand outstretched. It takes him a second, but then he passes a piece of paper to me, which I tuck in my pocket.

“I have to go,” I say, “but I have something I need to give you, so I’ll get in touch later. Don’t ignore my text.” I try to say goodbye, but the word simply won’t come out. It’s ash in my mouth. So I nod somewhere at the vicinity of the hood and then turn all the way around, my shoulders straight, my head held high.

I’m not my mother’s lap dog, whatever Dominic may think. It’s true that I have trouble setting boundaries with her—something that’s always bothered him—and that’s an area I’m working on.

But I can’t let her date Dominic’s father. I absolutely can’t. I won’t let her cross that line. So if I need to break them up, I’ll do it.

And you know what? I bet I could do it so subtly she would never know I was involved. I could keep her from hating me forever—because it takes very little to get on Alvina’s bad side—and simultaneously avoid becoming the stepsibling to my ex-boyfriend.

Win-win.

I cross the parking lot on wobbly legs, my mind racing, and when I collapse in my car, I vow to throw away every tube of non-waterproof mascara I own.

SIX YEARS AGO || LATE AUGUST

The only bench with room to sit is the one right beneath the lamppost.

There’s a guy occupying half of it, but I think he’s asleep, and I don’t blame him. Summer is fading away, leaving campus with perfect breezes and rustling trees and leaves that are considering changing color. It’s an evening I could curl up in, too.

The guy on the bench seems to have assumed the classic resting position, slouched low, worn baseball cap pulled down over most of his face, arms folded, head tilted back. I can imagine him snoring softly even from here. That’s the standard for guys trying to sit up and sleep at the same time.

Although growing up we attended the little white church in town, a postcard-perfect chapel with a soaring steeple, and every Sunday I saw more than one elderly man bent forward, elbows on his knees, face tilted to the floor and balanced precariously on his hands. The benches inside were made of wood and therefore uncomfortable to sprawl on—not that the guy in front of me would have had any problems, given his current pose.

I could never sleep in church. Dresses are too uncomfortable. Heels, too, which is why when I approach the half-occupied bench now, I’m walking with a bit of a limp.

I glance down at my shoes and grimace. They’re cute, as far as heels go—simple black pumps. Nothing too crazy. But the back of my feet and my ankles are being rubbed raw, and for a moment I consider pulling them off all together and spending the rest of the evening barefoot on this bench.

Unfortunately, even if I can ditch my shoes, I’m stuck with the rest of my outfit: a knee-length black dress with long sleeves and a neck that scoops lower than I prefer. I keep worrying it will catch the evening breeze and fly up, and instead of a Marilyn Monroe situation with her famous white dress over the air vent, I will give everyone here a blue-underweared show.

It’s just that I have newish roommates this year, girls from the dorms I lived in freshman year. I don’t know them very well, and they don’t know me, but they needed someone to take the last spot in their apartment, and I needed a place to live. I moved in, and when they invited me to come with them to the back-to-school mixer this evening, I said yes. I thought it would be a good bonding experience. Classes start next week, and it would be nice to be able to call the girls friends before that. 

But I think we will need to bond over something other than school dances. The campus courtyard is relatively empty, but the press of people inside was stifling, made worse by the impossibly loud music that I can hear thumping even from here. 

When I reach the metal bench, I settle myself as quietly and gracefully as possible. I scoot all the way to the end so that I don’t disturb the sleeping stranger, and then I pull my feet from my heels. I flex them a bit, which feels infinitely better than having them confined, before letting them rest on the stone that paves most of campus.

I’ve only been sitting for thirty seconds or so when I get a whiff of the man next to me, some sort of sharp cologne that barely masks the scent of something more familiar.

What is that? It’s nothing gross, like BO or cigarette smoke. It’s pleasant. I just can’t place it.

I look him over for any clues, but I find nothing. He’s dressed normally in faded jeans and a dark henley, well-worn work boots on his feet.

After a moment of creepily staring at the guy, I decide he’s definitely asleep. The rise and fall of his broad chest is steady and slow, and other than that he’s totally still. So I lean surreptitiously sideways, sniffing a bit more.

Not burying my face in his shoulder or anything. Just…you know. A casual twitch of the nose.

But that casual twitch does it, and I smile. Beneath the smell of cologne is the smell of a dusty woodworking shop—of carpentry. Before I think better of it, I inhale deeply as my eyes flutter closed, my smile widening at the memories that scent evokes.

Helping my dad in the shop after school. Popping my head into the work shed out back to bring him food when he’d been there for hours, working on one thing or another for someone in town.

When I open my eyes again, I half expect this guy to have wood shavings in his hair and on his shoulders.

He doesn’t, of course. What he does have is one eye looking sideways at me from beneath the hat propped on his face. One eye making direct contact with my own.

I startle when our gazes meet, jolting back to my side of the bench like I’ve touched an electric fence. Mortification washes over me, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

This good-smelling stranger just caught me sniffing him.

Why did I do that? Who sniffs a total stranger, anyway?

If I leave my shoes here, I could make a run for it. My dress might fly up a bit, but that would be a small price to pay, wouldn’t it? If it meant I could get out of here right now?

The ideas only flit halfway through my head before the guy reaches for his hat and pulls it off of his face, dropping it into his lap and turning to face me more fully.

Green eyes. Long lashes. Light brown hair, mussed from the hat.

And my humiliation goes from a river to a flood as recognition hits me, because I know this person.

“Have we met?” the guy says, even as his name is already front and center in my mind.

This is Dominic Harper. Dominic Harper from Autumn Ridge, several years older than me, one of the most handsome guys I’ve ever met.

Of course, I use the word “met” very loosely. I’m not sure he knew I existed up until this moment; our relationship was one where he passed my locker and I watched moon-eyed. 

He was never the popular guy or the ladies’ man or the rich kid—I think he was too introverted for that kind of attention. He was the one who looked like he could lift a bale of hay over each shoulder with no problem. Like he belonged behind the wheel of a tractor, muscles flexing, sweat on his brow, undeniably manly and strong⁠—

Stop it, I tell myself firmly as heat rises in my cheeks. I can feel them burning, and I sort of wish they would catch fire and erase this moment from history.

“Were you smelling me?” Dominic says now. His brows are twisted low in confusion, his lips braced in a frown, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes.

I think he recognizes me.

“Sorry,” I say. The word pushes out in a little squeak, so I clear my throat. “Sorry.” Then I straighten up and try to act normal. “I was smelling you, which was weird and inappropriate and it won’t happen again⁠—”

“Oh!” He cuts me off with a snap of his fingers, his brows jumping. “You’re the Berkeley girl. Right?”

“Reese Berkeley,” I say as I die inside. “Yes. That’s me.”

I might change my major and study time travel in hopes that I can go back and fix this situation. Stop myself from sitting next to Dominic Harper on this stupid metal bench that clearly didn’t allow him to sleep deeply enough.

He nods and rights himself, sitting up instead of slouching. I have to look upward to meet his eyes once he does, but thankfully he doesn’t seem annoyed or upset. His expression does fall a bit, though, something shadowed rising in his eyes.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he says. “He was a great guy.”

My dad. I swallow the sudden knot in my throat and hum my thanks, because even though it’s been a couple years, I still can’t talk about it or think about it too much without crying. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop missing him. I delayed my freshman year a few semesters to give myself time to fall apart, but here I am now, about to start my sophomore year, and I still can’t imagine a world in which I don’t feel his absence so keenly it hurts.

“How did you know him?” I ask Dominic instead, like I don’t already know that he came to the shop sometimes.

Good grief, I tell my teenage self. Were you a stalker or what? You should not know this much about someone who didn’t remember your name.

Teenage Reese was a daydreamer. I like to think that while I still daydream, I now also have a healthier sense of boundaries.

Sure enough, when Dominic answers me, he says what I expect. “I was in and out of your dad’s store a lot,” he says with a shrug. He plays with his baseball hat, curling and uncurling the lid in a motion that’s clearly been repeated a thousand times. “I did a bunch of fixing and handyman stuff to earn some extra money in high school, and I still do some when I’m home in the summers.”

“I think I remember you now,” I say in an absolutely shameless lie. But it’s not like I can tell him I had a crush on him in school, in that dreamy, it-will-never-happen sort of way that teenage girls experience. “You were a couple years ahead of me. You guys did the senior prank with the fish in the vents.”

A small smile tugs over Dominic’s lips. “Our legacy lives on, I see.”

“It does…” I say, drawing the words out. “In the girl’s bathroom.”

The smile vanishes. “What?”

“In the girl’s bathroom off the cafeteria,” I say with a nod. “It still smelled like fish when I was there.”

Now his eyes narrow. “It did not.”

“No, it did,” I say placidly. “Very fishy in there.”

“No way,” he says, shaking his head slowly, but I can see a hint of that smile trying to return to his lips. “You know what I think, Berkeley? I think you’re a liar.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, and with it some of the tension I’ve been carrying dissipates. I feel inexplicably at ease here—probably because Dominic is from Autumn Ridge too, a place that will always be home in my heart. Even my teenage self still buried deep inside is relaxing.

“My name is Reese, not Berkeley,” I say. “R-E-E-S-E. Give it a try.” When his lips continue to twitch, I nudge, “Come on. Let me hear it. Reese.”

“My apologies, Reese,” he says. Amusement sparkles in his eyes—and are those freckles I’m noticing?

They are. He has faint freckles over the bridge of his nose. Why is that attractive?

Bad, bad, bad, a warning voice in my mind chants. This crush was harmless in high school, but you’re in college now. 

“Man, it’s good to talk to someone from home,” Dominic says with a sigh. He faces forward and folds his arms once again, slouching and settling comfortably. “There’s nowhere quite like Autumn Ridge.”

“There’s not,” I admit. Then I nod at the massive, sprawling building that contains the food court, the event rooms, and, currently, the back-to-school mixer. The bass is still thumping, a low, pulsing noise that I could probably feel through the stone pavers beneath my feet if I focused enough. “Although I’m not sure the Autumn Ridge High gym is capable of sound like that.”

“So are you here for the mixer?” Dom says, and when I glance over, he’s looking at me once again, only this time his sparkling gaze is roaming over my clothes. “You know it’s in there, don’t you?”

I grimace at this. “I got bored. And hot. And the music was so loud?” Shaking my head, I go on, “Anyway, I’m waiting out here for my roommates.”

What’s he doing here? He doesn’t strike me as the type to attend campus dances.

Although really, what do I know?

“My roommate is the DJ,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I drove him here with some of his equipment and helped him set up.”

“Already regretting it?”

“I was having a nice nap, actually.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yep. Until someone started smelling me. Sniffing around like a dog.”

I try to suppress my embarrassed smile. “Sorry I woke you. You smell good,” I admit. “Like a woodworking shop. It reminded me of home.”

“Do you go back much?” he says, looking at me curiously. The evening breeze pushes a few strands of hair over his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not really.” I shrug. “My brother lives there still, but my mom is out here now.”

Dominic nods and crosses one ankle over his knee. “It’s a bit of a drive. Do you miss it?”

How do I answer that? “Yes and no,” I say slowly as I think about it. “It’s more…that I miss what Autumn Ridge used to be, I guess. To me—to my family. Sort of knowing that the past is gone and I can’t return to the way things were, you know?”

Silence falls between us, too long for my comfort. Part of me wants to look at him, to see what his expression is like, but the bigger part of me doesn’t want to know. I force a chuckle. “Sorry,” I say, giving in to the urge to glance at him. “That was⁠—”

“Why do you keep apologizing?” he says with lips crooked into a tiny smile—one that’s much more natural than my own.

But the embarrassment is still rising in my chest. Because what am I doing, saying these things to Dominic Harper? Why are they falling so easily from my lips?

There’s just something…comfortable about him. He’s not scrutinizing me. I can tell he won’t think less of me for anything I say—simply because he won’t think of me at all. He’ll probably forget all about this interaction.

There’s something freeing about that, and I’m tired anyway. “I don’t keep apologizing,” I say, thinking back, my brow furrowing. “Do I?”

“You do,” Dom says, and when I glance over at him again, he’s watching me with faint amusement, his arms still crossed. “I noticed because I’m a reformed over-apologizer myself.” He shakes his head as a stilted laugh falls from his lips, and now a thread of bitterness enters his voice. “Maybe not even so reformed.”

Then he turns to look at the campus around us—the red brick buildings, the neatly kept courtyard, the green lawns. “So tell me, Reese Berkeley,” he says, clearly wanting to change the subject. He shakes off his last words almost physically, rolling his shoulders and shifting his body. “What brought you to the university? What are you studying?”

That is a great question. “Right now I’m undeclared. Maybe some sort of science? Or engineering?” It’s a topic I’ve gone back and forth about countless times, because I don’t feel ready to decide what I want to do for the rest of my life. I’m only twenty-one.

When I was growing up, my twenties felt so adult. So grown up. But now that I’m here, I still feel clueless, like I’m fumbling around in a world that’s too big for me, tripping over my own feet.

Dominic nods, his eyes lighting with surprise. “That’s what I’m doing,” he says. “Mechanical engineering.”

I blink at him. “Really?” I tuck a few runaway strands of hair behind my ear. “How are you liking it?”

“Ah.” He gives a little laugh and runs one hand over his head, his eyes darting hesitantly to mine. “Not at all, actually.”

“What?” I say, my brows jumping. “Why? Is the program bad?”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s more of a me thing, I think. I’m not sure I’m made for classrooms and desks. I miss fixing things with my hands. Looking at the final product right in front of me. Tinkering and figuring things out.” He shrugs and sighs. “I don’t know.”

Huh. Interesting. I’m about to ask more when I hear my name being called from a distance. I turn to find the speaker and see my roommates emerging from one of the doors of the Farrell building, their elbows linked, all of them laughing.

A dangerous disappointment sinks in my chest—dangerous because I have no business being sad that I have to stop talking to Dominic. We are not on the same playing field. We are not even in the same sport. He was out of reach in high school, which means he’s undoubtedly out of reach now, too.

“My roommates,” I say, gesturing weakly to the three of them as they begin heading my direction. “They didn’t stay very long, I guess.”

“You’ve got to go, then?” Dom says.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Stop it, heart. STOP IT. You are not sad.

“Too bad,” Dominic says. He then tugs his phone from his pocket and holds it up. “Want to trade numbers?” he says with raised brows.

The way I stare at him is very unflattering.

“It’s great to talk to someone from home,” he adds with another shrug. “That’s all. Just knowing someone.”

Does that even make sense? He knows a lot of people here. He must. He’s here with his roommate, for one.

But even though a part of me is nervous, a bigger part of me wants to accept. Because he’s right; it is nice to have someone from home around. Someone who understands what life was like before coming here. 

That’s the only reason, I tell myself firmly. 

“Yeah, definitely,” I say. Then I pass him my phone with hands I try to hold steady. “Here. Enter your number.”

He takes the phone, sparing a brief glance for my Winnie the Pooh phone case and smiling, before typing his number in. Then he passes it back.

“Let me know if you ever want to get together,” he says. “Or if you have any questions about the engineering programs.”

I nod and stand up, slipping my feet back into my heels and trying to calm my jumping pulse. “I will,” I say, even though I know I won’t. I won’t, because when people say things like that they rarely ever mean it, and I need my hopes to stay firmly grounded. “It was great to talk to you.”

Really great. So great.

“You too,” he says with a crooked little smile. “Keep in touch.”

I think my voice will be squeaky if I speak again, so I just nod, and when I walk away to meet my roommates, my heart is still thumping loudly in my chest.

Dominic

Good luck on your first day of classes.

Me

Thanks! You too!

Dominic

And in case you’re missing home too much, I sneaked a pic of this guy while I was walking to campus. On a scale of one to ten, how much does he look like Mayor Monroe?

Me

Oh wow. Ten. ELEVEN! Mayor Monroe is taller.

Dominic

Might have to tell him he has a twin running around over here.

My first day of classes is about what I expect. Syllabus after syllabus after syllabus, class expectations, professor introductions. Everything I knew I’d be seeing.

The only surprise comes when I get to my last class of the day: Intro to Engineering. 

It takes place in a stuffy lecture hall, not a giant auditorium but still full with maybe fifty students. The professor is at the front of the room, a slight but stern-looking man with glasses and gray hair. Two TAs are crouched over a desk off to the side, heads ducked, papers in hand.

When the professor starts class, his voice is loud and authoritative even though he’s not using a mic, and I can hear him perfectly all the way in the back row. 

“I’m Professor Sallow. This is the Introduction to Engineering course—let me introduce you to your TAs, and then we’ll take roll. If you’re hoping to add the class, please come see me after. We always have a handful who drop it in the first week, so we can probably make room for you.”

Professor Sallow waves off to the side for the TAs, and they hurry to stand next to him.

“This is Jeffrey Gulliver,” he says, gesturing to the one who’s closest. “He’ll be responsible for students with last names M–Z.”

But I barely register what the professor is saying, or what Jeffrey Gulliver looks like, because my eyes have snagged on the other TA—the one who now switches places with Jeffrey and stands directly next to Professor Sallow.

“And this is Dominic Harper,” the professor says. “He’ll be responsible for students with last names A–L. Everybody say hello, please.”

A low mumble of hellos ripples through the room, and the TAs nod at us. Dominic is slightly less casual than he was a few evenings ago; he’s wearing jeans that are less faded this afternoon, and there’s not a baseball cap in sight. His hair is less messy, too.

He still looks like he could build an entire house from the ground up by himself. It’s something about him, the way his shirt stretches over his broad chest or the calluses on his hands that I can’t see but know are there.

The girl next to me giggles and whispers something to the girl on her other side, and she’s not the only one; a soft murmur rises and hovers above us as everyone recognizes what I already knew: that even with his straight face and businesslike expression, Dominic Harper is hot. Handsome. Sexy. All of those things. He is easy on the eyes and then some.

And he must know it. I don’t see how anyone could miss the effect he has, the sudden wave of interest that comes over the small auditorium. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t even seem aware, and because I’m petty, I find myself feeling grateful that none of these girls have seen him in work boots and torn jeans with a curled baseball hat. That’s where he shines the brightest.

Not that anyone asked for my opinion, but still.

When Professor Sallow takes the floor and dives into the actual class, I pay attention with faint interest. The course will give information about the different kinds of engineering and the basics you’d need for any of them. I understand the things he says, but he speaks quickly, and he doesn’t linger on any one topic as he goes through what the semester will cover. The whole time, Dominic and the other TA sit off to the side, speaking quietly every now and then and passing papers back and forth. Dom has a laptop, too, and they work with their heads close on whatever it is TAs do. 

By the end of class, I’m left feeling disconcerted, confused, and a little too warm. I’m almost excited to leave the building and return to the fresh air. So when Professor Sallow dismisses us, everyone stands, but I’m one of the first. I’m strangely jittery, my pulse still unstable, my sweater heavy. 

My gaze flies to Dominic, because he gets to his feet at the same time I do. I can pinpoint the exact second our eyes lock, and my heart skips another few beats. His brows jump, even though he must know by now I’m in this class. And then, apparently unaware that half the females in the room are still watching him, he smiles—the first smile our class has seen all hour. 

He sends it past the pretty girls in the front row, over the heads of the preening gigglers, right around the serious studiers. It finds no one⁠—

Until that crooked grin and his glittering eyes travel up, up, up to the back row and land undeniably, unmistakably on me.

When I’ve vaguely recovered from my shock in the parking lot of the Maple Bar, I stare out my windshield for a good, long time.

There are several ways this evening could play out, and I contemplate all of them before deciding what to do.

Option One: I make myself conveniently scarce in order to avoid any tellings-off I might receive for spitting water all over Alvina’s new boyfriend. It’s not like I did it on purpose, but such sound logic doesn’t always get through to my mother. I can help Nathan restock the hardware shop, even though he deserted me in my hour of need, and during that time I can also try to banish the imagined but horrifying image of Alvina and Daryl kissing on a couch like teenagers. I can hide like a coward until later, at which point I can sneak home and into my—our—bedroom, hoping Alvina will be asleep and will have cooled down by morning.

Pros: I remain out of Alvina’s reach for now.

Cons: It’s heavy on the cowardice, and I won’t be able to give Dominic his letter.

Option Two: I book it home right this second and hope I get there before Alvina, grab the letter, track down Dominic, and take it to him before I can chicken out. Then I go to the shop and hang out with Nate, once again crawling home late tonight.

Pros: I avoid Alvina, and Dominic gets the letter. Closure and peace are surely within my reach.

Cons: Still a bit cowardly.

Option Three: Go back home, get the letter, face Alvina if she’s there. If she’s not, I can take the letter to Dom; if she’s already at the house, I can take the letter to Dom after whatever she has to say about my accidental waterworks earlier. Spend the rest of the evening doing whatever I want, wherever I want.

Pros: Dominic gets his letter, I get Alvina’s reaction out of the way. I am a brave woman who can face the unpredictable wrath of a mother embarrassed.

Cons: The aforementioned wrath of a mother embarrassed, possibly more inflamed due to the recent nature of the event in question.

Ultimately I decide on option three. I do this because I’m tired and worn out from the shock I’ve undergone, and I’d really love to go to bed early. To do that I need to get everything done and out of the way.

I think part of me is also still hoping this is all a very bad dream.

The drive back home is short, a path that branches away from Main and into one of only several neighborhoods in Autumn Ridge. The sun has dipped lower by now, but the falling light is still golden as I make my way down my street, past white picket fences and vibrant trees. I know exactly what the air would smell like if I rolled down my window—humidity and the faintly sweet scent of falling leaves—and I know what I would hear, too. Birds chirping and the breeze whispering and the crunch of leaves beneath my wheels.

It’s familiar, and as much as I wish I had a different place to live right now, I do love familiarity.

Sometimes I think I should be braver. Break away from what I’ve always known instead of wallowing where I feel safe.

I sigh as I turn into the driveway, pulling around the back of the house and killing the engine. I sit in the silence of my car for a moment, breathing easier now that I note the absence of Alvina’s car. I don’t know how long she’ll be out, though, so I only give myself a minute before I hurry inside, through the kitchen, up the stairs, and down the hall to my room.

It smells faintly like my mother’s perfume, and my migraine gives another painful throb.

The window lurches loudly when I pry it open, but the immediate flood of cool air is a welcome relief. I pointedly ignore the negligee, which has now slipped to the carpeted floor, and try not to imagine Alvina wearing it during her tribal mating dance with Dominic’s father. I can only handle so much at once.

Once I’ve inhaled deeply of the fresh breeze, I grab a hanger and then get down on the floor and cast my eyes under my bed.

Because there’s an art to hiding things from your mother. Not that I should have to, mind you, because I am twenty-seven and have earned the right to privacy. But you never know with Alvina. So the small box I’m looking for has been placed very strategically under my bed, pushed all the way in with a hanger and only retrievable with one too.

It’s not that my mother wouldn’t think to look under the bed if she thought I were hiding something. She would just consider lying down on the floor and groping around under there to be barbarian behavior, a distasteful motion that would dirty her clothing. She’d much rather call Nathan and have him move the bed for her.

Nate is on my side, thankfully, and his relationship with Alvina is more strained than mine is, due to his general unwillingness to be trampled on like a rug. I wasn’t sure he’d even let her live here.

I wield my plastic hanger like an extension of my arm and stretch it as far as I can under the bed, tapping around until I make contact with the small cardboard box back there. It takes some maneuvering and some creative twists of my shoulder, but finally I manage to hook the hanger around the back of the box and pull it toward me, until it’s close enough that I can swipe it out with my hand.

It’s not a big box, and it’s not fancy or pretty or anything of the sort. It’s just plain brown. Since I’ve only been here a week, there’s no dust to blow away, for which I’m grateful. I brush the top of the box anyway, just in case, as I stare down at it.

I don’t know if I would call myself sentimental. There were just a few things I couldn’t get rid of—not yet—and I didn’t know where to put them. But the rush of emotions that overcomes me as I pull the lid off has me holding my breath, swallowing back the feelings that are trying to escape.

The past. This box holds the past, I remind myself. There’s no room for the past in the present.

I stare down at the contents, make myself look at each of them instead of hiding. A worn, warped baseball hat, faded and blue; a still-wrapped butterscotch hard candy; two ticket stubs from the Autumn Ridge pumpkin patch.

And, nestled to the side of the box, a neatly folded piece of lined paper, containing the words I agonized over.

It took me weeks to write this very short letter, once I decided I needed to. I pull it gently out and smooth the folded edges, inhaling deeply.

I could read it again, I guess, but I have the contents more or less memorized. So I give the hat and the candy and the ticket stubs one last glance; I reach one finger out to touch the torn rim of the baseball cap, but I stop myself. Then I replace the lid and slide the box back under the bed, pushing it as far in as it will go.

There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

I stand up and smooth my hands down my sweater, brushing some imagined dirt from the front of my overalls. Then I pull out my phone and open a new text message.

Dominic, I type. I have something I need to give you. Could you please tell me where you are so I can swing by?

It only takes me a few seconds to press Send, and my hands aren’t even shaking that much. Admittedly there is a full-on riot in my chest, and my stomach feels like Jell-O, but aside from that—I’m good.

Yep, I’m good. Great, even. And the way I stare at my phone screen is definitely very normal. I blink a normal amount and breathe a normal amount, and my pulse thumps very normally too.

When my eyes have begun to water and I pull in a gasping breath—for reasons unrelated to forgetting to breathe—I make myself put the phone back in my pocket. Then I stand up, shake out my pins-and-needles feet, and leave the bedroom. I wobble down the stairs just in time to see Alvina coming through the front door.

The burst of wind that accompanies her is a bit chilly.

“There you are,” she says, as though she’s been looking for me. Her lips are turned down into a frown, and her eyes are disapproving. “What on earth is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” I say with an unconvincing shrug. My voice remains normal, but a wave of faint anxiety rolls through me as I watch her, waiting.

She scoffs, and some of my anxiety fades when I see her expression. This type of scoff holds more tiredness than anger, which means I probably won’t receive anything nasty.

Her hair, I also notice vaguely, is still the exact same shape it was earlier. Not a strand has moved.

Someone should study that.

“Well,” she says now, “clearly something is wrong. You spit water all over Daryl. I was so embarrassed.”

“I was just surprised,” I say—which is true. “That’s all.”

A long, skeptical hum escapes her pursed lips as she steps elegantly out of her heels. “Don’t let it happen again, please. I’m not sure how I could explain something like that twice.” Then her eyes catch on the letter in my hand, and she nods. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I say casually, tucking the letter behind my back and out of view. “Just some stuff.”

“Mmm.” Then, looking supremely unconcerned, she adds, “Go touch up your makeup. It’s a bit smudged.”

I already cleaned up my mascara, although I don’t tell her that. What she’s noticing is the dark circles under my eyes, courtesy of poor sleep caused by her faint snores.

“Yep,” I say lightly, and only when she’s trailed into the living room do I descend the rest of the stairs, relief coursing through me.

That could have been significantly worse, and I can’t help the lightness that enters my step now that one hurdle is out of the way. My grip on my phone is steadier too when I pull it out to check if Dominic has responded.

He has, I see with a jolt. There are no words in his text; he’s only dropped me his location.

“Fine,” I say under my breath. “That works.” I tap the map in his message and pull it up, zooming in. He’s over on the outskirts of town, but it won’t take me long to get there.

Which is perfect—less time to second guess or overthink. Regardless of whatever happens while Dominic and I are in the same town, I need to give him this letter. Not for his sake but for mine.

So I hop in my car and turn around in the driveway before clanking out into the perfect suburban street, where my once-perfect suburban family lived a perfect suburban life. I don’t glance over my shoulder or even in the rearview mirror, because when trying to move forward, there’s no point in looking back. I just pat the envelope in the front seat with one nervous hand, like the letter is a living creature.

It feels alive.

The grid of suburban streets takes me into town and then spits me out of the other side, where I drive through increasingly rural patchwork parcels of land until my phone tells me I’m almost to my destination. I turn down a dirt lane, and several moments later, I find myself pulling up to a white, two-story farmhouse.

When I grab the envelope next to me, it feels heavier in my hand than it did before. Then I exit the car—cautiously, because I don’t actually know where I am, and despite Dominic’s claim that he’s here, I don’t see him. My shoulders settle with relief, though, when I hear the unmistakable sound of carpentry from the other side of the house; I head that direction, my shoes scuffing the dirt as I walk.

When I’ve rounded the house, I emerge into an open space. I spot Dominic immediately, but he’s not alone. Bennett Walker is here, too—who I know only slightly because he and Dom grew up together, but I think they really became friends after high school. The two of them are clearly hard at work; I move closer, taking advantage of the fact that they haven’t spotted me yet⁠—

And hello.

The sun glinting off one of Alvina’s diamond rings is nothing compared to the shirtless, glistening, sweaty torsos of the men in front of me. There are abs and golden skin and gritty smudges of dirt on display as Dominic and Ben move around the area. If this were a movie, they’d be walking in slow motion. Sexy music would be playing in the background.

Then we would all pause, rewind, and watch the scene again.

Ben is a good-looking guy, with dark hair and a bit of scruff, but it’s to Dominic that my eyes are pulled. He twirls a hammer in his hand as he tromps toward the porch of the house, his strides long and sure. He crouches down by a spot of latticework, the ground already littered with a few other tools, and then he gets to work.

“You,” I inform myself as I fan my face, “are a lecher.”

My voice is what finally alerts them to my presence. Dom’s hammer stops mid-swing, his head lifting, and Bennett turns to look at me.

Judging by Ben’s surprise, he didn’t know I was coming.

“Hi,” I say lamely, giving him a little wave.

He waves back, an awkward, belated motion. Then he turns to look at Dom, as do I.

Dominic does not wave. He does stand up, though, which is something. His body unfolds slowly, and he tosses the hammer to the ground, wiping his forehead and adjusting a necklace I hadn’t noticed before. He puts his hands on his hips as I approach.

Pinnacle of feminine virtue that I am, I do not notice his low-slung jeans or the muscular planes of his chest or the tiny trickle of sweat that’s trailing over his collarbone.

I might scowl a little when I see the look of smug amusement on his face.

“I wasn’t staring,” I say quickly.

But Dom’s lips hook into a skeptical smirk even as he shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”

My fingers clench more tightly around the letter, which at this point probably has a sweaty handprint on it. I force myself to close the distance between us until I’ve reached him, and then I hold the letter out.

His smirk fades, and because he’s shirtless, I can see his muscles tense. “What’s this?” he says, his eyes dropping to the envelope.

I swallow and try to get my hand to stop shaking. It does not work.

“It’s a letter.”

He gives me a slow nod, his brows lifting. “I can see that. I mean, what’s in it?”

My heart. My regret.

“Just—some things,” I say instead. “That would be good to get out of the way if we’re living in the same town.” I pause. “Is this your house?”

“No.” A beat of silence, and then Dom goes on, “I moved into a place over off of First.”

I nod. Then I wave the letter more insistently at him, because if he doesn’t accept this today, I’ll probably never have the courage to offer it again. “Here,” I say.

Dominic’s eyes have always been the most expressive part of him. They grow guarded now, dropping back to letter and examining it like it’s poison. Then, slowly, his gaze still inscrutable, he reaches out and takes it.

Every single part of my body deflates with relief, but also with anxiety and fear and something deeper and more painful, too. I return his nod and shove my hands in my jacket pockets so he won’t see them trembling. Then I force myself to turn around and walk away, back across the dirt. I give Ben a bob of my head as I go, further, further, desperately seeking the peace I’ll find when I round the corner and out of Dominic’s sight.

And I don’t know what makes me do it. Just as I’m about to pass out of view, I find myself looking back at him—like I’ve always done.

I startle to see him watching me still, the letter clenched in his fist, his lips parted like he might say something.

But he doesn’t.

I scramble forward the last few steps, rounding the corner of the house and slumping against the side as soon as I’m out of sight. My heart pounds behind my ribs, too large and too fast, even when I take steadying breaths. There’s once again something large and heavy sitting on my chest⁠—

“So…Reese is back.”

I freeze at Bennett’s words, quiet now that I’ve rounded the corner but still audible. I lean sideways and strain to listen.

There’s no response from Dom, though, and I deflate a little—until Ben speaks again, his voice reluctant.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

The aggressive sound of a hammer makes me jump, but I grow still again when Dominic speaks.

“Sure,” he says. His voice is light, but there’s a thread of tension underneath. “We can talk about Reese, just as soon as we talk about Maven⁠—”

“No thanks.”

“That’s what I thought,” Dominic mutters. The two of them lapse into silence once more, save for the resumed sounds of construction work.

A second later, a question in Bennett’s raised voice filters to me, barely audible above Dom’s hammering:

“Go easy on my porch, would you?”

But if anything, the noise only intensifies.

“Looking good, guys.” I smile and wipe my dirt-specked hands on my jeans as I survey the patch of pumpkins in front of me, my heart lifting at the sea of deep oranges and yellows and greens. “Everyone is going to love you.”

“Talking to the pumpkins?”

It’s the voice of Joe Bugelbach—Farmer Joe, he likes to be called—the owner of the pumpkin patch and the one who hired me to help manage this year. I turn to see him shuffling toward me, dressed in his usual flannel and jeans, his weathered skin hidden from the midday sun in the shadow of a large straw hat. His gait has grown more unsteady over the years, but so far nothing has been able to wipe away the good-natured smile that resides between his fluffy white mustache and matching beard.

“I like to talk to them,” I admit. “We open tomorrow, and I think I’d be nervous if I were waiting for someone to choose me. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Not at all,” Joe says with a wheezing laugh. He comes to a stop next to me, looking at the pumpkins with his hands on his hips. “I do the same. ‘Course, I’m their father, so they need to hear from me.”

I smile at this. Joe’s a little odd, but I like that about him.

“We’ve got Juliet Monroe coming tomorrow morning to pick up a load of pumpkins for next week’s festival,” Joe goes on, rubbing his chin now. “Those are yonder.” He gestures further down the farm, and I nod.

A crisp breeze pushes some of my hair into my face, and I tuck it back in place before inhaling deeply. Next to me, Joe does the same, an exaggerated motion that he lets out with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Smell that?” he says to me. Then he winks. “That’s the smell of October, Miss Berkeley. She’s right around the corner, isn’t she? I think we’re all ready for her.” He gestures to the pumpkins.

And I think he’s right. Everything is looking good.

Bugelbach’s is more than a pumpkin farm; it’s a quintessential fall experience. The pumpkins are stocked in large patches on the straw-covered ground with cleared pathways running throughout like a grid. On the other side of the farm are the giant slides—two enormous black drainage pipes, each one easily large enough to fit a seated adult. We have a pumpkin catapult over in the field itself. There are hay bales built into a mountain with a winding trail up the side, and we’ll open the corn dog stand by the entrance for anyone who gets hungry while they’re here.

My stomach rumbles at this thought. I shield my eyes against the sun that beats down on me, looking in the direction of the food stand, but of course it’s empty.

I need some lunch, especially since I didn’t eat breakfast.

I was too nervous and anxious this morning, my stomach rolling with anticipation. Surely Dominic has read the letter by now, right? Is he going to say anything? He doesn’t have to, I guess—it might even be better that way. But that didn’t stop me from checking my phone every five minutes until finally I stuffed it in my pocket and forced myself to think about something else.

“Well, Joe,” I say, turning to him. “I think I’m going to head out, if you’re good here?”

“All’s well, Miss Berkeley,” he says, waving one hand at me. “You go on home and do whatever you youngsters do these days.”

The batch of creative briefs I need to finish for work before midnight crosses my mind. “We work, and we visit the bakery and treat ourselves to something sweet,” I inform him.

His eyes light up at this. “Keller’s?” he says. “Try one of the maple bars.”

“Will do,” I say, as though I didn’t grow up eating as many maple bars as I could get my hands on. I give Joe a wave and then start back toward the entrance.

My feet rustle over the straw-strewn paths as I walk, the autumn breeze playing with my hair once more. I crane my neck and look around one last time before I go, because this place is a sight I’ll never tire of—the golds and oranges and browns, the wide sky, the red barn ticket booth. I smile fondly as I pass the patch of gourds, too.

Because while I do love the pumpkins, my favorites are the other gourds—twisting and asymmetrical and wonky. There’s something endearing about how splotchy and warty they are, the ugly ducklings to the classical beauty of the bold, pumpkin orange.

When I get to my car, I knock my feet against the edge a few times to get rid of any extra dirt and mud; then I hop in and lean back, closing my eyes and soaking up the heat. I don’t move until my phone buzzes.

Liv

Have you heard anything from Dominic yet?

Ari

Oh, seconded! Has he said anything?

ME

Ari, aren’t you teaching right now??

Ari

Eh, the class is taking a test

Answer the question!

Has Dominic said anything about the letter?

I chew on my lip as my mind is forced back to Dominic and the letter. I told Liv and Ari last night that my mother is dating Dom’s dad, and they were as shocked as I was. I told them about the letter, too, but I still don’t have any more updates for them.

Me

Nothing yet, and I’m trying not to think about it

What about you guys? Ari, how’s your sister’s wedding stuff going?

Ari

Ask me about something else. Landrie’s wedding is all anyone talks to me about these days.

Me

I’m on it. New question incoming: How is your fake boyfriend??

Ari

We’re actually going to a football game together tonight.

Which is so weird.

Liv

I’ll bet it’s hard to have to hang out with a gorgeous, flirty guy all the time!

Me

Says the woman with a smoking hot 24/7 bodyguard

Liv

He does roll his eyes in this very sexy way whenever I speak to him.

I laugh, but it’s not really funny that Liv has a bodyguard. She’s been having trouble with some psycho who won’t leave her alone, and we’re all a little worried. We try to keep the atmosphere lighthearted unless Liv shows signs of wanting to talk.

I sigh and set my phone on the console. My stomach is protesting loudly again, so I start the car and get moving.

Keller’s Bakehouse isn’t too far of a drive. It’s located on Main, right next to my family’s hardware store. I’ve spent a lot of time there, and I’d be real happy to spend some more. Sadie Stevenson is the assistant baker, and it’s always fun to see her, too; I’m a year or two older, but we’ve always gotten along well, and she makes the most incredible maple bars in this corner of the country.

I can’t say no to a maple bar. So even though what my body really needs is protein and some vegetables, I head straight to the bakery to fill it up with bread and sugar instead.

I park in one of the poorly-thought-out street spots, the kind that are impossible to pull out of, and get out of the car. When I glance over at the hardware shop and spot Nathan through the window, I mouth You are dead to me. He winces—as he should—since he ditched me yesterday for the meeting of Alvina’s new boyfriend….

…Which turned into the re-meeting of my old boyfriend, which has turned into a massive stomachache of anxious, queasy proportions.

I shoot one last glare at Nate before I cross the sidewalk and pull open the door of Keller’s. A bell jingles overhead as I enter, a cheerful sound that pairs perfectly with the smell of bread, maple, and baked goods of all kinds.

A smile flutters to my lips, and I sigh as I approach the counter. “Two maple bars, please,” I tell the woman at the cash register—Morgan Keller, I believe, Mrs. Keller’s daughter. Then, when I glance around and spot two old ladies sitting at a corner table, I amend my order: “Actually, let’s do three.”

Morgan nods, and a few seconds later, a head pops out from the back.

It’s Sadie, a cheerful smile on her face, a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Hi!” she says. “I thought I heard you come in. Grabbing some donuts?”

Morgan hands me a paper bag, which I hold up to show Sadie.

“Guilty,” I say, and Sadie grins.

“Get in as many as possible before you leave town again,” she says, her red ponytail swinging behind her as she continues to lean out. “Or even better, just stay here!”

“Oof.” The sound pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, and Sadie wrinkles her freckled nose.

“Autumn Ridge forever isn’t for you?” she says, looking sympathetic.

“No, it’s not that,” I say quickly. “I love Autumn Ridge. I’m just—” But I break off, because it’s hard to accurately describe the experience 0f sharing a room with Alvina. “I have no problem with Autumn Ridge,” I say instead. “I’m just a bit cramped in my current housing situation. But it’s fine!”

“I totally get that,” Sadie says with a nod. She thinks for a second, tilting her head, and then she goes on, “You know, I’m pretty sure Rosie Harper has been doing a lot of work on her inn recently. If you’re desperate for some space of your own, you could talk to her.”

Rosie Harper—Dom’s twin sister. I haven’t run into her yet since being back, but she’d probably be happier to see me than Dominic was.

Then again, it’s a low bar.

“I’ll check it out,” I tell Sadie. It’s probably not true, but I don’t feel like getting into all the details; I’m here to buy donuts, and Sadie is busy anyway. So we wave goodbye to each other, and then she pops into the back again.

Rather than sitting at one of the empty tables, I grab a plastic knife and head to the table in the corner, where I settle across from the old ladies I saw a minute ago.

“Edna,” I say, nodding to the one on the left—Edna Gilbert. Then I smile at the one on the right, Edna Bloomberg. “And Edna.”

The Ednas are Autumn Ridge’s resident grapevine. Well into their wrinkled years, sporting the same name and the same penchant for gossip, they’re the perfect people to talk to if you want information.

You just have to be able to weed out what’s true and what’s…less true.

Both of them return my greeting nod. “Reese,” they say in rickety voices.

“I brought you ladies a donut,” I say, because one does not approach the altar of information-seeking without a proper offering. So I pull out one of my three maple bars and cut it neatly down the middle.

“Ooh,” Edna Gilbert says, watching the donut halves with sparkling eyes as I pass them across the table. She’s the more petite of the two, with fluffy, white-blonde hair. “Don’t mind if we do.”

“Enjoy,” I say, gesturing. “And while you’re eating, I’d love to hear the latest about our dear town.” I lean closer. “It somehow escaped me that my mother has a new beau”—I only say this because I’m absolutely positive the Ednas already know—“so I’d like to hear what else I’m missing out on.”

Edna Bloomberg hums enthusiastically, raising her eyebrows at Edna Gilbert as they munch. When they’re done chewing, they lean forward too.

“Well, they met at church,” Edna on the left says. “And the family of one Daryl Harper isn’t happy with the arrangement.”

Edna on the right nods with vigor. Her voice lowers conspiratorially as she adds, “Consensus seems to be that Mr. Harper has been feeling especially lonely as of late, what with the time of year”—she waves her hand at the window, through which the brilliantly colored trees lining Main are visible—“and the years getting on.”

“Ah,” I say slowly, leaning back in my chair and thinking. It’s been ten years since Dominic’s mom passed, and it was during the fall sometime. There were leaves on the ground at her funeral, half the town crammed into the tiny cemetery behind the church on Main.

I feel an unexpected twinge of pity at this thought, for Daryl and for the rest of them. A new woman has entered their lives, brash and rushed and overwhelming, and that woman turns out to be Alvina.

It’s sadder than I thought, one more knot in the tangled feelings that are my relationship with my mother.

“Anything else?” I say.

“Well,” Edna on the left says as she brushes the crumbs from her mouth. “Things appear to be moving quickly. Daryl is an upright man, you know. Values propriety and whatnot. But that mother of yours”—I actually appreciate that she doesn’t look apologetic—“she’s a bit of an undertow.”

“Quicksand,” the other Edna says with a nod.

I hum, a grim sound, but before I’ve decided if I want to ask further questions, they add some more.

“Now you know who else has been flirting up a storm lately?” Edna Bloomberg says. “The mayor.” She nudges Edna Gilbert and wiggles her dark eyebrows.

I blink at them. “Mayor Monroe?”

“Of course,” Edna Gilbert says, adjusting her glasses as they slip down her nose. “He’s the only mayor we’ve got, isn’t he?”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on him,” Edna Bloomberg says. “Because he’s a real catch, and he’s finally got some ladies surrounding him.”

Edna Gilbert nods. “There’s a nice nurse he always chats with⁠—”

“And Lisa, his secretary—lots of late nights, and she’s divorced⁠—”

“And he buys lots of candles from Genevieve at the candle shop, too,” Edna finishes, her voice authoritative. “No one needs so many candles.”

“Maybe he just likes candles,” I say.

The Ednas look less than impressed at my suggestion. “Well, thank you ladies,” I say with a sigh. “This has been very illuminating.”

Sad, but illuminating.

“Thank you for the donut, dear. We’re always happy to share what we know.”

“I know,” I say, and I can’t help my little smile at this understatement. Then, with a wave, I head out of the bakery. The trees lining Main are bright with reds and oranges and golds, but I don’t stop to admire the colors; I hook a right, down the little alley, and around to the back of the strip of shops. The rear door to my family’s shop is unlocked, so I let myself in.

I emerge in the cluttered, dusty storeroom. It smells like rubber and metal here, a scent so familiar that I’m reminded of home.

Not the home of my house, but the home of my heart. The loving family, the afternoons helping here after school—a past that glows in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if my glasses have always been rose-tinted, and I just never knew.

I startle out of my thoughts when the door to the main shop opens and Nathan hurries in.

“Whoa,” he says, jumping as much as I do. “Geez, Reese. Give me some warning.” He frowns and begins digging through a box on the shelf nearest the door, speaking over his shoulder. “Why are you here?”

The words that come out of my mouth are not the words I planned to say. “Do you think Alvina and Dad had a good marriage?”

Nathan’s hands freeze, probably taken aback by my question. “Where did that come from?” he says a second later, and he begins digging again.

“I don’t know,” I say, settling on a sturdy box and opening the bag of donuts. The words used by the Ednas continue to whirl too—undertow. Quicksand. Things that suck you in and don’t let you escape. “I see her now, and it’s hard not to—” I swallow and push the words out. “It’s hard not to wonder.”

Nathan sighs, turning away from the box he’s digging through and scrubbing his hand over his short, dark hair. “I don’t know. I don’t really think about it.”

“I know.”

“But I do think she was different when Dad was around.” He strolls toward me, weaving through the boxes and pointing at the maple bar I’ve just started eating.

By “started eating,” I mean I’m shoving it in my mouth with almost indecent fervor.

“Do I get one of those?” he says, his serious expression lifting into something more playful.

“No,” I say with a sniff. “You’re dead to me. Remember?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. But also”—I shift my eyes away from his and study my donut in great detail—“someone promised to come help me with the boxes, and she didn’t do that, did she?”

“She was very busy and emotionally distraught.”

Nathan snorts and picks up the paper bag next to me, peering inside. “Distraught?”

I don’t answer him, because he doesn’t know that Dominic and I ever dated. Still…

“It’s Daryl Harper,” I say. “If you were wondering. The man.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” Nathan says. He pulls the extra maple bar out of the bag and waves it at me. “Was this for me?”

“Yes,” I admit with a sigh. “It was for you.”

“Awesome. Thanks.” He takes an enormous bite and then frowns at me. “Daryl Harper, huh?” he says around his mouth full of donut.

I nod dully. “Daryl Harper. Highly unexpected choice.”

He gives a grim hum instead of speaking, thank goodness, because watching someone chew your favorite pastry with their mouth open is enough to turn you off of it for a while.

Nathan shoves another bite of donut into his mouth, having eaten a large amount impossibly quickly, and then thumbs over his shoulder to the door.

“Go on,” I say, recognizing his nonverbal goodbye. “I’ll hang out for a bit longer and then head home.”

He nods, already on his way back to the box on the shelf by the door. He digs through it for several more seconds, finds whatever he was looking for, and then goes back out to the front of the store.

I finish my donut in a few more bites and then leave like I said I would. The rest of my Friday is spent at Nathan’s house, finishing my remaining work online and strategically avoiding Alvina. When she goes to bed at eight, I kill time by reading Agatha Christie for an hour before going up to bed myself, lest our bedtimes overlap and I have to look at another negligee or—heaven forbid—hear about Daryl.

The sleep I fall into is fitful, but I’m chased by no dreams, good or bad.

I’ll take it.

I wake up not to a sound but to a smell.

It takes a moment for me to place the scent, but when I hear a little spritzing noise, it clicks: perfume. I’m hearing and smelling Alvina’s perfume.

Is it morning already?

But no—it’s totally dark outside. Yet my mother moves around our shared room, slow and quiet, so much that I barely hear her breathing.

What the heck is going on?

Is she…

Sneaking out?

Like a teenager?

I remain still, my eyes closed as I listen to her gentle footsteps—which is saying something, by the way, because Alvina is never gentle. The floor squeaks in a few places as she exits the room and goes out into the hall; a few seconds later I hear the faint creak of the top stair.

Finally safe from being seen awake, I sit up and check the time on my phone—just past eleven. “Why would you even go to bed in the first place?” I say to myself, bewildered. “Wouldn’t you just stay up until you leave?”

I hurry out from under the covers and cross to the window, wrinkling my nose at the perfume that still lingers in the air. Then I peek out between the blinds. Sure enough, a moment later my mother’s car pulls out into the street and drives off into the night.

A horrible suspicion tickles my mind, but I push it away.

Surely not. Right?

My mother is not sneaking out of her bedroom late at night to visit her boyfriend. It makes no sense. She doesn’t have a curfew. She can do what she wants, when she wants.

She frequently does, in fact.

But once the idea has planted itself, it grows—tentacles that snarl and tangle around everything they touch until I can practically see it: Alvina Berkeley in high heels, climbing up an imaginary trellis by the light of the moon and slipping into the bedroom of Daryl Harper.

“No,” I breathe. “She wouldn’t.”

But then again…wouldn’t she? Can I really put anything past Alvina Berkeley?

I guess…I could check.

I know where Dominic used to live—where Daryl still lives. It would be as simple as driving by to see if my mother’s car is in the driveway.

No one would ever know.

It’s this thought that convinces me. “No one would ever know,” I repeat to myself with a nod. “Yes. Okay. Good.”

So out of the room I go, tiptoeing half the way down the hall before I realize I don’t actually need to sneak. Still, my feet are light as I slip down the stairs and step into the closest pair of shoes I can find—fuzzy boots. Then I grab my keys from the hook by the door and hurry out.

My thin, silky pajamas do very little to block the chilly wind, but I’m in the car in no time, puffing warm breath into my cupped hands as the heat turns on. I glance down at my tropical-printed pants and matching top, followed by the boots. It’s not great, as far as outfits go.

No one will ever know.

I nod again, more vigorously now. No one will ever know, and I’m probably wrong anyway. My hands do shake a bit as I start the car, but it’s just from the cold. I pull smoothly out of the driveway, around to the front of the house and then to the street, where I start for Daryl Harper’s home.

The drive only takes a few minutes, but my hands continue to shake with the cold, and my stomach rolls uncomfortably too, making the trip seem longer than it actually is. By the time I’ve reached Daryl’s street, my heart is pounding in my throat, and I actually feel ill.

That feeling intensifies when I come to Daryl’s house; I slow down and try to look casual as I inch by, my eyes scouring the scene for my mother’s car.

And my thrumming heart drops all the way into the pit of my stomach when I spot it: a familiar silver sedan in the driveway, one that stops my breath and sends another quiver of queasiness through me.

That is Alvina’s car. Alvina Berkeley owns that car. And she has parked it in her boyfriend’s driveway in the middle of the night.

I’ve pulled past Daryl’s house before I even realize it, coming to a stop in front of the neighbor’s and killing the engine. I look again at my absurd outfit, take a deep breath, and then get out of the car.

“No one will ever know,” I exhale as I scurry back up the sidewalk to Daryl’s, crossing into the grass and around the side of the house. There are several rectangles of light shining from within, open windows I can peek through—it’s a creepy thing to do, but I’m desperate. My feet are light, my steps hurried, and the leaves rustling in the breeze cover the remaining sounds of my traipsing through grass and mulch and flowerbeds.

I tiptoe through a patch of beauty bark and crouch down, leaning over just enough to get a look at what’s happening inside, but all I see is a dining room. So I move on to the next window, rounding the bushes as I crouch low.

I am stealth. I am secrecy itself⁠—

“Ow,” I mutter, jumping and startling as a thorn snags at my leg through my pajama pants. “Ouch—” But I break off when I realize I’m being too loud and standing too tall; I lean down once more, making myself small as I approach the second window.

“Bingo,” I breathe, although I’m not particularly happy to be looking into Daryl Harper’s well-lit living room. But there’s a squashy couch in there, and a television—it’s a prime location for a dating couple.

I don’t want to see…well, anything. But I need to know what I’m dealing with here. So I settle carefully in the bushes, my feet crunching in the dirt and dead leaves, and resign myself to wait.

I’ll see whatever there is to see, and then I’ll get out of here and go home. By the time Alvina comes back—I refuse to entertain the possibility that she’ll stay overnight—I’ll be asleep, and she’ll be none the wiser.

No one will ever know.

Several minutes tick by, then several more. My feet grow numb, so I shift my weight back and forth before continuing my vigil. I’m growing chillier and chillier, my body shaking, too, but I stay⁠—

“Well, well, well.”

I freeze at the sound of Dom’s voice, like one of those prairie dogs that pokes up out of its hole. I don’t know what I’m thinking—that I’ll somehow turn invisible? That he won’t see me if I stay still enough?

It’s ridiculous, of course. He sees me fine. He even continues speaking, using that same dry, faintly amused voice:

“Fancy seeing a girl like you in a place like this.”

And just like that, I’m taken back to a distant afternoon when he spoke the exact same words to me—a long, long time ago.

SIX YEARS AGO || SEPTEMBER

“Fancy seeing a girl like you in a place like this.”

My long, drawn-out sigh sends a few strands of my dark hair flying as I look up at Dominic. He’s caught me on the way out of engineering, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, his arms folded, his black backpack on the floor. There’s no baseball hat, sadly, but he makes a plaid jacket look incredible.

“I didn’t think you were here today,” I say with a nod to the auditorium doors I’ve just exited.

He grabs his bag and swings it carelessly over his shoulder before falling into stride with me. “Sometimes I stick around and do homework outside,” he says. “I don’t have to come every class.”

“Lucky,” I mutter.

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “It’s not going so hot, huh?”

I swing my narrowed eyes up to him, but all I’m feeling is sheepishness. “Like you don’t already know.”

His lips twitch, his eyes twinkling as he shrugs. “I’ve heard admitting you have a problem is the first step to improvement. I’m helping you on your journey.”

“My journey toward a good grade?” I say as I try not to laugh.

He nods sagely.

“What’s the second step?”

“Attending the study sessions would be a good start.”

He’s probably right.

We’re only two weeks into the semester, but already a lot of this classwork is over my head. My roommates—social butterflies who want to do ALL the things in ALL the places—have dragged me all over campus and town in the name of “distraction” and “relaxation.”

To be fair, I really do like them. I’ve gotten to know them better over the last couple weeks, and even though they were friends long before they ever met me, they still try to include me whenever they go do something. They’re not bad to live with, either. 

I’m trying to do my part and not be a recluse. If they extend a hand of fellowship, I should accept and be grateful. I have thus attended one football game, one afternoon of manicures, and two roommate lunches.

The afternoon of manicures overlapped with one of the optional study sessions put on by the TAs, and I didn’t regret missing it at the time, but I’m regretting it now.

“I have learned my lesson,” I say as we reach the doors; Dominic pushes one open and holds it for me. I pass through, and then he follows.

“Have you?” he says with a look of good-natured skepticism. “Because you’ve missed both of the study meetings.”

I shuffle my feet as we walk, not sure what to say. People don’t usually understand about my mother. They think she’s weird or high-maintenance or dramatic. And she is all of those things.

But she’s also still my mother.

“My mom is getting a divorce,” I finally settle on, and the words sound strange coming out of my mouth. The woman who gave birth to me is always called Alvina or my mother—I haven’t called her Mom since I was in grade school, even when talking to other people. “She’s been going through a bit of a rough time, so I’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

To be clear: The support Alvina needs and the support she thinks she needs are not the same. What Alvina needs is a therapist, in my humble opinion. Instead she’s divorcing from the man she married after my dad died—in my head I’ve been calling him the Post-Dad Husband—and going on a lot of shopping sprees, many of which she requires my presence for. 

Alvina likes having someone to make her feel important, and that someone is often me.

Dad anchored her. He gave her someplace to return to any time she wandered off, physically or emotionally. He fell in love with her when they were young, when she was steadier and less volatile. His love remained even as they grew and changed.

Dominic hums in understanding but doesn’t say anything else as we walk. The once-vibrant leaves that crunched on the ground are now dull and slicked to the pavement from this morning’s rain, the scent of which still lingers heavy in the air.

I should have worn a raincoat, not just a sweater. The autumn sky up there looks awfully gloomy.

“Where are you headed?” I say as we meander down the path that cuts across the campus’s main courtyard and leads to the student center.

“Library,” he says, nodding to the large building next to the student center. “You could come, if you wanted.” A smile flickers over his face. “You got the study packet from Sallow, don’t you? I can answer any questions you have about the stuff in there.”

It’s an appealing offer, for multiple reasons, but…

“I have to work,” I say with a sigh.

“Oh,” he says, looking surprised as he glances over at me. “Where do you work?”

“Online. For a company called Final Fiction,” I say. “They primarily do editing, except it’s not just for fiction, and it’s not all editing.”

“So what do you do, then?” he says, and he sounds genuinely curious.

“I do the very thrilling, exciting work of compiling creative briefs for online articles about science and history,” I say. “Basically I find internal and external links and format headings and stuff. Provide related search terms. I do batches of those, and I have about half of my current batch due end of day.” Then, biting my lip, I add, “If the offer still stands, I could use the help for engineering, though. Do you go to the library every day?”

“Most days, yeah,” he says, grimacing. “And somehow it still doesn’t feel like enough.” Then he sighs, the frown lines easing from his brow. “Want to drop by tomorrow? I study on the third floor, over in the corner with the cubbies.”

Even though I’m struggling in engineering and working on it is frustrating, a few bubbles of excitement rise in my chest at the thought of studying with Dominic.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there—” But I break off as a few fat droplets of rain plunk down, on my cheek and my nose and then everywhere.

I look around us. The rest of the students on campus seem to have gotten the memo I missed, because they’re pulling up their hoods and digging umbrellas out of their bags. When I turn back to Dominic, I’m surprised to find him doing the same; he’s unzipping his backpack, and after peering inside he emerges with his blue baseball hat.

Then, without asking, without hesitation, he plops the hat right on my head.

“Here,” he says, even as he’s pulling off his plaid jacket. There’s a hoodie underneath, and he tugs the hood up over his head, holding the jacket toward me. “Stay warm. You need to be healthy to study if you want to get your grades up.”

“I know,” I say with a miserable groan.

He nudges the plaid jacket at me again, looking totally at ease, like he gives people his clothes all the time. I take it grudgingly.

“Do you have anything else for yourself?” I say, but I’m already slipping my arms through the warm sleeves.

“Nah,” he says, and a hint of humor flickers in his eyes. “But you can bring me soup if I get sick.”

“All I can make is chicken salad. I’m a horrible cook.”

“I broke my nose twice in high school. I’m a horrible taster.” He pauses. “But no chicken salad soup, please.”

I stare at him, at the lopsided smile tugging over his lips as he looks at me.

“You’re drowning in that,” he says, his eyes trained on the jacket. “But it will keep you warm.”

He’s right; it’s way too big, which is perfect for me to burrow in and get cozy.

He gestures to the zipper of the jacket as he slings his bag over his shoulder once more. “Zip up,” he says, walking backward now. “I need to get going, but I’ll see you tomorrow at the library?”

All I can do is nod. Words seem to have escaped my grasp.

He nods too. “Don’t skip studying this time, Berkeley.” Then after a second’s pause, he grins, a rare expression that causes my heart to stutter suspiciously. “My apologies. Not Berkeley—Reese.” He turns on his heel, waving over his shoulder and striding off toward the library, head down against the rain.

And just like that, my silly high school crush returns.

I find Dominic exactly where he said I would—on the third floor of the library, in the corner lined with cubicles.

He’s not actually in a cubicle, though. He’s seated at a table, and he doesn’t notice me approaching at first, for which I’m grateful. It gives me time to stare at him like a weirdo. The hat he so often wears is in my backpack since he let me wear it the other day, but his light brown hair is still a bit messy. His shoulders are hunched as he looks down at the notebook on the table in front of him, and he absentmindedly taps a pen against his cheek as he focuses.

“Hi,” I say when I’ve reached the table.

He startles, looking up at me, but his attention catches on my shirt, like mine does on his.

They’re the exact same, each a burnt orange color with the slogan from the Autumn Ridge Fall Festival a few years ago: Come for the festival, stay for the people.

I begin to laugh as something warm rises in my chest, a nonsensical feeling that nonetheless continues to grow. “It looks better on you,” I say.

His grin matches mine as his eyes dart over me. “I don’t know about that.”

My smile dies as I blink in surprise, but Dominic doesn’t elaborate. He just ducks his head, runs one hand over his hair, and takes a deep breath. Then, sitting up straighter and adopting a more businesslike air, he asks, “Did you bring your homework?”

I settle myself in the wooden chair across from him, trying to convince my cheeks to stop burning.

Unfortunately, I don’t think it works that way.

“I didn’t only bring homework,” I say. “I brought two textbooks, my laptop, my three-subject notebook, and my file folder.”

“A prepared woman.”

“A desperate woman,” I correct. “Who has a partial scholarship to maintain.”

His smile grows a bit. “Scholarship, huh?”

“Partial scholarship, GPA-dependent.”

“All right, desperate woman,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the chair I’m sitting in. “If you can, that is.”

He’s not wrong. I’m half convinced these seats are made to be uncomfortable so that people don’t fall asleep. 

I nod. “I might actually start with my American history stuff first, if that’s okay?”

“Don’t ask me,” he says, looking faintly surprised. “You can do whatever you want.”

And I can feel heat creeping further up my neck and into my cheeks at this, because he’s right. Obviously he’s right. I don’t need to ask permission.

Somehow I find myself asking anyway, all the time, about things I don’t even need permission for. 

“I’ll let you know when I get to the study packet?” I say after clearing my throat.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I pull my hair into a quick braid—and by quick I mean messy—to keep it out of my face. Then I pull all my books and paper out of my bag. The silence is strangely comfortable as we work, broken only by distant sounds or the scratching of pencils on paper or the click of computer keys. 

My keys click significantly louder than his, because Roxanne the Laptop has been my companion for more years than is recommended. She works hard, but she’s on her last legs, huffing and puffing and getting much warmer than she should. I give her encouraging pats and make sure to keep open only the programs I need at any time, but I’m not sure it helps.

When I feel the call of nature not long after we settle, I save everything and close the laptop so I can use the restroom. Just to give Roxanne a bit of a break—she’s earned it.

But when I return, she’s open again, a Word document pulled up. I blink at it, confused, and then sit down, peering closer.

There are only four words typed on that blank page: YOU CAN DO IT!

Judging by Dominic’s subtle smile when I look up at him, it’s his doing. Something warm blossoms in my chest as my lips twitch into their own smile. I shake my head, minimize the document, and then get back to work.

We’ve been sitting in the quiet for maybe fifteen minutes when Dominic’s phone vibrates, a low buzz against the tabletop. He picks it up, looking tired as he sees the screen, and then answers. Even though we’re not in the quiet section of the library, there’s little enough noise that he keeps his voice low.

“Hey,” he says.

I can’t hear the answering words coming down the line, and it’s none of my business anyway, but it’s a deep male voice—his dad, maybe.

“Yeah,” Dom says. “I’m at the library.” He glances up and gives me a brief smile, mouthing Sorry.

I wave his apology away and turn my eyes back to the notebook in front of me. Even though I’m no longer looking directly at him, however, I can still see the way he slumps back in his chair, a long sigh issuing from his lips.

“It’s going fine,” he says, and after a quick pause, he goes on, “Yes.” His words are more insistent now. “It really is.”

My hand finds my necklace absently—a delicate feather charm on a chain my dad gave me when I turned sixteen—and my history notes swim blindly before my eyes as I listen to the tired note that rises in Dom’s voice when he speaks again. “I know. I will,” he says. And then, a second later, “Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

Only when he sets the phone back down on the table do I look back up at him. His eyes shutter closed for the tiniest second, but then he squares his shoulders and sit back up.

“Your dad?” I say.

“Yes,” he says, and although his voice is normal enough, his gaze is dull. “He’s very invested in my schooling.”

I hesitate and then ask the question flitting through my mind. “And your mom passed…four years ago? Five?”

“About four, yeah,” he says with a rough exhale. “She had a stroke, and then a while later she had another.”

I remember. Everyone knew, just like they knew when my dad died—the way everyone knows everything in Autumn Ridge. 

But I remember it for a different reason, a memory that washes over me and plays like a movie in my mind.

I was a year or two into high school, and Dominic was about to graduate. That weekend I saw him when I left my dad’s store through the back door, rounding the corner to the alley between our place and Keller’s Bakehouse.

He was crouched in the narrow alleyway next to a bicycle, apparently trying to fix the chain. His hands were stiff and jerky, movements unlike what I’d seen from him before, and his body looked tired in a way I still can’t describe. Weak, maybe, like he was having trouble holding himself up. Like he was about to melt into the pavement under his feet.

I watched as he fumbled with the bike chain for a second and then let it fall, slamming one hand against the wheel of the bike. He swiped angrily at his eyes before his head dropped, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.

He stayed that way for a minute or two, and even though I knew I shouldn’t be watching him, I didn’t move from where I peeked around the corner. I didn’t realize until later that I was gripping the brick so hard I scratched myself. But there was something so devastating, so heartbreaking, about seeing him like that. He wiped his eyes again a moment later before standing up, his body unfurling, and then he strode away, out of the narrow alley, leaving his bike behind.

It was raw, broken sorrow. The kind that comes when loss is cruel and unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” I say now, pushing the past away so I can focus on the Dominic that’s in front of me in the present. A second later, though, my body sags as I shake my head. “No. That was a stupid thing to say. People have told me sorry a million times, and it’s never once made me feel better.”

He nods. “It hasn’t helped me either,” he says. Then he glances up at me, his eyes hesitant. “But it is nice knowing someone else gets it.”

“I do,” I say, and the words are softer than I intend them to be. More gentle, more intimate.

For a second, our eyes hold, something I can’t name passing between us. Relief, maybe, or the reassurance that none of us are ever really alone, no matter how isolated our experiences make us feel.

And that moment starts out stagnant, simple eye contact, an exchange of understanding. There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about it. I make eye contact with lots of people.

But...this is different. That stretch of silence quickly grows as the room around us seems to fade, blurry at the edges. Something almost tangible stirs until my head is strangely light. His eyes are so green⁠—

His phone buzzes, and I startle; so does he, and I wonder if his pulse is doing weird things like mine is. 

Something to do. I need something to do, or something to say.

The hat!

“So.” I clear my throat, trying to sound as normal as possible, like I didn’t just get sucked into soul-deep eye contact. I lean sideways and dig in my backpack, pulling out the blue hat he placed on my head when it started raining yesterday. “Unrelated, but I think I broke your hat.”

Dominic’s head whips up from checking his phone, and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks are a little pink too. When his gaze drops to the hat I’m now holding out over the table, however, his brows jump in surprise.

I don’t blame him. It’s a sad sight, and my still-flustered heart calms down as we both stare at the hat.

The bill is warped lopsidedly, and one corner is now frayed. The overall shape is wonky, too.

“You think you broke it?” he says, and when I finally work up the nerve to look at him, I’m surprised to see his lips twitching, the clouds vanishing from his eyes. “I think you might be right.”

He reaches out and takes the hat, his gaze full of humor. “What happened?”

I slump lower in my chair and cover my face with my hands as my cheeks burn. “I put it in the washer,” I more or less wail. “I’m so sorry. I like to wash peoples’ clothes before I return them⁠—”

But I break off when I hear laughter—easy, carefree laughter, deep and pleasant and the first of its kind I’ve heard from Dominic. I peek through my fingers to see a wide smile on his face, his shoulders relaxed, and I’ve never seen him so open before. Not when I would catch glimpses of him in the high school halls, not when I’ve peeked at him during class, not even when we got caught in the rain.

This must be what he’s like. What he’s really like, when he’s with people he loves and trusts.

And it’s a stupid thought, because he’s my TA. But we’re also becoming friends, aren’t we? Friends spend time together. So when the idea filters through my mind, I don’t push it away.

I wonder if I could make him laugh like that again.

And again.

And again.

“Fancy seeing a girl like you in a place like this.”

At the sound of Dominic’s dry voice behind me, I startle so violently that my forehead jerks forward and thumps against the glass of the window. When I lean back again, there’s a perfect grease spot illuminated with the light from inside, which has me questioning my skincare routine. But my facial cleansing habits can wait; right now I need to come up with a rapid lie for why I’m crouched in the bushes outside his dad’s house.

I claimed just yesterday that our parents weren’t serious; that their relationship would fizzle on its own. If Dominic finds out they’re here together this late at night, he’ll probably jump to conclusions—the same conclusions I’m jumping to, I admit, but if it turns out I was dead wrong, I’d rather not find out while he’s standing right here.

So as I turn to look at him, I grasp desperately for something else I could say, another reason I might be here.

The pickings are real slim.

“Hi,” I begin breathlessly, my feet grinding into the mulch. But I don’t get a chance to say anything else, because a thorny streak of pain finds my cheek as well as my scalp, a chunk of hair pulling across my face as it tangles in the bushes I’m crouched between.

So. That’s pleasant and great and not embarrassing.

My eyes find Dominic right as I’m spitting hair out of my mouth. His expression is disconcerted, his arms folded, his lips furled into a questioning frown as he watches me. Unfortunately he’s also tall, because he’s standing, looming, while I’m all the way down here in the flower bed like a very stupid gopher.

This is not the moment or the month or even the year to notice the backward baseball cap he’s wearing, so I do not. I ignore it completely. Don’t even give it an appreciative glance or wonder what the point of a backward cap in the dark could possibly be.

I just clear my throat and repeat myself, with much more dignity this time. Like this is exactly where I planned to be. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says slowly. I can’t fully see his expression as he takes a step forward, because some of my vision is obscured by the hair still tangled in the bush and pulled across my face. But I can hear everything I need to in his silence.

Out of courtesy, I give him three seconds. When he doesn’t offer to help, I speak—calmly. “Stop making that face and come help me, please.” My fingers are searching around in the snagged mess that is my tangled bush hair, but I’m making no progress.

Dominic sighs, and then he crouches down in front of me, pulling out his phone and turning on the light. I wince as it finds my eyes and lingers on my face for a moment, but then it swings away. Dom sighs again like I’m a major inconvenience before turning the light off.

“Wait,” I say quickly as he stands up again.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and then he walks away—disappears out of my sight, his footsteps rounding the corner of the house until all I hear is silence.

I swallow down my humiliation and ignore the pain in my feet, shifting my position as much as possible while blinking furiously. Dominic won’t leave me here, but I don’t know what he’s doing or how long it will take, and I think my face is bleeding.

My shoulders slump with relief when I hear his footsteps returning a moment later, my breath shuddering out of me. He reappears in my vision and crouches once more, but a camping lantern is in his hand now.

“Stop moving around,” he says, and then turns the lantern on, settling it on the grass as his hands reach up and begin working on the tangled snarl of hair holding me captive.

“Is my cheek bleeding?” I say.

I can’t see any of his face, because the light from that lantern is probably visible from space and is shining directly in my eyes, but he hesitates only a second before saying, “You’ll be fine.”

His hands aren’t gentle. He pulls and tugs, motions punctuated by my little ows until finally he says, “Well, stop moving, then.”

“You’re yanking my hair out of my head,” I say.

“Then just—hold still, would you?”

“I’m trying⁠—”

“Try harder.” A beat of silence, and then he says, “Good grief, Berkeley. Did you stick your entire head into this bush? Why are you even here?”

I spit out the first thing that jumps into my mind—the first thing that isn’t the truth about our parents’ midnight rendezvous.

“I came to see you.”

His hands freeze, and somehow I can feel his body tense even though we’re not touching.

“I don’t live here. You’re aware of that, right?” His hands begin working on my hair again.

I am aware of that, actually. He told me himself. But I press forward anyway. “I forgot,” I lie.

His responding hum is about as skeptical as I’d expect. “So you came to see me…in the middle of the night? There’s only one kind of meeting that happens at this time,” he goes on, the words casual. “And I hate to burst your bubble, but did you ever consider that you might not be my type anymore?”

I have no answer for this, but it turns out I don’t need one, because he speaks again.

“You want to know what I think?” he says.

“No.”

“I think you’re here making sure our parents aren’t getting cozy, now that you explicitly claimed they wouldn’t be.”

All I can do is clear my throat and change the subject to buy myself more time. “How’s my hair doing?”

“It’s still attached to your head,” Dominic says flatly, and with one last yank, he leans back. “That’s going to have to be good enough.”

He stands up as I rub the tender spot on my scalp. I brush my fingers over the painful scrape on my face, too, and when I hold them up in the lantern light, there are a few streaks of red.

And instinct is a strange beast, I realize as my mouth opens automatically to speak. Past Reese would have told Past Dominic that in ancient cultures, a cut like this could ruin a woman’s chances for marriage—that her sisters would have to hope for an advantageous match instead.

Past Dominic would have listened to this irrelevant snippet of knowledge with a little smile on his face, and then he would have helped me up, and then we would have gone to the back of his truck, hand in hand, and watched the stars until the early hours of the morning.

But although the stars have stayed their course, we have not, and I find myself wondering how much people ever really change—if we’re different at our cores, or if we’ve simply become different versions of the same people.

I guess it doesn’t matter either way.

“Oh, that’s not bad,” I say to myself instead as I glance at the faint streaks of blood on my fingers, and I swallow all the words I can’t speak. Then I rise on unsteady legs as I get to my feet, grabbing the lantern and passing it up to Dom, who turns the light off and pitches us into darkness once more.

“I assume you’re here spying,” he says as I shake the buzzing discomfort from my legs. “Did you see anything?”

I hesitate for only a second before sighing. “Not yet,” I admit. “Alvina snuck out of our room earlier, so I followed her because I was worried she was coming over. She’s been in there maybe…” I bite my lip, thinking. “Twenty minutes?” I turn back to face the window, stepping slowly through the bushes that held me captive before. “I wasn’t sure⁠—”

But the words die on my tongue as two figures appear, almost like I’ve conjured them.

It’s Alvina and Daryl, of course. Who else would it be? Somehow the sight is still shocking enough that I startle, my eyes widening.

Alvina is much better dressed than I am—not in a negligee, thankfully, but about as casual as she gets all the same. I suppose I’d rather her wear her fitted blue pants and gray top than anything more revealing, but it’s still an odd choice for the middle of the night.

Not that I can judge.

She and Daryl drift into the room, talking and laughing as they settle on the couch. They scoot closer together, a little red flag popping up in my mind as they do. The red flag turns into a blaring siren when they look at each other—a tornado siren, in fact, accompanied by a rotating red light.

I can’t see both of them clearly, because Daryl’s back is to me, but when Alvina’s expression goes soft in a completely foreign way, I begin to panic. When Daryl lifts one hand to touch her face, my panic grows.

“No,” I breathe, and a small noise of disgust sounds from next to me as our parents lean closer, closer, closer⁠—

“Gross,” Dom breathes as our parents begin to kiss.

“No,” I groan as my stomach churns. I lean forward until my nose is almost pressed against the chilled glass. “No, you two—stop it. Stop it!” But my eyes widen in horror as the kiss from hell grows more passionate still, and I’m frozen until self-preservation kicks in and I lurch backward, shaking my head desperately.

I turn to look at Dominic, whose expression resembles that of a faintly ill rollercoaster rider. His eyes are glued to the scene unfolding before us, and against my will, my gaze is pulled back too.

“Okay. It’s two consenting adults kissing,” I say, but my voice is high-pitched, and my stomach is rolling worse than ever. “Let’s be mature about—about...oh, no.”

We have roaming hands.

I repeat: WE HAVE ROAMING HANDS.

“Those are our parents,” Dominic says grimly. “I do not have it in me to be okay with this⁠—”

But he breaks off as my stomach finally rebels completely, and I double over, heaving into the bushes and hacking almost as hard as I did when I spit water all over the man now eating my mother’s face⁠—

I heave again, and on my back I feel a few thumps. “Get it all out,” Dom says, his voice absentminded but tinged with disgust. Then the thumping hand disappears, and the leaves beneath us crunch as he turns away from the window. I stare watery-eyed at his worn work boots, pointed toward me now, and when he speaks again, his words are firm.

“This is revolting, Berkeley,” he says, his voice filtering down from over my head. I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or our parents. “I’m going to need lobotomy to forget about this. Help me or don’t, but I’m breaking them up.”

The image of our parents kissing flashes into my mind. “I’ll help you,” I gasp, sucking air into my greedy lungs as my stomach finally begins to settle. “I’ll help.”

“Will you really?” he says, and even though I’m not looking at him, I can picture the challenge in his raised brows. “Or are you going to back out?”

“I said I’ll help.” My snippy tone probably doesn’t do me any favors, but it’s all I’ve got right now. I can still taste bile on my tongue. “I’ll help. Okay? We just—” I break off, and when Dominic doesn’t speak, I go on. “I want to be subtle about this, okay?”

Into my head pops the part I don’t say out loud: So that Alvina never finds out.

“If you’re going for subtle, you should stop throwing up,” Dom says unhelpfully. Then, a second later, he adds, “Are you sick?”

Hmm.

“I guess I have been feeling a bit nauseated,” I admit as I look at things in a new light. “And…I’ve had a headache. And I’ve been sort of shaky today?”

He gives a disbelieving laugh. “And you didn’t think something might be wrong?”

“I thought I was just nervous to see you again,” I say, irritated. “What—like you felt totally fine after six years? And our parents are dating.”

He goes quiet at this, silent for several long seconds until he takes a deep breath like he’s preparing himself. Then he asks one more tense question: “You’re not—pregnant, are you?”

This, finally, is too much. “Of course I’m not pregnant,” I snap. “Be realistic.”

“Just checking,” he mutters, but there’s unmistakable relief in his voice.

Something occurs to me, and swiveling my head to look at Dom, I ask, “Why are you here?”

“Rosie was over here earlier,” Dominic says, jerking his chin at the window. “And she thought she heard him making plans, so…” He grimaces, his shoulders twitching into a shrug. “I came over to see what was going on.” He eyes me, his frown growing. “We should go.”

He’s right. I can’t vomit in any more bushes, and I certainly can’t watch any more of Alvina’s nighttime activities.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Let’s go.”

And I try to stand up—I really do. I give it a brave, valiant effort.

But all that happens is my legs give out, and I topple instead right into Dominic’s arms.

I hit him with an oomph—his or mine, I’m not sure—as his arms close automatically around me.

I know it’s automatic because if he had a chance to think it through, he’d probably let me fall.

“Careful,” he says, his voice startled and breathless as he takes most of my weight. “Berkeley—get off me.”

“I’m not on you,” I say.

It’s a lie. I’m clinging desperately to his jacket, because my head is somewhere around his sternum now as I slide slowly down his body—in the least sexy way possible, I might add. I squeeze tighter as I try to find my feet, my hands clasping.

Dominic tenses at my searching grip. “I’m letting go of you.”

No! my body says.

“Fine,” my mouth says. My legs finally get beneath me, and I let go of Dom as he lets go of me. I only wobble for a second, and then I’m upright once more.

Unfortunately, there’s no graceful way out of what just happened. I don’t even try.

“Well,” I say, gasping for air. “So.”

“So,” Dominic repeats slowly, eyeing me with disconcertion. He adjusts his pointless backward hat a few times, still watching me. “Are you going to throw up again?”

I take inventory of my stomach and find things a little iffy down there.

“It’s possible,” I say.

“Then let’s find a storm drain or something,” he says, his expression turning grim. “I think my dad will question a trail of vomit on his lawn.”

“Storm drain.” I bob my head, panting. “Yes. Good.”

“Are we walking or running?”

I do another quick scan of my stomach. “We’re hurrying.”

I see him wince in the light spilling from inside, but he nods.

I’m not certain we could look any more ridiculous or suspicious as we walk-run our way out of the backyard, past the windows, past the sidewalk, and into the street. My satin pajamas are still decorated in bursts of bright color, and my boots are still fuzzy, and at some point I will have to explain this outfit, because no one was supposed to know.

But Dominic knows. He knows exactly how stupid I look as I hurry down the road, dressed like a tropical explosion, my hand clapping over my mouth—and now he’s gesturing to the storm drain by the mailbox like it’s the finish line to a race and he’s my trainer—“Move, move, move! Go, go, go!”—and I’m hurtling toward that grate with speed I’ve never before shown in my life.

And I swear, as I reach the drain just in time, that an out-of-body experience occurs. I see the entire situation as though from above, hovering over my disgusting self, emptying my stomach into a storm drain while my ex stands nearby, a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

What? I think as my body heaves and my vision blurs. This isn’t how you wanted to spend your night?

I lose track of time and space very briefly, as one does when one is throwing up into a sewer grate, and when I return to myself, my arms are shaky with the effort of holding myself up. I collapse weakly onto the pavement, rolling onto my back and staring blankly at the night sky, wondering why no one has called the cops on us yet.

“I think,” I say with little puffs of breath, “I might be sick.”

“I think you might be right,” Dominic says, from much closer than I expected; I tilt my head to the left and find him right there, crouching on the pavement. He gestures to my cheek, where the thorn got me. “You know, you’re lucky that won’t scar.”

“What?”

He gives a nod. “In the olden days no one would have married a woman with a scarred face.”

My heart crumbles—dried mud in a tight fist, leaving nothing but dust. “Yeah?” I manage to get out in a weak voice.

He nods again, and when our eyes meet, he reaches out and pushes some of my hair off of my forehead. “You’re clammy,” he says, picking a few more strands of hair away. Then he presses his hand to my skin. “But I don’t think you have a fever.”

I swat his touch away with a weak arm. “Stop,” I breathe. “Stop being nice.”

“I’m not being nice,” he says, pulling his hand out of my reach. “I’m being normal, Berkeley. Now get up. You need to go home and go to bed with a trash can.”

The thought of going to sleep in the same room as Alvina pulls weak laughter to my lips; the memory of her perfume makes me nauseated all over again.

“Do you have any extra room at your house?” I say before I can think better of it.

“I have a shed,” Dominic says, his voice distracted as he stands up. He moves to my head and leans down again. “I’m lifting from under your arms. One, two, three—up.”

I lurch into sitting position. “Can I sleep in your shed?”

“What?” Dom says from behind me, snorting. The sound filters just above my ear. “Of course not. Come on.” He fits his grip more securely under my arms and lifts. “Up. Come on—there you go.”

I sway on my feet, but I don’t fall over, even as Dom puts a light hand on my back and begins leading me toward his truck—which, I see, is parked one house down from my own car.

“This is me,” I say, pointing, but he keeps moving.

“You probably shouldn’t drive right now.”

My shuffling steps come to a halt, and I sigh. “What are you doing?” I say as a wave of tiredness hits me. I twist around to look at Dominic, whose hand falls back to his side.

“What do you mean?” he says, but his eyes dart away from mine. In the light of the street lamp I can see how green they are; I can see the frayed edge of his backward hat and the waffle knit of his shirt.

“Did you read the letter?” I say instead of answering him.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Now’s not the time⁠—”

“Did you read it or not?” I insist.

And his whole frame sags. He runs one hand down his face, but he still won’t look at me. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I read it.”

That crumbled, exhausted creature in my chest jumps. “And?”

“And what?” He pauses for a second and then goes on, “What do you want me to say? What do you want to hear?”

He’s not defensive or even angry—just tired. Like maybe he needs closure so he can move on, too.

“I want us to forgive each other and move on,” I say in my best firm voice. It’s not great, because of the vomiting thing. “I want us to forgive each other and go about our lives.”

But Dominic shakes his head, looking even wearier than before, and when he speaks, his voice is barely audible.

“You were never the one I couldn’t forgive, Reese.”

Dominic drives me home in total silence. I don’t ask any more questions, and he doesn’t offer any explanations. Once he drops me back at Nathan’s house, he takes my keys and returns with my car a few minutes later before walking down the sidewalk and disappearing into the night.

I throw up two more times and fall asleep on the floor of the bathroom, my cheek pressed to the cool tile. I’m woken at five the next morning when Alvina steps on me, shrieks, and flips the light on.

“Reese?” she says.

“Hnnnggg,” I say.

“You look terrible, sweetheart. Are you ill?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Take a shower.”

She leaves me to get on with it, so I wiggle-slither over the edge of the tub and then flop to the floor of the shower. I lie there for a second and hope I don’t drown.

I do have to admit, however, that I feel much better once I’m clean, minus the throbbing arm Alvina stepped on. I have no appetite to speak of, but I’m not nauseated any longer—just tired. If today weren’t the grand opening of the pumpkin patch, maybe I’d stay home, but since it is…

“All right,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror. My orange sweater makes me look like either a pumpkin or a carrot, perfect for the occasion, and my jeans and sturdy boots are comfortable enough to be moving around in all day. I pull my hair into a quick braid over my shoulder and call it good.

You know what was not good?

Last night.

I shake my head to ward off the memories, because I don’t have time to wallow, as tempting as it sounds.

I keep seeing, in slow motion, a vision of myself hurtling toward the storm drain to vomit while Dominic looks on. There was splattering and hacking and gasping.

There were fur boots.

With a shudder, I smooth my hand down my sweater and then head for the door.

The opening day at Bugelbach’s is everything Joe and I hoped it would be. He asks how I got the scratch on my cheek; I change the subject. Juliet Monroe comes to claim all of the billion pumpkins she’s going to need for the Fall Festival—they’ll look amazing—and Archer Kade comes by too, asking about deliveries for the Sleepy Holler event he puts on at Horseshoe Holler.

I try not to be obvious about it, but I do notice some sparks between them, if I were the kind of person to notice those things. They’d be a gorgeous couple; Archer has an easy cowboy confidence, and Juliet has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They only speak a bit, but she blushes when she sees him, and his eyes linger on her when she’s not looking.

Would it be weird to hide and watch them for a bit?

“Of course it would,” I snap at myself as I hurry away. It totally would. I don’t have time anyway.

Joe and I work up until the last minute to get everything ready, and when we open the gates at nine, a crowd of kids and their parents are waiting. Something inside me glows with relief and happiness that people still appreciate this place after all these years. Joe is thrilled too; he never says so, but I can tell he worries that what he does will become irrelevant.

Pumpkins will never be irrelevant, Joe. Autumn as a season brings in the bulk of our tourism in this town. I myself burn apple cider candles year round; I buy pumpkin pie the second it hits the shelves. I am as basic as they come, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

When early afternoon rolls around and I give myself a second to take a break, I traipse over to the corn dog booth and buy myself one. This is done after a considerable amount of debate thanks to last night. But I feel hungry rather than sick, and I can tell my blood sugar is low, so I decide eating would be good. I go tiredly but happily over to the straw mountain, ducking under the makeshift fence and rounding the hay bales to the outside edge.

I eat slowly at first, taking small bites to see how they sit. When everything shows itself to be in order, I finish the rest of the corn dog and slump back against the hay bales.

As my body relaxes, I realize how exhausted I am, so I sit down instead. I inhale deeply, breathing in the dusty air and exhaling. It gives my mind a chance to slow down, but unfortunately, this means the events from last night have a chance to slip in again.

And although the mortifying parts are louder than the rest, it’s the quieter memories that filter back—the things Dominic said, the things we talked about.

The things we still need to do.

A breeze blows past as though pushing me along; I frown when a few strands of hair get in my mouth, spitting them out and looking like an idiot. Then I tuck them behind my ear, pull out my phone, and compose the message I know I need to send.

Me

Having discussed the letter I wrote, and after talking briefly last night, can I correctly say that we’ve both moved on and there are no hard feelings between us?

I’m proud of that text. It takes me several attempts to formulate. But all I get from Dominic is one word:

Dominic

Yes

He doesn’t even use punctuation. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to know what tone he’s using?

“Why does it matter?” I ask myself, resting my weight against the bale of hay behind me.

I don’t know the answer. I clear my throat and text back anyway.

Me

In that case, re: breaking our parents up, I think we would benefit from shared intel and working together. For that, I’d appreciate the chance to establish a few guidelines or rules, just to make sure nothing gets complicated between us.

Dominic

Why are you talking so formally?

Nothing will get complicated between us because nothing IS between us, Berkeley

That one shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It’s hard to set aside your first love, even if there are no feelings there anymore—and, like Dominic said, there aren’t. There are no feelings left.

Still. He doesn’t need to be rude.

Me

Fine. I still want rules in place. Humor me.

Dominic

If you get to make rules, I get to make some too.

Me

Agreed.

Can I call you?

My breath catches in my chest when I see the bouncing dots telling me he’s responding. Those dots bounce, and then they disappear; they show up, they disappear, they come back⁠—

“Just say it,” I say when my anxiety is so high I’m starting to feel nauseated again. “Come on.”

As though he can hear me berating him through the phone, Dominic’s text finally pops up.

Dominic

We should probably just meet.

We need to make a plan and come up with some ideas anyway.

“A meeting. Okay. That’s fine. We can meet,” I breathe.

ME

I’m at Bugelbach’s until seven tonight

So it would need to be after that.

Or we can do another day soon

Dominic

I can swing by this evening

My stomach swoops—it’s that corn dog—but I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that we’ll be meeting on familiar ground.

ME

That works. I’ll see you then.

And with that I tuck my phone back in my pocket, stand up, and get back to work.

REESE’S LETTER

Dominic—

I thought for a long time what to say here. I wondered if it was presumptuous to write at all. But ultimately I want you to know I’m sorry. I can’t turn back time, and I can’t say I regret our relationship, because it was profoundly meaningful to me. But I regret pushing forward when I should have waited, the pressure I placed on you, and I regret the way we left things. I hope you can forgive me for my part.

I also hope you know I don’t blame you for anything. I hope we can move forward and look back at our time together as a good memory rather than a bad one. Most importantly, I hope you’re able to flourish and be happy wherever you end up and in whatever you do.

Thank you for everything. Truly.

-Reese

I don’t tell Dominic where to meet, but he finds me there anyway.

It’s a bench swing right inside the entrance to the farm, worn wood with fake strands of fall leaves woven around the arms and back.

Dom arrives with the wind. His shoulders are hunched, his hands shoved in his pockets against the gusts that whip my hair, and his shuffling steps carry resignation. No baseball hat today, but the work boots are present.

He eyes the bench for a brief second before sitting next to me. I’m sure he’s thinking, like I am, of the last time we sat here; we were six years younger and halfway in love, falling more with every second.

A lot has changed since then, of course. But when Dom settles next to me, I can still smell the faint scent of wood shavings I’ve always loved, even with my leather bag propped between us.

Maybe I should have sat somewhere else.

“Let’s get started,” I say instead of letting the past rise between us. I don’t speak loudly; I don’t need to. Bugelbach’s is now closed; I know for a fact that Farmer Joe is on his way to the Maple Bar for a celebratory drink. The only sounds to be heard here are the wind and the gentle creak of the swing. The sky is turning an orangey pink as the sun begins to set, and it’s unfortunately beautiful.

In general I prefer ugly skies when sitting next to the man I once loved, just to keep things from getting unintentionally romantic.

Of course, that’s the problem, isn’t it? When you’re in love, every sky is beautiful.

“Okay. Rules,” I say, clearing my throat. “Like I mentioned earlier, if we’re going to be working together⁠—”

“We don’t have to work together,” Dominic reminds me, and I’m glad he’s going along with the conversation rather than attempting awkward greetings. His voice is calm rather than accusatory as he continues, “I said I’d do it.”

I ignore this, because if we’re going to destroy our parents’ happiness, I think I should be involved. “If we’re going to spend time together, we should have some rules in place.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I launch in.

“The first and most vital rule,” I say, holding one finger up, “is that we operate in absolute secrecy. No one will know that we’re doing this, especially our parents.”

Dom knows perfectly well that what I really mean is my mother, but he’s merciful enough not to call me out. He just waves one hand—a hand that crosses into my airspace, by the way, and far too close.

“Fine,” he says as he commits this nonexistent but very serious infraction. “Next.”

“Next,” I say, holding up a second finger. “We will maintain firm boundaries. Regardless of our past, we’ve both moved on.” I feel overly bold saying this, my voice confident to the point of defiance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dominic’s nod of agreement, so I force myself to go on. “Now we’re coworkers. We will behave as such. This includes manners and cordiality as well, I would like to add.”

“Good,” he says. He folds his arms, and when I glance at him, he raises his brows. “Is that all?”

“I—yes,” I say lamely.

“Great. My turn.”

“What—”

“I reserve the right to act without consulting you,” he says briskly. “I reserve the right to sabotage our parents’ relationship in ways that might hurt your mother’s feelings, because frankly, I care more about my dad and myself than I do about her.”

Harsh, but fair.

“You may not show up at my house unannounced⁠—”

“Why would I do that?”

He doesn’t answer; he just goes on with his list. “And lastly,” he says, hesitating a second too long to be casual. “We will not discuss the past unless we mutually decide to do so.”

The past is a beast I’m incapable of wrangling, much less defeating, and flirting with memories won’t end well. So I give him one firm nod.

“Absolutely,” I say. “No discussion of the past.” And definitely not before I’ve invested in some waterproof mascara.

“Good,” Dom says. “Let’s figure out a plan, then. I cannot watch my father’s midlife crisis spiral into an impromptu marriage and the resultant heartbreak.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I say distractedly, now looking through my bag, “I think all of the Post-Dad Husbands were past the heartbreak stage when they finally got out of their marriages.”

When Dominic doesn’t answer, I look up to see an incredulous expression on his face.

“Why would that make me feel better?”

I shrug and return to my bag, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen that can write in six different colors. It doesn’t work very well, but I click the orange ink into place—orange for pumpkin patches!—and then start to take notes.

1. Boundaries

2. No talking about past

3. Secrecy

4. Cordiality

5. Don’t go to Dom’s house unannounced

I scoff at this last one, because I would never.

A little huff of laughter sounds from next to me, so familiar and beloved that I freeze, my head swiveling to look at Dominic a millisecond later.

A tiny smile is playing at his lips. When his eyes meet mine, though, it disappears, and he clears his throat, his gaze dropping back to the pad of paper.

“What was that?” I say.

He clears his throat again and points to my list. “Nothing. Let’s plan.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

Now he rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

“What do you mean, of course? You’ve laughed at me before.”

“I wasn’t,” he insists. He reaches up to adjust a baseball cap that he’s not wearing; I’ve seen the motion hundreds of times, and his hand falls awkwardly back to his lap before he speaks again. “Your handwriting is still bad.” It’s more of a grunt than words. “That’s all.”

And despite the blustering wind and the fading sun, my cheeks heat. “We said no talking about the past.”

“I tried to move on,” he points out, his posture easing as he shrugs. “You kept asking.” Then he reaches over and taps the notepad on my lap. “Come on. We don’t have all night.”

“Are you sure you’ll be able to read my bad handwriting?” I say.

But he snorts. “Plan. We need a plan.”

“I do have some thoughts,” I say. “For Alvina’s side of things, anyway.”

“I’m listening.”

“Right, okay. So.” I scoot to face Dominic better. “The number one thing she hates is nagging. Oh, no,” I say quickly when I see his raised eyebrows. “No, she loves doing the nagging”—he nods, understanding back in place—“but she doesn’t like being nagged, especially about very valid things. She’s not interested in changing her ways.”

Possibly because of his new promise of cordiality, all he does is hum rather than give a verbal reply. He runs one hand thoughtfully over his scruff, his eyes growing distant. Then, after a second, he nods.

“My dad’s a rule follower,” he says. “And he thinks things should be done a certain way—a proper way. If he knew about Alvina’s drinking, it would probably be a turn-off.” He pauses and then shoots me a hesitant look. “Would you call her alcoholic, specifically, or…?”

“It’s hard to tell,” I admit. “She drinks a lot, but she functions well in most respects. Her dysfunction comes from her—her personality, I guess.”

He stares at me.

“Yeah,” I say, hearing everything he’s not saying. I don’t let my shoulders curl in, but I don’t let myself defend her, either, even though that’s my first instinct. “It’s not great. I wonder if we could set something up so that Daryl thinks he’s helping her. She would hate that.”

“You could talk to him.” Dominic scuffs the toe of his boot over the straw-strewn gravel and dirt, causing the swing to sway and the chains to squeak. “It would require some bending of the truth.”

I take a deep breath and say the most honest thing I’ll say all day: “I’m not sure you could comprehend how much I’ve lied for my mother. If this is what it takes, I’ll bend the truth.”

Dominic is quiet for a second. Then he says simply, “All right. What would that look like?”

And I’m almost disappointed with myself for how quickly the answer comes. “It would probably need to come from me, and I’d basically tell him that Alvina doesn’t like to talk about it because she’s embarrassed, but she’s trying to cut back on her drinking, so he should help encourage her.” I pause as one major problem occurs to me. “Of course…”

“Yeah,” Dom says grimly. “He would take that seriously, and I don’t want to make him feel like her sobriety is his responsibility.”

“Right,” I say with a sigh. “Yeah. Okay, nix that.”

Silence falls as we both think. I run through possibilities in my mind, but strangely, they’re difficult to pluck from the ether. Dominic is next to me; it’s been a long day. And, perhaps, I am less of a planner than an on-the-spot doer.

“I’m struggling,” I finally say, and as though I’ve given him permission, Dom sighs.

“Me too.” The breeze ruffles his hair. “We do need to try to keep them apart as much as possible. Ruin the mood, kill the vibes, whatever.”

I am so capable of ruining moods. I can kill vibes.

In this capacity, I will shine.

“Speaking of ruining vibes…” I say slowly. “How does your dad feel about appearances?”

“What?”

“Like, the way he looks.” I put one hand on top of my head. “His hair. Does he care how it looks?”

Dominic frowns, an expression that’s beginning to get lost in the fading light of the day as the pink sky turns to dusky purple. “I don’t think so, no.” He pauses. “But I’m not sure I want to know why you’re asking.”

“Alvina likes things neat and attractive,” I say.

“Shocking.”

“Hush.” Inspiration is coming to me, something that would be horrible but undoubtedly effective. “I wouldn’t want to traumatize your dad. But if he really, truly doesn’t care about his appearance…”

“He dyed his hair blue one year when Emma arranged a family Halloween costume for all of us⁠—”

“I have so many questions,” I break in, my eyes widening. “What were you? Did you dye your hair blue? Are there pictures?”

“It was Dr. Seuss themed because Emma’s a librarian, and I did not dye anything any color,” Dom says flatly. He does not answer the question about pictures, I notice. “Stay focused. All that was to confirm that he’s not concerned about appearances.” His eyes jump over my face. “I, however, am growing very concerned.”

“What if we put bleach in his shampoo?”

This blurted-out suggestion sits between us for a solid five seconds before Dominic speaks, and when he answers, it’s one incredulous word:

“What?”

I nod. “Like in Matilda! Well—” I pause and then admit, “I haven’t actually read the book. But in the movie, she puts bleach or something in Danny DeVito’s shampoo. He looks absurd. It’s completely dumb, I know,” I hurry on before Dominic can say anything else. “I know. It’s totally stupid. But thus is the bottom of the barrel in which we find ourselves. If we don’t want to tell them we dated⁠—”

“We don’t,” Dom says firmly.

“And I suppose it won’t work to tell your dad how difficult Alvina is⁠—”

“He is a believer in giving everyone a chance,” Dom cuts me off again, his voice grim now. “Even if their past is against them.”

“Very churchgoing of him,” I say with a nod. “But that leaves us with the sole option of breaking them up ourselves, and ridiculous measures might be needed.”

Dominic’s boot goes back to kicking gravel, a rough exhale escaping his lips. “All right,” he says. “Okay. I can’t believe I’m saying this. But…I could probably put some bleach into his shampoo.” He raises his brow at me. “And your mother would be bothered by that? Her boyfriend suddenly having bad hair?”

“Sadly, yes,” I say. “She really, really would.” I gesture at my face as a bitter laugh escapes me. “She doesn’t even like her daughter to have acne.”

Dom opens his mouth, his eyes darting to the spot where my blemish patch was. But he doesn’t say anything; he just snaps his mouth shut and looks away again. Silence falls for several seconds until finally he directs his gaze at his lap and speaks.

“How has it been? Living with her, I mean?”

I shrug. “About like you’d expect. I’ll survive.” Then, because the opening is there and I want to know, I add, “Where did you say you were living? How long have you been back here?”

Dom shifts uncomfortably and rubs one hand over his head. His gaze flicks to me briefly, his brows jumping. “Are we talking about the past already?”

My pulse spikes, but I keep my voice casual. “I was wondering what you’ve been up to. How you’ve been. We don’t have to⁠—”

“Nah,” he cuts me off, and his posture eases. He leans back, folding his arms and staring off at the sea of pumpkins across the gravel path. “It’s fine. I came back here pretty much right after”—he pauses, a sticky silence—“pretty much immediately. I lived with my dad for a while and then bought a cheap little place off First. It needed a lot of work. So I fixed it up. Ben helped. It looks good now.”

I nod slowly. “You’re great at all that—working with your hands and whatnot. And you enjoy it?”

“I do,” he admits. “Much more than I ever enjoyed sitting at a desk.” Then he glances over at me. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

This is such a normal conversation, full of normal questions and normal responses, but it feels like a layer of my soul is being peeled back, or a line of defenses is being slowly lowered.

Even so…it’s nice, chatting.

“I still work for the same company. No degree,” I add, because it’s better to get that out of the way, given what happened between us. “But I’m a project manager now. It pays well as long as I keep my work load up. I’m here too,” I say, gesturing around us at the pumpkin farm, “for the month of October.”

Dominic’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Berkeley loves a pumpkin patch.”

“Berkeley does love a pumpkin patch,” I agree.

Silence falls again, and he sighs. Then he stands.

“Well, I’ll keep you updated, I guess,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets once more as the swing sways. “About our parents. Keep an eye on the two of them. I’ll do the same.”

I give him a nod, even though he doesn’t see it; his back is to me. I’m expecting him to walk away, but for a few seconds, he hesitates, hovering where he is, halfway in motion—then his body sags, and he mumbles something I don’t hear under his breath. With nothing more than a vague wave over his shoulder, he plods toward the entrance.

I’m left alone in the falling light, wondering what he said, and trying not to care—trying to remind myself of number two on our new list, No talking about the past. I amend it in my mind: No thinking about the past.

But it’s difficult on quiet evenings like this, when memories rise gently and pleasantly, when swings creak and sway and lull.

I shake my head to dislodge the spell.

Maybe in the future, Dom and I would do better to meet during the day.

SIX YEARS AGO || OCTOBER

I’m not the kind of girl who calls guys at night. I’m definitely not the kind who calls guys late at night.

I don’t really call anyone at night, in fact, unless my mother insists that we must talk right this very moment and texting is deemed insufficient.

By her, of course. Texting is always sufficient for me. I am stupidly bad at talking on the phone, and I think it’s because I don’t properly plan what I’m going to say beforehand.

This Friday evening, however, I find myself pulling up Dominic’s phone number at nine-thirty.

We’ve spent the last several weeks studying together a few afternoons a week. Sometimes we talk a lot, sometimes we don’t. He’s either easily distracted or difficult to pry away from his work; there’s very little in between. We text most days, though, about when we’re meeting up next or about things that remind us of home.

He doesn’t seem to enjoy school, no matter how hard he works. It always puts a tired furrow between his brows. So tonight I’m glad to be asking him about something totally different.

It takes a few rings for him to pick up the phone.

“Berkeley,” he says briskly down the line.

I let out a mock gasp as I settle myself on my bed, because he’s supposed to call me Reese. “Rude.”

“Sorry,” he says with a tsk, “but a late-night call usually means only one thing, and I can’t condone such behavior.”

“Yes, well, tonight the late-night call means we’ve lost our hot water,” I say, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing. I zip the feather charm back and forth on the chain around my neck, a habit I’ve never been able to rid myself of. It comes out when I’m jittery or anxious or full of energy. “Maintenance won’t be able to get here until Monday. Do you have experience with water heaters, Mr. Handyman?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” he says after a second of surprised silence. “As long as you and your roommates promise not to take advantage of me, that is.”

“We would never.”

“Liar. I got nothing but googly eyes from the girl you were with when I bumped into you on campus last week.”

“She had a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”

I can hear the crooked smile on his lips when he answers. “Do you have a toolbox in case I need it?”

“You’re talking to the daughter of Reginald Berkeley,” I say, standing right back up. I cross to the closet I share with my roommate Melissa and pull it open, my eyes falling to the plastic box on the floor beside my shoes. “Of course I have a toolbox.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

And, to his credit, Dominic arrives exactly ten minutes later, dressed in a henley and faded jeans.

I hear him before I see him. A clattering sound comes from the other side of the front door, and when I open it, I find Dom setting our wooden scarecrow upright.

Dom jerks his chin at the waist-high yard decoration. “This guy’s picking fights.”

I frown at him with censure. “Picking fights? He’s not that kind of scarecrow. See the welcome sign he’s holding?”

Dominic’s sparkling eyes jump to the sign in the scarecrow’s hands, which does indeed read Welcome. Then, with twitching lips, he looks back at me and lets his gaze roam over my outfit. “A scarecrow decoration and a Halloween t-shirt? You’re feeling the season. I figured you for more of a flannel girl.”

“Thinking about me in pajamas?”

The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, before I can think better of them, and by the time I realize what I’ve said, it’s too late.

Dominic’s jaw snaps shut, and even in the sickly yellow porch light I can see a flush rising up his neck. But his response is easy, casual.

“Dream on, Berkeley,” he says. “Now show me the water heater.”

I spin on my heel and hurry back inside, grateful for a moment where he can’t see my face. I lead him through the living room, past the windows draped in twinkly lights and the couch with its little ghost pillow.

“What’s that I’m smelling?” he says from behind me.

“A pumpkin spice candle, and I am not ashamed,” I say.

Dom gives a skeptical hum. “No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think that’s it.”

I clear my throat to hide my embarrassment. “I also might have made stir-fry earlier, and there was a lot of onion, and it was delicious.”

“Ah,” he says. “Yep. That’s the one.”

I look over my shoulder at Dominic, but all I can make out is the laughter in his gaze—which is where his true feelings come through most, I’m slowly discovering. The same facial expression could mean five different things depending on what you see in his eyes.

We round the corner into the hallway, the score from Hocus Pocus filtering down from the bedroom at the end of the hall, where my roommates have promised to stay while Dom is here.

They’re enthusiastically interested in my love life—and their own. It’s better this way. So I just open the closet on the right and point inside at the ancient water heater.

“Google said there were multiple things that could be wrong, so I decided to bring in the big guns.” When he doesn’t respond, I clarify, “You. You’re the big guns.”

He steps past me and into the closet, flicking the light on and peering around. Then he crosses to a panel on the wall, opening it.

“I’m going to let you do your thing,” I say, because there’s not room for both of us in here, and I still have homework to do before I go to bed.

He waves vaguely over his shoulder at me, clearly at ease, so I let him be. I return to my room and pass Melissa’s bed to flop down on mine.

It’s weird having him in my apartment. I like it too much.

I like him, and it needs to stop.

I’m just not sure how.

It’s very ambitious to think I can get any homework done while he’s here, but I do try. My efforts last about three minutes before I give up and pull up my work portal instead. I’m able to knock out one creative brief before I hear Dominic.

“Reese,” he calls softly, and I scramble off the bed, popping my head out the door.

“Yeah,” I say, as though I haven’t been waiting for him to finish. “Figure it out?”

He nods as he steps fully out of the water heater closet. “I think you need a new thermocouple.”

The word rings a bell, doubtless from spending time in my dad’s shop, but I don’t recall much now. “Is it one-size-fits-all? Can I order it online?”

“Eh,” he says slowly. “I can run and grab one for you. That would probably be easier.”

I blink, trailing down the hall to him. “Really?”

“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “It would probably have to be tomorrow, but I can do it.”

“Can I buy you lunch as a thank you?” That’s not a weird thing to ask him, is it? And lunch should be allowed. He’s doing work for me.

“Depends,” he says, exhaling loudly and stretching. “Are you going to make me eat chicken salad?”

I can’t help smiling at this. “You would be lucky if I did, but no. Your choice. Within reason,” I add hastily.

“In that case, yes. I guess I’ll allow you to feed me lunch tomorrow.”

“Good of you.”

He hums and closes the closet, heading back to the front door.

“One more thing,” I say as his hand comes to rest on the door knob.

He turns to look at me, his brows lifting.

“Want to be the official handyman of this apartment?”

A small but genuine smile tugs over his lips, and his eyes sparkle. “I would love nothing more.”

And it sounds like he means it.

Dominic

So how should I do this hair thing? Do I just buy bleach and then mix it in with my dad’s shampoo?

Me

I’m not sure that would work like we wanted.

Let me look a few things up.

Okay, what you’ll want to do is a bleach bath.

Dominic

You must know this means nothing to me.

ME

Hair bleach powder and developer added to shampoo.

On second thought, I will take care of the actual bleach.

Dominic

I think that would be best for all parties involved.

In the days following my planning meeting with Dom, I come to two conclusions:

Daily corn dogs is too many corn dogs, and

I can no longer live with Alvina Berkeley. This town may be big enough for the two of us, but my childhood bedroom most certainly is not.

The negligees are many. The perfume is plentiful. My migraine is infinite, my sleep disturbed.

I can take no more.

It is in this spirit that I pay a visit to Rosie Harper, Dominic’s twin sister, at Once Upon an Inn—the little place she’s fixing up.

I like inns. I like Rosie. And I think Sadie Stevenson might’ve been on to something when she mentioned checking with Rosie for a place to stay. It wouldn’t hurt to ask about prices, anyway—not that my pockets are particularly deep.

The sun is freshly risen when I pull up in front of Once Upon an Inn, and a chill still hangs in the air. It is, I can admit, a bit early.

But desperation knows no time limits, and according to the website, the lobby opens at eight. I will be there at seven-fifty-nine, in case the clock is feeling magnanimous.

The steps are creaky but sturdy beneath my feet, the metal handle of the door still cold when I pull it open. I’m a few minutes early, but I go in anyway, trying not to be nervous about seeing Rosie again.

Rosie looks like Dominic in only the slightest of ways. I don’t know her well, but I do know that she smiles more than her twin, and her hair is blonde where his is darker. She doesn’t look up immediately when the bell over the door jingles, but she does greet me in a chipper voice.

“Hi!” she chirps from the reception desk, half bent over, her eyes trained on the floor. “Sorry—give me a second—” Then the unmistakable sound of something spilling behind the counter reaches my ears, and her smile turns into a frown. She stands up, a little breathless. “Shoot.”

“Everything okay?” I say as I step further inside, letting the door swing closed behind me. My heart sinks at the faint whiff of paint fumes.

“What?” Rosie says, distracted. One of her overalls straps slips off her shoulder, and she tugs it back into place before speaking again. “Oh, yeah—I was hoping to switch up the storage system back here so that I have more room in the back for all the fall festival props, but it’s not working out.” She sighs and finally turns her eyes to me. “I’ll take care of it later—” But she breaks off when she sees me. “Oh, Reese! It’s you!”

“It’s me,” I say with a little wave that hopefully doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. But this is Dominic’s sister, and although I’ve always liked her, I’m not sure how much she knows about what happened, or what she thinks of me.

My body relaxes, though, when her face breaks into a wide, genuine smile, and I can’t help but smile back.

“It’s been forever!” she says, tucking some of her blonde hair behind her ear. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” I say.

I’m a liar, is what I am.

An awkward silence descends for a second, casting an uncomfortable sheen to the otherwise lovely lobby. It’s the big fat elephant in the room—two of them, actually. Twin elephants.

Dominic, and our dating parents.

But thankfully—tactfully, wonderfully—Rosie moves right along, bless her. She doesn’t bring up her brother or ask about the past. She simply gestures around the interior.

“Well, this is my baby,” she says. “What do you think?”

“It looks great,” I tell her, taking in the dark wood and the antique features. “Cozy and inviting.”

She beams at me. “Thank you! There’s still some love to be given”—she gestures at a few wooden planks and a tool box leaning against the wall—“but she’s coming along.”

“It’s looking really good.” Not a creative compliment, but for what it’s worth, I do mean it. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “Taking on more than I can handle, trying to get my feet under me. The usual.” She smiles, and I laugh.

“The usual,” I agree. Then, because the elephant in the room is growing, and I feel like I need to say something, I clasp my hands and go on. “Also.”

She straightens up, her brows lifting slightly as she listens.

“I know our parents are dating, and that no one is really happy about it.”

Rosie’s eyes dart away from mine, and she gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah. We’re a little—” She breaks off, looking worried, but I wave that away.

“You won’t offend me,” I say. “You really won’t. My mom is in no place to be in a relationship with anyone. You guys must be pretty concerned.”

This is all Rosie needs to relax. “We’re just not sure what’s going on,” she says, her voice dropping as though Alvina is hiding around the corner. “Like if our dad is going through some sort of midlife crisis, why not buy a sports car?”

I nod and sigh. “I wondered the same thing,” I say frankly. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

She nods vigorously. Then, after a beat of silence, she says, “It must be weird for you and Dom, too.”

My laugh is hollow. “You could say that.”

“At least you’ve been broken up for years, right?” she says in a would-be optimistic voice. “If our parents somehow end up together”—she shudders—“you’ve at least had time to move on.”

It suddenly occurs to me that while Rosie is lovely, she needs to shut her mouth.

“Be nice,” I snap at myself as the thought flits through my mind.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”

She hums, and quiet settles between us again, broken only by the sound of a car passing outside. Then she stands up straighter. “Well, are you here to book a room? I do have to warn you”—she leans forward again, placing her elbows on the reception desk—“we’re sort of in renovation mode right now. So your options are pretty limited.” She brightens. “I can check out what we’ve got, though! I could probably make up a room for you for a couple nights before the festival starts.”

I take a deep breath to evaluate the paint scent again, and the tattered remains of my hope finally fly away in the wind. The smell is strong, and from upstairs, I hear the sound of a drill. Trying to stay here will just produce more scent-induced migraines and noise-induced poor sleep.

It wouldn’t have been a permanent solution anyway, but it does hurt a bit to see Plan A die such a swift death.

“It’s okay,” I say, waving one hand and coming to a stop. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry,” Rosie says, scrunching up her nose. Then she tilts her head. “Do you not have anywhere to live? I thought you were staying with—” But she breaks off suddenly, her eyes widening as she bites her lip. Then, with a sigh, she says, “Sorry. I might have asked Dominic about you.”

My answering laugh is uncomfortable. “I figured,” I say. “It’s not a secret that I’m back or living in my brother’s house, anyway. You’re all good.” I do not let myself ask her what else Dom said, because I (just barely) have my dignity.

“Are you sure?” she says, looking worried now. “You’re not homeless or anything?”

“Definitely not.” I begin my slow shuffle toward the door. “And I have some options, too. There’s some space in the back of my dad’s shop, or even other rooms in the house. I’m not worried.” I force a warm smile to my face. “I’ve got to head out, but it was good to see you, Rosie.”

This, at least, is true.

“It was good to see you too,” Rosie says, beaming at me. “Stop by any time!”

“I will,” I promise, and with one last wave, I head back the way I came.

My footsteps feel heavier on the way out than they did on the way in, and the morning air feels chillier, too.

You’ve at least had time to move on.

Rosie’s not wrong. She’s completely right, in fact. That was a very reasonable and logical thing for her to say. It’s been six years.

Do you know how many things can happen in six years?

World War I was four years, according to a few moments of internet searching. So was the US Civil War. I’m sure other, less violent events could also be mentioned.

If entire countries can fight entire wars in fewer than six years, I can definitely get over my ex. No question about it.

I head straight from Once Upon an Inn to Bugelbach’s, where I find Joe presiding over a patch of pumpkins and two glassy-eyed, captive-looking part-timers. Almost nobody is here—such is the fate of a pumpkin patch on a school day—but Joe is knee deep in the infamous tale of how Bugelbach’s came to be. It’s a long story, made longer by the side tangents that wind and curl like the pumpkin vines still lining the fields, and when I tap the shoulders of our employees to let them know they can go occupy themselves elsewhere, they hop off their hay bales with impressive speed.

I take one of their spots and nod my greeting to Farmer Joe.

“I was telling them about Mackerel,” Joe says with a heavy voice, tilting the brim of his straw hat up to see me better. “Have I told you about him?”

Indeed he has. Mackerel was Joe’s dog, an old Spaniel that met its demise by eating an entire scented candle.

“Just a bit,” I say, settling in. The cut of the wind is softening now that the sun is up, muddling the air into something more comfortable.

“Well,” Joe says, heaving a sigh that deflates his belly by a noticeable amount, “it devastated me. Ate a candle, you know—the dog did. Didn’t make it, of course. It was a huge candle, three wicks and all, metal at the bottom of each one. Perforated intestines.” He shakes his head and grimaces, and his grip tightens around the handle of the pitchfork he’s leaning on. “Mango Melon Mamba,” he says solemnly, staring off into the distance.

I nod, keeping my expression appropriately somber as well. That’s the unspoken rule: When Joe wants to tell the story of Mackerel the Candle Eater, we listen.

After a second of straw-rustled silence, Joe shakes his head. “Needed a change after that. Came back to my father’s place; right here, if you can believe it”—he points to the ground he’s standing on—“and started working the land with him.”

“And look what you’ve turned it into,” I say, gesturing around us at the patch, the little barn, the slides. “I think Mackerel would love this place.”

“That he would,” Joe says with a grave nod. “I really think he would.” This thought seems to cheer him a bit—it usually does—and he straightens. “We could probably send one of them home,” he says now, looking at the part-timers.

“We have a field trip from the elementary school coming at eleven,” I remind him, and Joe grunts, tossing the pitchfork aside.

“I forgot about that. Kindergarteners?”

“Yep. And then second-graders tomorrow, and fourth-graders Friday.”

“Are we doing the pumpkin launch?” Joe says. He lumbers past me, heading toward the shed where we keep the truck parked.

“I believe so. Just the hayride around the field, over to the catapult and back.”

Joe grunts his understanding and continues on his way.

The kindergarteners arrive and then leave without incident, a gaggle of shrieks and laughter and harried chaperones. They love the pumpkin launch and slides, of course, and by the time we wave goodbye, we’re all tired.

Tired, but happy. My mind can escape from my worries when my body is exhausted and my brain is caught up in other things.

When I arrive home at the end of the day, however, and find a package addressed to me, some of my heaviness returns—accompanied by no small amount of embarrassment.

I am twenty-seven, about to attempt the same trick six-year-old Matilda Wormwood pulled on her father in what is arguably Danny DeVito’s best role to date.

But up the stairs I go anyway, clutching the box close and sneaking like I’ve stolen one of Alvina’s best bottles of Chardonnay. She’s not home, but I don’t trust this process not to leave a chemical smell, so I lock myself in the room with the exercise equipment, lay down an old tarp from the closet, and open the window as wide as possible.

Several perusals of the instructions are required; when those prove insufficient, I look up a video online instead. Then I call Dominic.

And it’s so easy, pressing that Call button. There should be a secondary button—one that says Are you sure?

I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all. But we do need to talk. So I press the button and wait.

Dom answers after three rings, and his voice is out of breath. “Yeah,” he says instead of offering any sort of greeting.

“Are you exercising?” I say, momentarily diverted.

There’s no gym in Autumn Ridge, but that’s where my mind casts him anyway—wearing a muscle tank he would never wear and sitting on a black bench, pulling on an overhead bar that lifts weights.

“No,” he says, and the gym image disappears with a little poof. “I’m working on some stall doors over at the stables, and I kind of need both hands. What is it?”

Right. Down to business. “I was about to mix the bleach solution stuff,” I say, glancing down at the Tupperware I’m holding. “But the internet says it shouldn’t sit out for a long time or it will oxidize. So I should probably wait until right before we put it in the shampoo.”

There’s a second of silence, and then Dominic speaks.

“All right. Our parents”—I can hear the grimace in his voice—“are going out to dinner this evening at six.”

“What?” I say before he can continue. “Why?”

“It’s not my fault,” Dom responds, and in brief hindsight I can admit there was definitely an accusatory note in my voice.

“Sorry!” I say quickly as he grumbles under his breath. “I know. I know, okay? I’m sorry.”

A staticky sigh filters down the line. “Well, they’re going out at six, according to a concerned text from Emma.”

“Wow. Your sisters are on top of things.”

“Emma is,” he agrees. “So mix the bleach stuff then and meet me at my dad’s house at six-fifteen. Does that work?”

“I’ll be there,” I say, my voice as grim as his. “Bring snacks.”

Dominic does not bring snacks.

“Is there no food?” I say, craning my neck and looking him over when he lets me in to his dad’s. “I specifically requested something to eat.”

“Seeing as you are a grown woman,” he says in a dry voice, closing the door behind me, “and seeing as I am not your servant, I thought you could feed yourself.”

He’s right, but food tastes better when it’s given to you by someone else. Everyone knows this.

“I suppose you’re correct,” I say. Then I hold up my plastic container with foil over the top. “Shall we?”

He doesn’t answer but gestures at the stairs, and I hurry up, listening to the thump of his feet behind me.

Steady and sure and firm, whether walking toward me or away.

“First door on the right,” Dominic says when we reach the top. My feet sink into the thick carpet and then meet the chilled tile as I enter a small bathroom with bright lights, a blue bath curtain, and a clean mirror. My teenage self is drinking it all in with excitement and wonder, of course—This is where Dominic brushed his teeth! This is where he got to look at himself in the mirror every day!—but I rein her in. Then I hold out the foil-covered container to Dominic.

But he’s not looking at me; he has his phone in his hand, and he lets out a quiet snort of amusement.

When he glances up and sees me giving him a questioning look, he tucks the phone back in his pocket. “Bennett ran into his wi—” He breaks off, clears his throat, and then says, “His ex-wife today, and he was not equipped to deal with the situation.”

“Maven?” I say, remembering what I overheard when I took Dominic the letter.

He nods but doesn’t offer any more details, so I pass him the foil-covered container, and he steps into the shower, closing the curtain.

I close the door behind us and wait with bated breath, my pulse jumpy even though no one is home. I’ll feel much better once we get out of here.

From the shower I can hear the faint rustle of tin foil and the soft clunks of bottles being moved around.

“This shampoo is pretty full already,” he mutters.

“Just fill as much as you can,” I say. “It should still⁠—”

But I break off when a sound filters to me, coming not from in the bathroom but from without. I freeze, and the faint noises in the shower cease too.

It could be nothing.

I breathe these words unsteadily to Dominic, who doesn’t reply. I don’t think he believes me.

And when the unmistakable churning of a garage door begins, I don’t believe me either.

“He’s home already?” I say. “How?”

Dominic renews his shampoo-bleach process behind the shower curtain, the sounds more hurried now. I dance on my tiptoes with anxiety as more noise begins to filter our direction—the deep voice of a man, followed by⁠—

Oh, no.

Footsteps.

On the stairs.

“This is bad,” I breathe, looking around the small bathroom. “This is bad, this is bad⁠—”

“Reese.”

I startle out of my skin at Dominic’s whisper that filters toward me from behind the shower curtain.

“You scared me,” I whisper. Then I frown. “Why did you close that?”

The corner of the curtain yanks open, and out pops Dominic’s head. “I don’t know. Instinct, I guess. I’m almost done with the shampoo.”

Relief cascades through me. “Hurry,” I say as my body sags.

Dom’s floating head twitches upward, his gaze jumping to the door behind me, and then he looks back to me. “We need a cover story.”

Great point. Except⁠—

“What cover story?” I say as I glance over my shoulder at the door too. “What reason could I possibly have for being here?”

I can’t hear the footsteps on the stairs anymore, which means Dom’s dad has either gone back downstairs or gone somewhere else up here. I scurry closer to the shower. “Hurry,” I breathe. “Come on. Hurry.”

“I’m trying.”

“Why do you think he came back? Do you think they fought?” But I slap my hand over my mouth when I hear footsteps once more.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears in the silence that falls. I whip my head to look at the door, and then I turn back to Dominic, whose eyes have gone as wide as mine—except he still looks handsome, while I probably look like a frog, or maybe one of those tiny monkeys with eyes like tennis balls.

Unfortunately, my tennis ball eyes pop even wider when someone outside the door speaks.

Because it’s not Daryl whose words we hear.

It’s the giggling, offhand voice of one Alvina Lucinda Berkeley.

My mother. That is my mother out there, laughing at something Daryl has said, probably not as funny as she makes it sound⁠—

And then, to my horror, the doorknob starts to turn.

It’s this, finally, that releases me from my statue-frozen state and shifts me firmly into flight mode.

And fly I do—over the edge of the bathtub, through the shower curtain, and straight into the shower where Dominic is already stashed.

It is not possible for me to overstate my relief upon seeing him fully clothed. I knew he was, of course; I watched him get in here. But when one enters a shower, one subconsciously expects the occupant to be naked.

With a muffled thump and a wince of pain, I make it all the way into the shower seconds before the bathroom door swings open behind me. I teeter precariously, but Dominic’s firm hand finds my upper arm and steadies me. Our wide eyes meet—and then, maybe because I’m already doing it, he mirrors me; his hand leaves my arm and jumps to his mouth, clamping over it tightly to prevent any sound from escaping.

From outside the shower, the click of fussy heels on tile reaches us, followed by the faint sound of off-key humming.

Humming.

I remember when my mother used to sing around the house, tuneless but cheerful, so many years ago now that the memories have mostly faded.

She was happy, once.

Is she really so happy now, too?

I startle at the sound of a drawer opening and closing; then I squeeze my stinging eyes closed a few times and banish the wilting feeling in my chest.

The tiniest rustle of motion stirs next to me, and when my gaze meets Dominic’s, I find myself marveling—how is it that six years later, and even with his hand pressed over his mouth, I can still see the frown he’s trying to hide? How can I read the tiny furrow in his brow, the tension in his frame as though he’s actively stopping himself from moving closer to me?

I wish he would.

No, I tell myself immediately when the thought flits through my head. Bad Reese. Look away.

I turn my gaze back toward Alvina, even though all I can see is the shower curtain. She’s still humming, noise that’s drowned out when she turns the faucet on. Then comes the unmistakable sound of someone brushing their teeth.

My lips pull into an involuntary grimace as I try desperately not to think about why my mother might be brushing her teeth at her boyfriend’s house. I also try not to consider what it means that her toothbrush is here in the first place. When I look at Dom, his eyes are wrinkled into an expression identical to mine.

Alvina brushes her teeth for an excessively long time before spitting, and after that all I hear is shuffling and movement. It’s maybe a full minute later that she makes any noise herself, so unexpected my heart jolts.

She doesn’t speak, though. She growls.

My brows jump, my eyes popping wide once more when I hear the sound. I look automatically at Dominic; he looks at me.

Then it happens again: a feline growl, low and throaty, undoubtedly accompanied by a seductive expression and a cat-like clawing gesture.

My jaw drops as Dominic’s hand falls gently away from his mouth. He gapes at me, possibly with sheer horror, and both of us lean closer to the shower curtain to hear better; we listen as Alvina’s heels click over the tile a bit more, and then she opens the bathroom door. Her footsteps fade away down the hall, as do her hums—and Dom and I are left in silence once more, still shocked, still gaping at each other.

The faucet drips. The stillness hangs heavy. My mother’s noises ring in my ears.

And then, ever so slowly, Dominic lifts one hand—up, up—curls his fingers into claws⁠—

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, but he ignores me⁠—

And he growls.

He growls like my mother did, except the sound is deep and vibrating coming from him, his curled fingers scratching at the air, his eyes dead set on mine.

And I can’t help it. I clap my hands over my mouth to suppress my snort of laughter, but the sound still escapes, and once it’s begun, it’s hard to stop—especially when Dom is still standing there, that growl on his lips, imaginary claws bared.

My hushed giggles and unflattering snorts won’t stay down; they rise in my chest with an almost manic energy, everything that’s been pent up finally bursting free in the form of laughter. My eyes sting with tears that aren’t only from mirth, but I let everything go, watching as Dominic’s lips twitch into a smile he can’t hide either.

His arm drops, his body relaxing, and he laughs softly under his breath. When I lower myself to sit on the floor of the tub, still giggling like a lunatic, he does the same, leaning tiredly against the wall and grinning.

“I thought y—” His smile fades as he breaks off, and he clears his throat. “I thought we could use something to laugh about after that display,” he says quietly.

“We could,” I agree, breathless, as my earlier burst of emotion settles into calmness once more. I’m not sure if I’m sad or happy to see those feelings go.

It was good to see Dom smile, though, and even better to hear his puff of laughter.

“You got the shampoo done?” I say, and he nods, gesturing over his shoulder to an innocuous-looking bottle.

“In there.” Then he picks up the plastic container and foil, wiggling them at me.

I accept them. “We need to get out of here. I don’t know why they didn’t stay at the restaurant, but I don’t want to stick around to find out.”

My words are flippant, but the churning worries in my stomach are more serious. And judging by the look on Dom’s face, he feels the same way.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. He glances at me. “Where did you park? Do you think they saw your car?”

“Mine is a few houses down,” I say, shaking my head. “And it’s pretty generic.” Then, thinking for a second, I frown. “Where’s your truck? I didn’t see it.”

“It’s down the street and around the corner. I don’t think they’ll have seen it either.”

We climb to our feet in silence, moving awkwardly in the cramped space. It doesn’t escape my notice that he hugs one end of the tub as much as possible while I hug the other, ensuring we don’t bump into each other at all.

“How are we doing this?” I whisper, looking up at him.

Now that we’re standing, this space feels smaller; Dominic takes up more than his share of the shower, closer than he should be. But he just grimaces and reaches past me for the shower curtain.

“Out my bedroom window, unfortunately,” he says in a low voice. His slow pull of the curtain brings us into the light once more, and I inhale deeply of air that doesn’t carry Dominic’s inexplicable presence.

“Do you hear them?”

He shakes his head and steps out of the tub, crossing the bathroom in two long strides. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Listen at the door,” I tell him, but it’s unnecessary, as he’s already pressed his ear to the door.

His muscular frame looks odd, curled and hunched like that, but after a second he straightens up and beckons without looking at me. He eases the door open, peeks ever so slowly out, and then gestures for me again.

I follow in his wake, my heart pounding in my chest as we creep down the hallway on light feet. Some of my anxiety eases when I hear my mother laugh from downstair—but only some.

Because why did they come home? Why are they not at a restaurant eating pasta or appetizers or fancy salads?

Why are they not in a well-lit, PUBLIC place?

This must be what it feels like for parents when their children start dating. If Daryl’s mother knew he was out with a woman like Alvina, she’d put her foot down for sure.

There’s a question itching the back of my mind, one I can’t bear to ask no matter how many times it pops up. But the question grows more and more insistent the longer I consider.

When we’ve slipped into Dominic’s bedroom—another win for my teenage self—I close the door gently, and then I turn to him, finally blurting out what I can’t stop thinking.

“Do you think they—” I break off. There’s not a delicate way to phrase it, and putting words to the idea makes me want to scream, but I push forward the best I can. “How fast do you think their relationship is moving?” I say.

Judging by Dominic’s expression, he knows exactly what I mean.

“I refuse to think about it,” he says briskly as the frown lines on his forehead grow more pronounced. “My dad thinks things should be done a certain way, and that includes getting married before being intimate. But…”

“But he’s dating Alvina,” I say miserably.

Dominic gives a nod as he rounds his bed and slides the curtains further apart. He leans back and then shakes the navy fabric, wrinkling his nose at the dust that poofs into the air.

“He’s dating your mother,” he says. “Who, I’m sorry to say, is a pit of quicksand.”

I blink at this wording. “Did the Ednas tell you that?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, a distracted sound. “I ran into them last week.”

“They said the same thing to me!” I slump, frowning. “I think they should personalize their gossip a bit. Are we all getting the same news verbatim?”

Dominic doesn’t speak or look at me, but the faintest of smiles twitches at his lips as he reaches up to the top of the window and removes the curtain rod completely. I step aside as he lowers it and sets it on his bed, which is neatly made and decked in a comforter of blue and green plaid.

I look around the rest of the room. Besides the bed, there’s a small bookcase and a chest of drawers. I settle on one corner of the bed, taking up as little space as possible.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask Dom, who snorts.

“Of course I do. I’m a handyman, Berkeley.” He pauses. “But I also used to sneak out this window in high school.”

I blink at him in surprise. “You did? I never knew that.”

“Why would you have?” he says distractedly, eyeing the window. “We didn’t know each other in high school.”

I will take it to my grave that I doodled his name in my teenage diary, so all I say is “I guess so.” Then I add, “What did you do? When you snuck out?”

“Stupid teenager stuff.” Dominic rolls up his sleeves, revealing tanned forearms. “I don’t know if you remember James Carver?”

I think for a second. “From the maple farm?”

Dom nods.

“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.” I pause, my brow furrowing. “I think I heard he’s back in town, actually.”

“I think so.” Dom unlocks the window and then opens it, and I watch his forearms the entire time like a psycho. “Anyway, we would hang out sometimes. Kick the can, whatever. I took up smoking for a while⁠—”

“Dominic!” His name bursts out of me, and he glances over his shoulder, a little smile tugging at his lips when he sees my dropped jaw and wide eyes.

“You smoked? Your father works in a doctor’s office!” I go on, keeping my voice soft.

“I know,” he says ruefully. Then he turns back to the window and begins unlatching the screen.

“Exactly how long did you destroy your lungs?”

“You’re looking at several months of tar buildup.”

I’m actually still looking at his forearms, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Does your dad know?”

Dominic snorts but doesn’t look at me. The last tension tab on the screen releases, and he maneuvers the whole thing carefully inside. He settles it on the floor, propped against the wall, and then turns to me.

“Of course he doesn’t,” he says, dusting his hands off. “I don’t think he’d be able to take the shock. A college dropout and a former smoker?” His voice is light, but his body is tense. “He’d keel right over.”

And time slows viscously as the past stirs between us, a restless beast, so close I can see its teeth that would rip my throat out if I let them.

Or maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe that beast of the past wouldn’t rip out my throat.

Maybe I would simply wait for it to open its mouth, and I would crawl into its belly on my own.

“He’s proud of you,” I say softly, even though I know it won’t do any good.

Dominic doesn’t look me in the eye, but he gives a short nod. “He is,” he says. “Because he lowered his expectations.”

I sigh. This conversation rarely goes anywhere productive. So instead of continuing, I gesture to the gaping window. “Are you going first, or am I? How are you going to get the screen back in?”

“I’ll make up an excuse to come back later.” Dominic opens his mouth to go on, but a loud trill of laughter from downstairs finds its way to us, and I wince.

“Are you sure I can’t live in your shed?” I say, a little desperately. “Seriously. You’re completely sure?”

He snorts. “Yeah, Berkeley,” he says, maneuvering his leg through the open window. “I’m positive.”

When I go to bed that night, I don’t sleep. I stare at the ceiling.

And I wait.

I wait and wait and wait, growing more antsy by the second. I wait until I can’t keep my eyes open, and I drift off before I ever hear Alvina come home.

When I wake the next morning, however, she’s returned. She’s fussing around our small bedroom, closing drawers loudly, destroying the ozone layer with her horrible perfume, and being generally aggressive in a way I’m unfamiliar with at seven in the morning.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes as Alvina hovers at the open closet, her hair twisted into a towel, a silky robe floating about her small frame. “What are you doing?” I say.

She whirls around. “Oh, are you awake?” she says, as though she wasn’t trying her best to wake me herself.

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“Good. We have a busy day,” she says, and it’s then that I notice how chaotic she seems—gone are the usual elegance and poise, replaced by jerky movements and darting eyes as she begins digging through clothes.

“I have to go to the pumpkin patch until this evening,” I point out, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she says absently, tugging a dress off its hanger. “That won’t work, sweetheart. I need you to come with me today.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she turns to me again, reaching for her towel turban. Her expression is tight and frantic as she gives a tug, and almost in slow motion, the towel falls to the floor⁠—

Revealing a cascade of horrible, brassy, orange-blonde hair.

Alvina does not see Daryl for two whole days. It is an October miracle—albeit a miracle we are a little concerned about.

“So his hair is totally normal?” I say in disbelief, resting against a scratchy bale of hay at the top of the hay bale mountain.

Dominic’s confirmation is accompanied by a sigh when it filters down the line. “I checked today in between jobs. His hair isn’t bleached at all.”

It’s Friday evening, and I am wiped out from hosting an elementary school field trip at Bugelbach’s. Despite my exhaustion, though, my grip tightens on my phone. I extend my legs, wiggling them to get the blood flowing, because I’ve been up here for a while. There’s enough room on this top platform for several people, but I’m the only one now that Bugelbach’s has closed for the day.

“Well, Alvina stayed inside at Nathan’s all day yesterday. But as of noonish today, her hair should be on its way back to normal,” I say. “She tried to get me to skip work yesterday so I could babysit her.”

The silence from Dom reminds me how strange this will have sounded.

“I just meant—she likes to be taken care of when she’s upset,” I say, but my voice is hesitant, and the evening breeze feels suddenly chilly against my heating cheeks. “Sorry, it’s hard to explain.”

My laugh is embarrassed and awkward, but Dominic’s isn’t. The gentle huff of amusement that finds me is soft but natural, and something relaxes inside of me—something I didn’t realize was painfully tense.

“You don’t need to explain,” he says. “So what next?”

I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t have anything to say; I’m too surprised.

We’ve had that conversation before, the conversation about weird things my mother does. But it’s never gone so smoothly. Dominic never moved on when I struggled to find words; he wanted to understand what she was like, or why I humored her.

And every time I failed to clarify, I died a little inside, a combination of humiliation and embarrassment and defensiveness I couldn’t explain.

“Berkeley?”

I startle at his voice intruding on my thoughts.

“Yes,” I say automatically. I clear my throat past the inexplicable lump trying to grow there, because it is absolutely ridiculous to be tearing up over something like this. Completely insane, and uncalled for, and unwanted. So I clear my throat again, more aggressively this time, and then take a deep breath. “Yes,” I repeat.

“Next steps. Let’s figure them out.”

“Right. Okay. Good.”

“I think we can assume they’ll go back to being attached at the hip.”

“Better than attached at the lip,” I say absently.

Dominic lets out a snort of laughter, and I wince when I realize what I’ve said.

“Unfortunately,” Dom says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were attached at both the hip and the lip.”

“Me either.” I tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “Do they have plans for tonight?”

“No—I do know that much. My dad’s working late.”

I hum thoughtfully. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Prime date night. Let’s figure out if they’re doing anything then, and we can go from there.”

“Sounds good.” An awkward silence falls, one I feel keenly as a pang in my chest, and then, at the same time, we both speak.

“Well—”

“I guess⁠—”

Another silence, even worse than the one before.

“Okay,” Dominic says abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah,” I say with painful relief. “Okay. Later.”

I don’t wait for any response from him; I pull the phone away from my ear and end the call with a forceful jab. Then I exhale and slump back against the prickly hay bale.

Why was that so uncomfortable?

But the answer jumps into my mind without having to think: Because talking to Dominic is beginning to feel more natural.

And for Dom and I, natural always included things like “Love you” at the end of phone calls, or plans for when we would meet next, or terms of endearment.

But we don’t say those things anymore. We don’t automatically make plans. We’re treading in unfamiliar territory.

I sigh and stand up, brushing the straw off my clothes and out of my hair. Then I descend the hay mountain and drag myself to my car, my feet heavy as my exhaustion grows.

The drive home is quick, and when I spot Alvina’s car in the driveway as I pull around back, I begin my preparation.

It’s always good to be prepared when encountering Alvina. This process involves deep breaths and reinforcing any patience that may have slipped throughout the day.

I enter the house through the garage and toe my shoes off in the laundry room, because they’re dirty and dusty. A tantalizing scent is coming from the kitchen, and when I hurry in, I find Nate at the stove, stirring a large saucepan full of red sauce.

It should be noted that Alvina does not cook, which is how I knew Nathan was the one I’d find here.

“Do I get some of that?” I say. I give him my most winsome, most sisterly smile when he looks over his shoulder at me, and he snorts.

“If you go take a shower first,” he says before returning to the pasta. “You smell.”

He is not wrong.

“Where’s Alvina?” I ask him, and he grunts, jerking his head toward the family room.

I trail through and spot her on the couch, her legs crossed as she watches some sort of reality show that appears to involve lots of women and lots of Botox. Her hair is brown again, and she doesn’t look up at me when she speaks.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says, waving one airy hand in my direction. “You do smell. Go wash, won’t you?”

“I’m going,” I say. “Your hair looks much better.”

“It does,” she agrees. This is what gets her to press pause. The blonde woman on the screen freezes mid-shout, and Alvina turns to me. “They did a good job, I think.” She smooths her hands over her hair. “It was so horrid before. Daryl saw it just briefly before I rushed home”—she titters—“and of course he said it looked lovely, but really, what do men know?”

Oh, sweet Daryl.

“How did it change colors?” I say, and nerves spike in my chest. The last thing I need is my mother getting suspicious.

But to my relief, her wrinkle-free forehead puckers into a wrinkle-free frown. “I’m not certain,” she says. “Daryl thought maybe the shampoo had gone bad, but I don’t think that happens. Maybe I used something of his daughters’? He threw the bottle away, anyhow.” She gives a shrug and turns her eyes back to the screen. “Go wash up, dear.”

I head for the stairs, but before I leave the room, I say, “Are you guys doing anything fun tomorrow?” I hold my breath as I wait for her answer.

“We’re going on a drive up to the Ridge to watch the sunset,” she says—words that send my heart plummeting. “Daryl says it should be lovely up there.”

The Ridge. They’re going to the Ridge—Make-Out Ridge. And at sunset? It will be beautiful and romantic. They will look at each other with dreamy eyes and everything will feel just right, because Autumn Ridge in the fall has that effect.

I hurry upstairs and take a lightning-fast shower; then I text Dominic.

Me

Our parents are going to MAKE-OUT RIDGE tomorrow evening.

At sunset.

Dominic

That’s not good.

ME

It is not.

I think this is going to be a “ruin the mood” moment.

Any ideas?

Dominic

Actually…yes.

If you’re up for a drive?

I stay up late checking over a batch of creative briefs that one of our editors submitted last minute. It takes longer than I expect, because it’s a batch of twenty done by a new hire, and I have to correct most of them. Once I’ve updated my time sheet, I set my laptop aside and burrow beneath my covers.

Thanks to Alvina’s snoring, however, I sleep very poorly. I arrive at Bugelbach’s in a zombie-like state the next morning, just in time for the Saturday morning rush.

I make it to my lunch break through sheer willpower alone. My smiles are porcelain and ready to crack; my chipper, let’s-have-fun! attitude is manic. I am a sleep-deprived loon.

But I’m a self-aware sleep-deprived loon. And I know that I will not make it the rest of the day without some reinforcements. So I call in the cavalry, and like rescuing angels, Ari, Liv, and Liv’s bodyguard—Tate Walker, brother of Dom’s friend Bennett—arrive fifteen minutes later, caffeine in hand.

“Here you go,” Liv says, passing me a massive styrofoam cup of Dr. Pepper. She’s looking a bit wary, and Tate is close by her side.

“You are beautiful,” I say as I jump up from the bench where I’ve been waiting and snatch the drink from her. “You are goddesses. All of you.”

Tate looks skeptical about this, but then he shrugs and drifts off to a nearby bale of hay, settling with ease and keeping an eye on us.

“The corn dog stand only has bottled water,” I say as I down half the soda in ten seconds flat.

“No good,” Ari says, shaking her head and tucking some dark hair behind her ear. “We’ve got your back.” Then, when I continue to gulp my drink instead of answering, she laughs. “I guess it’s been a long day already?”

“A long few days.” I sit back on the bench and scoot over so they can join me, and then I tell them about the shampoo mishap.

“And Daryl actually told her her hair looked nice?” Liv says when I’ve finished, her brows jumping with skepticism.

“Yes!”

“Maybe he really did think it looked nice?” Ari says, but her voice is unconvinced. She leans forward so she can see me from Liv’s other side. “Is that possible?”

“No!” I wail. “It looked horrible!” I set my empty cup on the ground between my feet and then let my head drop into my hands. “He’s so sweet to her!” I look up again, my tired eyes desperate, my voice deranged. “I don’t know—should we just let them date?” I pause. “Maybe he could fix her!”

Liv and Ari give this suggestion exactly the reaction it deserves: disapproving frowns.

I slump in my seat, sliding down the bench. “No, you’re right—you’re right. Okay.”

“So…what are you going to do?” Ari says, wrinkling her nose. She knows that whatever the answer is, it will be unpleasant.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Figure out how to break them up, I guess. Which I would feel bad about if it were anyone else, but…”

“It’s your parents,” Liv says with a tired nod. “Yeah.” She exchanges a glance with Ari and then goes on, more tentatively. “How is it, talking to him and everything?”

“Great question,” I say, my voice flat. “I don’t even know.”

Liv raises her eyebrows, and Ari’s gaze softens with sympathy.

“Do you think you still have feelings for him?” Ari says.

And that’s the question, isn’t it? The question I don’t want to ask, because I don’t want the answer.

“I don’t know,” I say again, but the words are tired now. “I truly don’t know. It’s hard to tell what’s residual and what’s not. Sometimes I think—” But I break off, because I can’t even put words to all the things in my heart and mind.

Silence falls between us for a second, and then Liv speaks again.

“Is there any reason…” She bites her lip and then goes on. “I mean, if you did like him. Just—if you did. Is there any reason you guys couldn’t try things out again?”

Maybe not, my traitorous brain says.

“Yes,” my mouth says, blunt and flat. “Our parents are dating.”

“You’re working on that part, though,” Ari says, her voice far too reasonable.

“We are. They’re going up to Make-Out Ridge tonight. Dom says he has an idea about how to ruin their evening. I don’t know how we’re doing that, because he asked if I was up for a drive, so I assume we’re following them—but they’ll see us, won’t they?”

“Oh,” Liv says, straightening up. Then she looks over at Tate, whose expression becomes suspicious when we all look at him too. “Would tinted windows help?” She turns back to me, and although I can tell she’s having a hard day, the smile she offers is genuine. “I know a guy with a truck.”

Tate Walker probably wouldn’t lend his truck to just anyone, but because Dom is best friends with his brother, he passes over the keys for the evening.

The massive dark truck rolls up in front of Nathan’s house to pick me up about fifteen minutes after Alvina and Daryl have gone. Dominic texts me to tell me he’s outside, because we are not dating, and therefore he is not obligated to knock on the door like an adult instead of a teenager.

Which is fine.

I’m more prepared this time around; instead of satin pajamas and fuzzy boots, I’ve pulled on sensible black leggings and one of several black shirts I own. Dominic does give me raised eyebrows when I reach the truck and pull the door open with a lurch.

“These are my sneaking-around clothes,” I say, a little defensively.

A skeptical hum is the only answer I receive.

I have to move a folded flannel blanket aside to settle properly in my seat, and after I’ve tossed it into the back row, I look at Dom. “Did you bring that?”

To my surprise, his blithe “no” sounds more like a yes, especially given the way his eyes flick away from mine as I ask.

He used to bring blankets along when we would go look at the stars or go for long drives.

We’re silent as we make our way to the overlook for which our small town was named. The two of us have only been here once together, but once is enough to make memories, and I try not to let them rise or linger. I stare out the window instead, watching the blurred colors as we drive past.

When we pull into the Ridge’s parking lot, I’m surprised to see it completely empty, save for one car—Alvina and Daryl’s. Dom cruises slowly down their row, but I speak up when he shows signs of stopping.

“No, no—there,” I say, pointing at a spot on the row opposite. “So if they turn and look they’ll only see the back of the truck.”

Dominic parks where I’ve indicated and then kills the engine of the truck.

“Okay,” I say, swiveling in my seat and looking at Daryl’s car. Dom turns too, and his nose wrinkles. “What’s the plan?”

But he doesn’t seem to hear. “Oh, come on,” he mutters. “They’re desecrating sacred ground.” Then he turns to me. “Do you realize that’s the exact same spot where we once parked?”

My brows jump. “Is it?” I crane my neck to check further down the row and realize he might be right. Then the rest of his words register, and my brows jump even further.

Did he just call that parking spot…

“Sacred ground?” I say, my eyes widening, my head whipping toward him.

His cheeks turn a ruddy color, the tips of his ears reddening as his gaze leaves mine. “What? I’m not—it’s just weird that they’re parked in the exact same place.”

I nod slowly, and he clears his throat.

“Come on,” he says firmly. He grabs his phone from the median and waves it at me. “We’re here to ruin the mood.”

I grimace at this reminder. “I hate to admit it,” I say, turning to face Daryl’s car once more and forcing my face to stop burning, “but your dad has game. This place is totally romantic. Look at the sky—look at the trees!”

“Never say anything like that about my dad again, please,” Dom says, pulling his legs up and sitting on his knees. “Ever.”

I shrug and do the same, rising to my knees and facing my whole body toward the back of the truck. “I’m just saying⁠—”

“Well, don’t.”

I grumble under my breath but don’t push it. I nod to Dom’s phone instead. “What are we doing?”

“We’re playing very loud, very obnoxious music,” he says. He nods when I wince. “Yeah,” he goes on. “It will be bad. I brought ear plugs.”

“Two pairs?” I say, watching as he pulls two neon-orange ear plugs from his pocket.

“Nope.”

I gape at him.

“Fine,” he says with a long-suffering sigh. And although his voice doesn’t reveal a hint of humor, I could swear I see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he pulls a second pair of plugs from his pocket. He passes them to me, and I take them gratefully.

“What kind of music?”

“Well, I did some googling and found some very obnoxious metal.” He taps around on his phone for a second, and then the light strains of something chaotic, guitar-heavy, and scream-heavy fill the car. He turns the sound up until I jam my ear plugs in.

My eyes widen, listening to the song as Dom puts his ear plugs in too. “That’s terrible,” I half-shout, both horrified and intrigued. “It’s perfect!”

He nods and then points to the dashboard. “Roll down your window,” he mouths.

I take this to mean that he’s going to connect to the car’s speakers, so I roll my window down and then scurry over the median to the back seat of the truck, my gaze glued Alvina and Daryl’s car.

And look. I know there are people who love this kind of music. I am happy for them. But me?

This song makes me feel like my mind and soul are being attacked with particularly abrasive steel wool.

“I miss Enya,” I whimper as Dominic crawls into the back seat with me.

He doesn’t hear, of course. I very much doubt either of us will hear anything ever again.

I think the truck is vibrating.

And the two of us must look absurd, up on our knees as we stare out the window of the truck’s cab, heads up like gophers, neon foam sticking out of our ears. If anyone else saw us we would be branded perverts and voyeurs and weirdos.

But we’re none of those things. I mean, basically. We’re just two people who are not in love, two people whose parents also cannot fall in love. So we keep our vigil despite the admitted weirdness, our hands clenched over the tops of the back seats, our knees going numb, our bodies undergoing permanent nerve damage from the speaker-breaking music.

At least Dominic is kneeling on the fleece blanket he claims he didn’t bring for me. I contemplate stealing it from under him and then decide I’d rather direct my energy toward the task at hand.

Unfortunately…nothing happens.

Despite several minutes of waiting, we see neither hide nor hair of our parents. I know they can hear this music—my beloved father in his grave can hear this music—but the car stays put.

Why aren’t they leaving?

I look over at Dom, gesturing to their car, but his expression is as bewildered as mine. He gives a helpless shrug.

“Should we change music?” I shout at him.

“What?” he shouts back, his hands clutched over his ears.

“The music!” I yell. I point at the phone on the seat between us. “Do you have different music?”

DIFFERENT—MUSIC! I mouth when he continues to squint his eyes at me.

This finally does it. A look of comprehension enters his expression, and he nods, letting go of one ear and picking up his phone. He looks at it for a moment and then holds the screen toward me, showing me a playlist he’s apparently made for this very occasion.

He’s always been organized—much more organized than his appearance lets on, what with the delicious frayed hats and sexy torn jeans and⁠—

Stop it! I tell myself. Cut it out.

I give my full attention to the playlist instead of the man holding the phone, and I swiftly narrow our choices down to what I think are two very promising options.

Because I don’t feel like shouting over the professional screamer still breaking me down one cell at a time, I point instead: first at the Gregorian chant tracks, then at the true crime podcast.

Dominic nods like he agrees. He taps around until the heavy metal comes to an abrupt stop, and in the sudden silence, I exhale with relief.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Dominic says from next to me. “But this won’t be as bad.”

And sure enough, when the speakers blare to life, I find myself listening not to screamo but to…chant-o? Infinitely better but still uncomfortable, especially when Dom cranks the volume up. He gestures for me to cover my ears with my hands, and I do, just in time to protect myself from very loud, very intense Latin.

The monks aren’t singing anything soothing or soft; they are commanding, a swift tempo accompanied by lyrics that may very well be calling me to repentance for spying on an unsuspecting couple.

I wince when a boys’ choir joins in—lovely, actually, if it were being experienced at a different decibel. Their voices soar, reaching soprano heights I will never attempt or achieve, and I think longingly of Enya once again⁠—

The gentle nudge of Dominic’s elbow against my arm pulls my attention, and I straighten up when I realize one of Daryl’s car doors flies open.

Something anxious stirs in my gut as Alvina emerges, smoothing her hair and frowning so deeply that a little furrow actually appears between her brows.

There’s an unkind joke somewhere in this situation, hidden amongst the deafening Latin—a joke about exorcisms and casting out demons—but I hold my tongue; the thoughts are scattered from my mind regardless when the driver’s door opens too. Out steps Daryl, craning his neck as he looks around the parking lot.

His eyes find our truck immediately, of course. We’re the only ones here, and deafening strains of Gregorian chant are not hard to follow.

I tap Dominic on the shoulder, several times at first and then more insistently as Daryl’s expression pulls into a frown that matches my mother’s.

Words have no place between Dom and me, because we won’t be heard over the blaring Latin anyway. My head whips toward him, a silent question about what to do next, but when I see his eyes widen, I look back to our parents—and my eyes pop wide, too.

Because there, striding toward the truck with a determined expression and a smudge of lipstick on his lower lip, is none other than Daryl himself, followed by Alvina Berkeley.

They are approaching.

They are approaching the truck right this very second, and there is lipstick on Daryl’s face, which means Alvina’s lips have been ON HIS FACE⁠—

“Gah!” I squawk, like the twelve-year-old I apparently become when thinking about my mother kissing Dom’s father.

At least I’m not vomiting.

My head whips toward Dom’s as he’s turning to look at me. His wide eyes are full of the same panic I’m feeling, an unusual expression on someone who’s normally so unflappable. We’re mirrors of worry, though, and for two seconds we stare at each other before erupting into chaos.

“What do we do?” I shout over the deafening chorus of Ave Maria now playing. My body automatically makes itself as small as possible, and next to me, Dominic does the same. “We won’t fit on the floor!”

Having heard not one word I’ve said, Dom begins trying to cram himself to the floor anyway. I whack him on the back a few times to get his attention, but it’s unnecessary; he pulls himself back up to the seat, his head craning back and forth.

When I see his gaze land on the blanket we’re flattening, I look at it too. And when he grabs my arm, pulls me roughly closer, and then cups his hands around my ear, I freeze.

“Under the blanket,” he says, words I hear but also feel as his lips crush against my skin when his balance teeters. I ignore my skittering pulse and nod; he lets go of my arm and tugs on the blanket, both of us shifting our weights awkwardly until it’s out from beneath us.

His lips move again when he glances up to check how close our parents are. I don’t hear what he says, and it’s probably for the better; I’m pretty sure there’s some cursing in there. Then he settles on the seat in a deceptively normal position, sitting upright, feet on the floor.

He looks over at me and hesitates for a second, until he glances over his shoulder at our parents. Then he gestures at his lap, tapping his legs impatiently.

I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “What?”

And I can’t hear him any better than he can hear me over the Gregorian chants rattling my bones, but I can read his lips clearly as he points at his lap again: Come on!

We’re pretending to kiss. That’s where he’s going with this idea.

It’s the arrival of Daryl and Alvina that spurs me to action; I scramble onto Dominic’s lap, straddling his legs but staying so far back that if I teeter even a little, I’ll tumble right off.

A knock sounds at the window just as Dominic throws the blanket around the two of us, the tops of our heads visible but presumably little else. I lean forward and talk directly into his ear, because if we’re going to pull this off, we’d better be convincing.

“Put your hands on my back outside the blanket,” I shout. “I’ll hold the blanket up. Come on—move your hands around.”

He protests with words I half-hear, but only for a second; when another knock sounds on the glass of the window, sharper this time, I snatch the top edges of the blanket. Then he pushes his arms out of our cocoon and places his hands on my back.

I slump forward a little, partly because I’m uncomfortable but also because his grip pulls so naturally, tugging me closer until I’m forced to accept this moment for what it is.

So I let my head drop until it rests more or less on his shoulder, my hands still clutching the blanket up by my ears. I scoot it down slightly so I can peek at what’s happening out there, only to find Alvina with her hands cupped around her eyes as she tries to see inside.

“She’s looking,” I say quickly, my voice muffled by Dom’s shoulder. “She’s looking inside. Are your hands moving?”

“You can feel them, can’t you?” Dominic mutters.

He’s correct, of course. I can feel his hands, and they’re sliding very convincingly over my back.

“Yeah,” I breathe into his neck, a word I’m not sure he hears over the deafening Latin. I shift my knees, trying to ease some of the bendy discomfort⁠—

But the Gregorian chant stops abruptly, plunging us into silence, and I know a brief moment of panic that sends all thoughts of comfort from my mind.

Dom swears under his breath. “Half my butt is on my phone,” he says into the quiet that leaves my ears ringing, and one hand drops away from my back.

Daryl’s voice drifts toward us in the absence of the monks whose aural presence I clearly did not appreciate before. “Excuse me,” he says, accompanied by a knock against the window. “Excuse me?”

Alvina speaks next, her words sharper. “Very rude behavior. Hello?” She raps against the window again. “Hello! What are you doing in there? It’s rude to ignore people who are talking to you, you know.”

“Dom!” I whisper frantically.

“I know,” he mutters. “I’m trying—hang on⁠—”

The rest of his words are drowned out, swallowed up by new music, both better and worse than the monks or the heavy metal—the slow wobbling of a synthesizer and strumming guitar, followed by the longing voice of David Gates.

I freeze with recognition, and Dominic does the same, a tiny motion I can feel because of how close we are.

It’s “If,” by Bread, a song we danced to in the headlights of Dom’s truck as the music played from his car’s speakers. Very much like right now, in fact, except this moment isn’t romantic; it’s painful.

I lean back, my eyes finding his, wide and full of questions. But his gaze darts away as he digs for his phone again, his motions more frantic. His other hand is still on my back, too, and whether he realizes it or not, his grip has tightened, pulling me closer.

“Popped up randomly,” he says, barely audible over the volume, and his shoulders fall in relief as he hits the button for the next song to play⁠—

Until the song actually filters through the speakers.

My eyes widen further at the pluck of strings, unmistakably identifiable, even around the renewed knocking of our parents against the window.

“What is this?” I say. But I already know: it’s my music. The stuff that’s on my playlist.

He still doesn’t meet my eyes; every ounce of concentration he possesses is on his phone.

“Dom,” I say more loudly. When the music stops abruptly, I’m able to speak again. “You hate Sufjan Stevens.”

He clears his throat into the sudden silence. “I don’t hate⁠—”

“Your exact words back then were ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life,’” I cut him off. My voice is soft now that the blaring music has stopped. “That’s what you said. ‘The worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’”

“I don’t—it’s not—” He breaks off, sighing. “It’s just—a lot of banjo⁠—”

“Then don’t listen!” I say as something sharp rips my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “Why are you listening if you hate banjo?”

And when his gaze finally meets mine, his eyes seem greener than usual. “I don’t hate it,” he says. “But it was on shuffle, Berkeley. Coincidence.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and then he looks to the side where our parents are still outside the truck. “Let’s get out of this.”

I don’t believe in coincidences—not like this, anyhow. And yet…

Believe him, my mind whispers. Everything will hurt less if you believe him.

So I swallow my protests and nod, because I cannot carry with me the knowledge that we’re going through our lives humming the same songs under our breaths.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay.” I clear my throat and face the window, and then, pitching my voice much higher and speaking as loudly as possible, I say, “Go away!”

Dom lowers his voice too and barks, “Leave us alone. We’re clearly busy.”

“I don’t think so,” Alvina says. “I want a word.”

And then, audacity of audacities, she opens the truck door. The dying light of the evening filters faintly into the back seat, less noticeable than the cool breeze I feel even through the blanket.

“Vee,” Daryl says quickly—he has a cute nickname for her?!—“We can’t invade.”

It’s a good thing he says this, because his words cover up my squeak of terror. My mind has gone completely blank, adrenaline the ruling faction in the Kingdom of Reese, and my heart is racing wildly.

But Dominic?

Somehow, incredibly, Dominic stays cool and steady and composed. As though he’s already taken a moment like this into account, he pulls me closer—so close my sharp breath gets caught between us, no escape. He wraps one arm all the way around me outside the blanket, his other hand moving not over my back but up to my neck, exerting pressure until I tilt my head.

“Come on,” he breathes, the words puffing against my skin. “Pretend we’re kissing.”

“I am,” I breathe back as I relax, letting him guide me.

He pulls my face in, and my lips miss landing against his by a narrow margin; it’s like we’re kissing each others’ cheeks, and my body freezes again, because we are so close.

Alvina says something I’m too dazed to understand, but her voice is growing louder.

“We’ve never kissed this stiffly,” Dominic whispers, and now there’s a note of panic to his voice as his hands tug gently. I can hear it in the silence where the music was blaring before. “Come on⁠—”

I break out of my spell and squish my cheek against his, once again letting him guide me.

And it’s fake. It’s obviously fake. If any part of us is kissing, it’s our cheeks.

Except his hands are moving so naturally over my back and my neck and my half-covered hair, and he’s tilting his head, and mine, too. The air under here is warm and stuffy, uncomfortably so.

But I have no doubt that to Alvina and Daryl, we will appear as lovers in a passionate embrace.

Our charade stretches impossibly long, although in reality it’s maybe only a few seconds; Daryl and Alvina speak under their breaths to each other for a moment, and then the door closes again.

We wait in silence, and although I hear the strains of Alvina’s scandalized voice along with Daryl’s calm, soothing tones, neither of them knock on the window again. It’s only when we hear their car start that I fling the blanket away, desperate for the cool touch of air against my skin.

“That was close,” he breathes, and I nod frantically, trying to catch my breath.

Quiet stillness falls between us, more peaceful now that Alvina and Daryl are gone, and in the waning light I see the rise and fall of Dom’s chest matching mine.

He wiggles his leg and speaks. “You’re still on my lap.” He raises a brow at me. “Trying to make it last?”

“Your hand is still on my waist,” I point out. “Can’t bear to let go?”

We stare at each other for point-two seconds before scrambling apart. Dom’s hand falls away from my waist, but I can still feel where every finger was pressed against me; I scurry over to the other side of the seat.

“I’m not the one who was listening to my ex’s playlist,” I mumble.

“No? But you’re the one whose face is bright red after sitting on her ex’s lap⁠—”

“It was warm under there,” I snap.

Dangerous. This is a dangerous conversation. And yet…

“Did you bring the blanket for me?” I release the question without knowing which answer I truly want to hear.

“Depends,” he says slowly. He glances over at me, his eyes dropping to my clothes. “Is that my shirt?”

“What?” I say, blinking in surprise. I look down at my top. “Of course it’s not—” But I break off as I inspect the rolled-up sleeves, while Dom reaches for the hem.

He grabs it and gives it a tug, poking one finger through the hole I never fixed. “Mine,” he says, a casual word that somehow sends shivers through me. After a pause, he adds, “The blanket was for you. Good thing I brought it, though, huh?”

We don’t look at each other again. We don’t speak.

Yet as we drive back down to Autumn Ridge, I can’t help but feel that our silence says a million things all on its own.

I make a somewhat disturbing discovery when I arrive home and head up to the room I share with my mother: the lipstick on top of my dresser is the same lipstick that was on Daryl’s face. I stop in my tracks at the sight, shuddering.

Then I turn around and walk right back out of the room.

Alvina’s not home yet, and because I value my sanity, I choose not to think about where she might have gone after leaving Make-Out Ridge. I can only do so much, after all, and I’m tired.

Pretending to kiss your ex really takes it out of you. And even though our lips never touched, my heart is still beating as though they did.

It requires a few minutes to take stock of my relocation choices. I visit the room with the exercise equipment first, because I’m not opposed to sleeping in a sleeping bag for a bit. But there’s a hard plastic mat on the floor to protect the carpet from the exercise stuff, and the fit of the weight machines is tight enough that there’s nowhere for me to stretch out fully.

I remove that room from my list. It smells like rubber in there anyway, and strong scents tend to aggravate my head.

The next option is the couch in the living room. Much more comfortable than the floor, but with it comes the unfortunate loss of privacy—even when sharing with Alvina there’s a door I can close. Nathan is an early riser, too, and I’ll be woken up whenever he comes downstairs.

There’s always the shop.

It’s an idea that’s been on my mind for a while, one that seems ridiculous and at the same time makes perfect sense.

A hardware shop isn’t a great place to camp out, in general. But whenever I got sick as a kid, whenever I had to stay home from school, Berk’s is where I went. I laid down in the back room with a sleeping bag and a book, often accompanied by a trash can. My dad would come check on me throughout the day, and if I was feeling better in the afternoon hours, I’d help him back there, too—organizing parts, unpacking boxes.

I let myself fall onto the couch, the cushion swallowing me and cradling me while I think. It only takes two seconds of staring at the dusty overhead light for me to decide, however.

“To Berk’s we go,” I say. An embarrassing struggle against the couch’s gravitational pull ensues, but then I’m up and ready and feeling strangely energized. I hurry up the stairs and grab a faded red duffle from my closet; I pack a few sets of clothing, some toiletries, and call it good.

I’m halfway out of the bedroom when I remember the box hidden under the bed; after a second of debate, I dig it out and pack it too, in case Alvina gets nosy. I also grab my pillow and tuck it under my arm. Then I’m off, a spring in my step despite how tired I truly am.

I’ve got one hand on the front door when⁠—

“Ditching me, huh?”

I startle at Nathan’s voice and whirl around, hitching my bag more securely over my shoulder. Then I give him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” I say as he watches me from the couch, where he’s taken the spot I recently vacated. “But…yeah.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh and drops his head back against the couch cushion, staring at the ceiling for a second. “What am I supposed to do without you here?”

“I contribute basically nothing to this household,” I point out. “Except for my winning smile and stellar personality.”

“But those things are irreplaceable,” he says solemnly, and it has its intended effect—my lips twitch. Then, more serious, he says, “Where are you going?”

“Dad’s shop,” I say. “For now. If I can’t figure out something different, I’ll come back. But a few days of space would be good for me anyway.”

He nods, because he understands. “What are you telling Mom?”

“You and I both know she won’t realize I’ve moved for quite a while,” I say in a would-be neutral voice. “I’ll figure something out by then.”

“You have a key to the shop?”

“Yep.”

“And everything you need?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Sleeping bag?”

“I keep one in my trunk.”

Nathan sighs again, but this one is more real. “Well, come back any time you want. Seriously.”

“I know,” I say, but my feet are already itching to cross the threshold, my grip tight on the door handle. “I will. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Do. And remember I’m leaving town for a few days next week while the festival is going on, so I won’t be here.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I tilt my head, brightening. “To visit your girlfriend? When will you be back?”

“Saturday. Serena doesn’t get much time off work.”

In that case, I bet I could sneak home and sleep in his room while he’s gone⁠—

“Don’t take over my room while I’m gone,” he adds sternly, and I deflate.

“Why not?” I sound more than a little whiny, and I’m not proud of myself.

“Because you’re messy,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “and because you smell like a girl, and I’ll know. I’ll know if you do, okay? Don’t sleep in my bed.”

I glower at him.

“Text me when you get to the shop,” he says as his head droops backward again, his eyes fluttering closed.

“It’s two minutes away,” I say.

“Great. I’ll still be awake. Text me.”

I’m not sure he will still be awake, based on the way his voice is fading, but I agree anyway and then head to my car. A few minutes later I arrive at Berk’s, where I pull around back and park.

My key turns in the lock with a satisfying sound, and I can’t help but smile as I step into the storage room. I lock the door behind me and then carry my bag, pillow, and sleeping bag to my time-honored stretch of carpet over by the wall.

I don’t unpack or even change clothes. I just unroll the sleeping bag, toss the pillow down, and stretch out, feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks. I only barely remember to text Nathan, and five minutes later, I’m fast asleep.

I dream of days gone by, of Dom—and of things I don’t let myself remember.

SIX YEARS AGO || OCTOBER

Having Dominic as my Intro to Engineering TA is getting a little weird.

I’m not sure why. It’s not like we’re dating or doing anything wrong. It’s just a bit strange to see him off to the side in class, looking professional as he types on his laptop. Girls still stare at him, especially when he wears the hat, which has made its reappearance.

He hasn’t thrown it away, despite the wonky shape after I washed it, but somehow it doesn’t look bad on him. The man was made for baseball caps, and people notice. They notice him.

But he, inexplicably, only seems to notice me.

He doesn’t stare. He’s not awkward. I just find myself looking at him more than I should, and when I look at him…

Sometimes he’s looking at me, too. He gives me a little smile and then goes back to his work, and I force myself to ignore my leaping heart and pay attention to the teacher instead.

We still meet up at the library several times a week, and we text a lot too. Since agreeing to become our official apartment handyman the other day, he’s come over to help me build a cheap nightstand for next to my bed. I offered moral support by trying not to stare at the flex of his arms as he worked, or the curl of hair that sometimes escapes from beneath his hat.

I’ve noticed these instances make him happy. He seems to light up when I ask him to fix something or when I ask him to help me build furniture. Except on Dominic, “lighting up” really just looks like a faint lift of his brows and smiling eyes.

I don’t mind. I’ll keep asking him for help as long as I think he wants it. Because sometimes I wonder if he even wants to be here at all—at school, in classes. He seems brightest, most himself and most at ease, when he’s doing other things.

Which is partially why, one Wednesday in early October, I push aside my notebook and lean forward to get his attention.

“Psst,” I whisper, because the library is extra quiet today. 

Across the table from me, Dominic continues typing on his laptop, showing no sign that he’s heard. No hat today, but his light-brown hair is faintly messy anyway, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to reveal tanned forearms. 

“Dom,” I say, my voice still low.

Nothing.

My eyes narrow on him, and I nudge him with my foot under the table, my shoe against his work boot. “I know you can hear me,” I say.

He does his best to keep a straight face at this. But despite the continued click-clack of his keyboard, the corners of his mouth twitch, and a faint glimmer appears in his gaze.

Still, he resolutely ignores me.

I nudge him harder under the table this time—enough that it’s more of a kick. “Dominic,” I hiss.

He finally breaks, a huff of laughter that makes his green eyes crinkle. His fingers pause on the keyboard, and he pushes his computer to the side.

“What can I possibly do for you, darling Reese?” he says, and although the words themselves are exasperated, all I find in his expression is genuine humor and that crooked smile. He leans in, hair falling over his forehead, a hint of his woodshop smell drifting toward me.“Demander of attention, so impatient you can’t wait two minutes for me to finish my paragraph—how can I be of service to you?”

“Well, now you’re just being sassy,” I say, folding my arms.

Another little laugh, and then he says, “Only one of us is sassy, and it’s not me.” His smile fades as he looks at the notebooks in front of me, but his gaze remains good-natured. “What’s up? Need help?”

I hum thoughtfully. “Not exactly. I have two things.”

He gives a brisk nod. “Two things. I’m ready.”

“First”—I lean sideways and open the insulated pocket of my backpack, pulling out the carefully wrapped triangle of sandwich I didn’t eat at lunch—“do you want this?” I keep my voice casual. “Pesto chicken.”

Dominic doesn’t really take enough time to eat. Whether he forgets or loses track of time or is too busy doing other things, I don’t know. What I do know is that the food court sells huge, pre-cut sandwiches perfect for sharing, and if I tried to give him a full one, he’d probably refuse. When I make it seem like I have leftovers I don’t want to waste, he’s more likely to accept.

“You’re getting a lot of these lately,” Dom says, already reaching for the sandwich I’m offering. “Thanks.”

“They’re good,” I say. “I just usually can’t eat both halves.” I watch with satisfaction as he unwraps the sandwich and takes a giant bite. He digs around in his pocket with his free hand and emerges a second later with a yellow butterscotch hard candy, which he holds up with raised brows, asking if I want it.

I take it and tuck it in my bag with a smile. “All right. The second thing,” I say. “I’m wondering.” My pulse skips with nerves, but I force myself to take a deep breath and go on. The words rush out of me as I babble, “Okay. It’s maybe a little weird, and you can totally say no if you want to, okay? I won’t be offended. I actually wasn’t even going to ask, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt⁠—”

“Just say it, Berkeley,” he cuts me off, setting his sandwich to the side. But his voice is soft, and there’s something new in his eyes as he looks at me—something warm that takes me by surprise. It’s not teasing or laughing or amusement. It’s…sweet. Sweet and gentle and fond.

What is that? That’s the way a man looks at a woman. Why is he waiting for me to speak with an expression like that on his face?

My heart thuds, thuds and stirs and swells in ways I don’t understand, and I swallow, my question suddenly gone. It’s vanished off my tongue and from my mind, just like every other thought I’ve ever had.

You have a little crush, I tell myself. That’s all. A baby crush that will go away.

“I—” I begin, but I still can’t find anything.

Autumn Ridge! That’s where I was going with this. Good. Yes.

“Do you want to come back to Autumn Ridge with me this weekend?” I blurt the words out, louder than necessary, and as soon as I’ve released them I wish I could take them back. But that’s not an option, so I make myself go on. “I love Autumn Ridge in the fall,” I explain. “And”—my voice turns sheepish now—“I don’t want to make the drive by myself.” I clear my throat. “Traveling together wouldn’t be weird, would it?”

I’m not sure if Dominic will love this idea or hate it or think it’s stupid, so I watch him carefully, hunting for any sign of his true thoughts, because all I see right now is surprise. 

And he doesn’t move; if anything, his body stills. But the warmth fades from his eyes until it’s replaced by something more difficult to decipher. An inscrutable expression that tells me nothing at all, eyes guarded as he considers me.

I can see a myriad of thoughts running through his head. I just can’t tell what any of them are.

His throat bobs as his hesitant gaze continues to dart over my face, and for one brief moment, his eyes drop to my lips. His shoulders shudder with an unsteady breath, until the room feels too warm and I can’t bear his scrutiny any longer.

“Forget it,” I say, forcing a laugh. “It was dumb. I don’t really need⁠—”

“Weekend after next,” he cuts me off softly. He inhales again and then exhales roughly, still searching my expression, and the tension drains from his body as he nods again. “We can go then.”

I blink, hardly daring to believe him, but a slow smile spreads over my face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he holds up one finger. “If.”

My smile freezes on my face and then falls right off, shattering on the table between us. “If?”

“If,” he repeats, his eyes gleaming with unmistakable challenge. It’s not an expression I’ve seen before. “If you get an A on your engineering midterm.”

My jaw drops, and he rolls his shoulders into a shrug.

“Get an A on your midterm, and I’ll take you to Autumn Ridge.” His eyes meet mine, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, the words deliberate and slow. “In fact…” He squares his shoulders like he’s steeling himself, then another deep breath, one that pulls all the oxygen from the room until I can barely breathe. “Get an A, and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Reese.”

My mind flits to a dangerous place—an image of Dom and I watching a beautiful sunset at Make-Out Ridge, stealing kisses we’re not supposed to steal.

“Anywhere?” I say.

He gives me a slow nod. “Anywhere at all.”

Sunday is blissfully low-key. Berk’s is closed on Sundays, as is the pumpkin farm, so I sleep in until ten with no interruptions. I talk to Juliet Monroe about the Fall Festival this week, because she and Rosie are the ones running the whole shebang. Wednesday is Pumpkin Day—thus why Juliet picked up so many of them on Bugelbach’s opening day—and along with my regular pumpkin patch work, I’m going to be on duty at the festival too.

My pumpkin-handling gloves are ready to go. My pumpkin-orange sweater is hanging from the corner of one of the metal shelving units by my sleeping bag. Wednesday will find me in fine form.

It has occurred to me, however, that I need to make a few adjustments to my housing arrangements before that.

Namely that I have no food and no means of preparation.

As much as I would love to eat every meal at Keller’s Bakehouse, I know this to be both unhealthy and unrealistic, so it is with empty-bellied alacrity that I return to my childhood home on Sunday. I time my visit to coincide with Alvina’s presumed return from church, which she’s probably attended with Daryl; maybe I can get a hint of how things are going today.

My food prep comes first, though, so when I emerge into the kitchen, I get to work. I’ll buy some groceries tomorrow, but for now I make a few PB&Js to last me a couple meals as well as grabbing some granola bars, some Pop-Tarts, and the newly purchased bunch of bananas Nathan has on the kitchen counter.

Sorry, Nate. Have to get that produce in.

I stuff my food into a plastic grocery bag, and I’m about to head out when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. I can tell it’s Alvina, based on the lack of unnecessary thudding and thumping Nathan does. She rounds the corner into the living room a second later, and because she doesn’t look around, she doesn’t see me.

Based on how she’s dressed—heels, fitted pants, and a soft-looking sweater with jewelry shining at her ears and wrists—she’s changed out of her church clothing. But the expression on her face is one I haven’t seen before, or at least not in a long time; it’s sad, contemplative, and not entirely present.

Her footsteps are slow as she drifts not to the couch or the TV but to the wall where a smattering of pictures hang. She seems to know exactly what she’s doing, because there’s no hesitation in her movements when she reaches for one of the photos and lifts it gently off the wall.

When my gaze drops to the picture, to what’s capturing so much of her attention, my throat tightens.

It’s a family photo of the four of us—Nathan and I, Alvina, and my dad. Taken a year or two before he died, it portrays him exactly like I remember, with dark hair, bright eyes, and a relaxed smile.

The rest of us look so different now that it hurts to see the way we were.

Still paying no attention to her surroundings, Alvina’s slow steps move toward the couch, where she perches delicately on the arm rest.

Finally I set my plastic bag on the counter and leave the kitchen. I approach carefully, because with Alvina that’s always best, especially if you can’t read the situation.

Why did she take that picture off the wall? Checking in on her old family before she moves on to the next?

“So,” I say, and I find the word hoarse. “How are things with Daryl?” I hesitate and then ask, “Is he going to be my new stepdad?”

To my surprise, Alvina doesn’t answer right away. I’m not even sure she hears me; there’s a faraway look in her eyes as she stares at our family picture, and her hands are almost gentle as she brings it closer, touching the glass with one finger.

“Al—Mom?” I say.

“Hmm? Oh,” she says. She looks away from the photo and laughs lightly, and when she speaks, her voice is less theatrical. “Marry Daryl? It’s unlikely, I think.”

My brows jump at this, some of my wariness vanishing.

Alvina looks up and sees my surprise; then she nods and glances back at the photo in her lap. “I fear Daryl is far too good for someone like me.” She touches the picture fondly again. “He’s very like your father, you know.”

I blink. “Is he?”

“Mmm. He’s a gentleman.” She holds up her bony hand—looking, I think, at the ring finger that’s currently empty. Then she fiddles with the shiny bracelets on her wrist. “I adore beautiful things. Your previous stepfathers—they did too. But Daryl…” She trails off, her voice musing, her eyes distant once more. “He’s different, I suppose.”

And my tight throat closes further as the world around me fades away. All I can see is my mother’s expression, and all I can feel is horror and deep, desperate despair, because it never occurred to me—it never even crossed my mind that my mother might actually fall for Daryl.

That she might actually end up loving him.

I don’t know why my heart is breaking, only that it is, ripping along seams already repaired so many times before. “How is he different?” I say.

Alvina doesn’t notice my voice break or my eyes tear up, and I guess it’s for the best.

“Well, I prefer things to go my way, and I don’t mind making a fuss. It’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart,” she adds as an aside, flicking a few careless fingers at me. “But Daryl doesn’t give an inch if he thinks I’m being unreasonable. Can you imagine—me, unreasonable.” She scoffs, but there’s a fond smile at the corners of her lips, telling me far more than her words ever could. “I expect he believes in growing old together, working hard for each other.” That little smile fades into something wistful.

Wistful. Like she wants those things.

“I think he’ll eventually realize I’m not that kind of woman,” she goes on. And although her tone is breezy now, her standard way of speaking, she doesn’t look like herself. Her eyes dart away from mine, and she smooths her hair with her free hand.

I find myself stepping forward and speaking. “You could be that kind of woman.”

STOP TALKING, my brain screams at my mouth. WE ARE NOT ENCOURAGING THIS RELATIONSHIP.

But my logical brain doesn’t seem to have any power in this conversation, because I go on. “You were before, weren’t you? With Dad?”

The protests in my mind quiver when a single tear runs down my mother’s cheek.

“I suppose so,” she says, turning her head and wiping the tear with a delicate flick of her wrist. “But I’m not sure it’s worth doing again, you know—that level of devotion. I’m quite happy enough the way I am.” The words are followed by a laugh that’s not quite real, a fake, airy sound.

It’s the laugh of a woman who knows she’s lying.

“Oh, this is all so silly to discuss, Reese, darling.” She stands up, smooths her hands down her shirt, and tosses the family photo carelessly onto the couch behind her. “You should turn in early.”

I blink at her. “It’s not bedtime.”

She waves this away. “Yes, well. You have bags under your eyes.”

Then she bustles past me, out of the room, and up the stairs again. I’m left watching her go, and as soon as she’s gone, I hurry around the couch to retrieve the photo.

I lift it carefully, smiling at my dad. “Hi,” I tell him, my voice soft. “I’ll put you back on the wall so you don’t have to stare at the ceiling, okay?” I carry him across the room, lifting my sweater to clean the frame—only to realize that there’s no dust.

I hang the picture gently, returning it to its place. Then I glance at some of the other photos that hang nearby. Their frames are all covered in a fine layer of dust, except for one: another family photo, one from when I was still in middle school. It hangs slightly crooked, so I straighten it, squeezing my stinging eyes and wondering how much time Alvina spends with my dad when no one else is watching.

Bright and early Monday morning brings the beginning of the Fall Festival, and I swear the crisp breeze is scented with pumpkin spice.

Main has been closed off from end to end, giving plenty of room for all the booths and tables and activities. I don’t make it to the kick-off breakfast because I’m helping Nathan open the store, but I smell what’s being cooked—delicious maple and sizzling sausage and fluffy pancakes. As much as I love the pumpkin patch, I’m almost sad when it’s time to head over.

I step out of Berk’s and into the sun, the cheerful hum of chatter and enjoyment greeting my ears. Leaving the sidewalk past the trees that line the road, I crane my neck up and down Main to get a better look; a smile finds me immediately at the vibrant colors and the milling of townspeople and the laughter of children officially off school for fall break.

My smile dims when I see Rosie hurrying around, though. She looks frazzled, but that’s not what bothers me; it’s the memory of my conversation with Alvina last night that floods in and wrinkles worry into my expression. I wave when I catch Rosie’s eye, and she waves back, but my greeting is halfhearted.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my mother the way she was last night. For a few brief moments, all of her masks were stripped away, and she felt human—not drifting aimlessly and carelessly but somewhat rooted. What’s more, she seemed to want to be that person, even if she denied it.

Maybe he could fix her!

The words I spoke in desperation the other day come back to me now, but I shake my head. “Absolutely not,” I say to myself. “It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”

No one can fix another person. But the power of a positive, motivating influence…that can’t be denied, either.

I scrub my hands down my face and groan.

“Talking to yourself?”

I startle and whirl around to see Dominic, his arms folded. The cord of his necklace is tucked securely beneath a green t-shirt that turns his eyes from mossy to emerald, even in the shadow of his baseball hat.

The memory of pretending to kiss him floods into my mind, and I can feel my stupid cheeks heating.

He brought me a blanket. I wore his shirt. I sat on his lap.

“Yes,” I say, straightening up and dragging my mind away from what happened. Then I clear my throat. “But only a little, and for a very good cause.”

“A very good cause?” he says, stepping closer. His shadow looms over the pavement, swallowing mine completely.

“For—” I falter as I search desperately for a reason. Then, finally giving up, I say, “For charity.”

His lips twitch, but I go on before he can respond.

“What are you doing here?”

He points past me to the entrance of the hardware shop. “I need to grab a few things for Rosie. She bit off more than she can chew with all this”—he gestures up and down the street—“so I’m filling in some gaps.”

“Such a good brother.”

“And only one of my admirable qualities.” Some of the amusement in his eyes fades as he looks at me. “You okay?”

Because he could be talking about several things—my embarrassment-red cheeks, my worries about our parents, my flustered heart—I don’t answer right away. I wait until he goes on.

“You look worried,” he says, and relief trickles through me.

I cannot explain my flushed skin. I cannot tell him I’m still remembering our not-kiss.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, but I can feel my face fall, and I grimace. “Kind of? I don’t know.” I pause. “The situation with our parents might have changed a little,” I admit.

He unfolds his arms slowly and adjusts his hat, his brows furrowing. “How so?”

But before I can say anything, he glances over his shoulder and sighs. “No, sorry—I actually can’t talk at the moment. I’ve got to run.”

“We can talk later,” I say with a nod, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not relieved. “It isn’t urgent.”

“Great,” he says, his voice brisk now. He looks over his shoulder again, and following his gaze I find Rosie, who’s shooing him on. “I’m going,” he yells to her. Then he shakes his head and steps past me. “Later, Berkeley. Call me. Or I’ll call you—whatever.”

I hum my agreement and then watch him breeze into the shop, the overhead bell jingling. When the door thumps closed, I take a deep breath and push my hair behind my ears.

There is no need to get so worked up about a man saying he’ll call, I tell my heart. And definitely not this man. Get it together.

A past version of Reese loved a past version of Dominic. Loved him deeply, even when she shouldn’t have. It’s only natural that some of that will spill over. But my responsibility now is to push those feelings out when they try to emerge. So I nod firmly, remind myself that it has been six years and we’re both very different now, and then stride off, heading to Bugelbach’s.

Since Archer Kade owns the stables, he brings horse-pulled hayrides of people to and from Bugelbach’s as part of the Fall Festival activities. I spend most of Monday receiving groups of people and keeping the ferry organized from my end of the circuit.

I also spend significant time eyeing the treats everyone is bringing from the booths over on Main. I spy some of Sadie Stevenson’s sticky buns and a maple bar or two, and it’s around lunch time that I decide to ask Joe for a pocket of time off so I can go grab some for myself.

“Go on,” he says, waving me away with a cheerful smile and adjusting his straw hat. “Go get some food and take a gander at Main. I bet it’s a sight to behold.”

And he’s right. I have to park in the back lot of the hardware store, since Main is closed, but when I emerge around front, my senses come alive with something magical. It’s a feeling born from the gently falling leaves, from the faint strain of music on the breeze—a sparkling, glistening feeling I embrace with both arms.

I step onto the street and head gleefully toward the hubbub, my steps light as I pass several tables full of kids, all immersed in some sort of craft project involving glass jars. They’re clearly having a blast, laughing and giggling and talking loudly over each other. I duck in front of several families trying to take pictures with the scarecrows and hay bales, murmuring quick apologies as I hurry by, and then I reach the vendor stands.

Pure, unadulterated happiness lingers ahead. Joy is within my reach. I can smell them—maple bars.

There’s a bit of a line at the Keller’s Bakehouse booth where Sadie is stationed, but I’m fine waiting. I find myself craning my neck in the meantime, looking up and down the street, but I don’t realize I’m searching for someone specific until I find him.

It’s Dominic my eyes land on. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow as he transports a bale of hay down the curb, settling it next to one of the trees lining the road and then standing up and dusting his hands off. He rubs the back of his neck and adjusts his hat, his body sagging slightly.

He looks tired, and knowing him, he probably hasn’t taken time to eat—which is why, when I finally get to the front of the line, I order one maple bar and one sticky bun.

He should at least grab a bite when he’s working so hard. If he doesn’t want it now, he can save it for later.

Although he’s nuts if he doesn’t want it now. These sticky buns are amazing. Not as amazing as the maple bars, but then again—nothing is. They’re unmatched.

Sadie passes over my baked goods with a bright smile, and I thank her and then scoot aside, letting the next person in line order. I turn slowly, searching for Dominic, because he’s no longer standing where he was; it takes a moment, but I finally locate him working on a mic stand next to a large speaker.

“Hey,” I say as I approach. I hold out the bag when he looks at me. “I figured you hadn’t eaten, so I brought you sustenance.” I sound very casual, like this is a normal thing to do—bring your ex a cinnamon bun.

And it could be normal, couldn’t it? It’s not like we’re enemies. We’re two people with a common goal.

We just also happen to have a common dating history.

But Dominic doesn’t seem to think it’s weird or overstepping; he blinks in surprise when he sees me, but then he straightens up, his eyes lightening, his hands falling away from the mic stand.

“Hey,” he says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Bugelbach’s?”

“I am,” I admit. “But Joe told me to take some time to come grab a bite.” I draw closer, and my gaze drops to Dom’s chest as a spot of color catches my attention. It’s a pink sticker with the words I Voted, slapped right over one of the finest pectoral muscles history has ever seen.

Dom’s gaze follows mine to the sticker, and a faint flush creeps up his neck. “Emma made me wear it,” he says. “They’re voting on the Mayor’s girlfriend.”

I blink at this. “As in, the Mayor will date whoever we vote for? That sounds dangerous.”

He shakes his head, resting his hands on his hips and looking down at the sticker again. “Apparently he’s suspected to be dating someone already, and everyone is voting on who they think it is.”

My conversation with the Ednas comes back to me, and I nod slowly. “I remember hearing something about that.” Then I smile. “Good for him. He’s been single for way too long.”

“It’s been a long time,” he agrees. He glances at the bag in my hand and then over my shoulder. Then, pointing at the bag, he pins me with a knowing look. “From Keller’s?”

I nod. “Sadie is over there. I brought you a sticky bun.”

His lips crook into a little grin. “What if I want your maple bar?”

“Who says I got a maple bar?”

“Me,” he says, his smile widening as I drift closer. “I say you got a maple bar.”

“Come and see,” I say with a shrug.

A gust of wind blows through, perfectly autumn and perfectly crisp, but it whips my hair around my face; I extend my arm further. “Take this,” I say to Dominic, wiggling the paper bag at him.

He takes it, and I remove the scrunchie from my wrist and wrestle with my hair. I bend at the waist, flipping my hair over my head to give it some volume, and then I stand, letting it fall back into place. I’m able to pull it into a high ponytail this way, one that doesn’t look slicked back. After running my fingers up my neck to make sure I haven’t missed any hair, I turn to Dom.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes on me have a dazed sort of look, and he licks his lower lip slowly as the bag in his hand crinkles.

“Dom,” I say with a frown, my gaze dropping to the bag he’s gripping so tightly. “What are you doing? You’re going to rip that.”

To my surprise, he steps forward, closing most of the distance between us. Then he reaches up, his brows jumping, his eyes hesitant as they meet mine—asking permission, which I give breathlessly with a nod. His gaze drops to my neck, and he reaches further. I stifle my sharp inhale at the feeling of his fingers brushing my skin, just below my jaw; the sudden riot of butterflies in my stomach doesn’t go away, even when I feel a little tug at the base of my neck—a bit of hair I missed despite checking. He pulls on it a few times, and I glance down as his hand falls away.

“Oh,” I say hoarsely, reaching up and finding the hair. “Yeah.” I clear my throat, and my voice sounds much better when I add, “Thanks.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, his gaze darting away from mine. “Where to?”

“Do you have a minute?” I say. “To eat, I mean?”

“Yeah,” he says, and I’m relieved to hear we’re back to normal. “I’m hungry anyway.”

“Then let’s go over here,” I say, gesturing at the alley between the hardware shop and Keller’s. “Sit for a second.”

Dom shuffles tiredly ahead of me, not speaking, and I take the privacy of his turned back to take a few deep breaths and fan my face.

It’s warm out here, isn’t it? It feels warm to me.

By the time we reach the entrance to the alley, I’ve fixed my hair, and the world grows surprisingly quiet as we make our way in. The shrieks of children dim, the hum of noise and music fading, until we’re in our own little pocket of the world.

I hear more of Dominic’s shoes scuffing the pavement than I do of the festival, his steps slow, his shoulders relaxed. When he chooses a spot of wall and settles on the pavement, his back against the red brick of Berk’s, I do the same, sitting across from him and leaning against Keller’s.

“You’re tired,” I say, and again, I worry for a second that it’s too casual, but he nods.

“I am,” he admits. He pulls off his hat and sets it on the pavement next to him, running one hand over his hair. “I think everything’s going well, though.”

“It looks awesome,” I say, nodding toward the mouth of the alley. “Rosie and Juliet did a great job.”

“They did. Rosie will be glad when it’s over.”

“I bet,” I say, because putting together the Fall Festival is a huge undertaking. Then I jerk my chin at the paper bag Dominic still has. “Grab your sticky bun and then give me my maple bar.”

“Who you calling a sticky bun?” he mumbles with a faint quirk of his lips, but he unrolls the top of the bag and then removes one enormous roll, slathered in icing and wrapped in wax paper. He passes me the bag, and I dig out my maple bar and a napkin.

What a glorious donut.

I take a bite and let out a groan of satisfaction. “I needed this,” I say.

I glance up at Dom to find his eyes on me, one brow raised, but all he says is “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Then he takes a big bite of his cinnamon bun.

My body relaxes further against the rough wall, and for a minute or two, we eat in silence.

Dominic breaks it, though, when he speaks. “Oh,” he says, a frown curling his lips as though he’s just remembered. “What were you talking about this morning? You said our parents’ situation had changed.”

I sort of wish he hadn’t asked.

I clear my throat, breaking off a piece of my maple bar and popping it in my mouth. Because I’m nervous about what I’m preparing to say, I chew slowly. Then, finally, I let the words out. “So…I think Alvina actually likes your dad.”

Dom shrugs, his eyes on his sticky bun once more. “They’re dating, aren’t they?” he says, and then he takes another enormous bite.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean I think she truly likes him. Maybe is falling in love with him.” My fingers begin fiddling with my napkin, tearing it into small pieces of their own accord. “It seems different from her past relationships, except for the one with my dad.”

When Dominic’s jaw stops working. When he looks slowly up at me from across the alleyway and raises his brows, my pulse skitters—because I can tell he sees where I’m going with this. He quickly finishes chewing the bite of food in his mouth and then speaks. “And…?” he says.

“And…” I swallow, feeling the rough napkin beneath my fingertips, the sharp press of brick against my back. “And what if we let them date?” I go on, speaking faster, trying to get the words out before he objects. “I don’t think we’re having much success anyway, are we? I think this could be good for her. Plus”—my deepest fear rears its ugly head—“we’ve almost been caught several times⁠—”

“Are you serious right now?”

I jump a little at his question, even though it’s not loud or angry—just abrupt. When Dom sees my reaction, he sighs and sets his sticky bun down. “What if they get married?” he says, and though his words are relatively calm now, his body is tense, his eyes narrowed. “What then?”

“I don’t think they will,” I say, thinking of my conversation with Alvina.

But Dominic shakes his head, looking frustrated. “What you think carries no weight on reality, Reese.” He reaches for his roll, stops, and then lets his hand drop as he looks at me. “I asked you if you wanted to break them up, and you said yes. I told you not to get involved if you were going to change your mind.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “But when Alvina tells you to jump, you ask how high.”

My napkin is shredded too finely for me to tear or rip anymore, but my hands work aimlessly anyway, my lip trembling as helplessness tries to rise in my chest.

“What do you want?” Dom says finally, letting his head tilt back against the brick wall. He watches me through lowered lids, his gaze expectant.

“I—” I begin, but I’m not sure how to answer. “I just⁠—”

When I don’t continue, he shakes his head, rolling it side to side against the brick and looking tired. “What do you want, Reese?”

“I don’t want Alvina to hate me,” I say. “And I just want everyone to be happy!”

He lifts his head and gives me a slow nod. “And what if that’s not possible?” he says quietly. “What if there is no outcome in which everyone can have everything they want?”

I swallow, refusing to let those words in. “I’m sure we could figure something out⁠—”

“No,” he says flatly. “We couldn’t. Your mother wants to date my dad. I don’t want your mother to date my dad. You don’t want your mother to date my dad, but you don’t want your mother to get mad at you if she finds out you tried to break them up.” He sighs. “These things are mutually exclusive, Berkeley. You cannot have them all. So you’re going to need to work up the courage to make a choice.” His direct gaze is full of things he’s not saying, but he finally finishes, “Some fences can’t be sat on.”

And although the word coward never leaves his lips, it hangs in the space between us, dancing with taunting steps around me. I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and then blink rapidly a few times, because I cannot cry. I will not cry.

Because he’s right. Dominic is right, of course. And to cry would make me more pathetic than I already am.

But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to move forward or how to move backward. So I take another bite of my maple bar.

It doesn’t taste as good as it did before, but I chew mechanically anyway. When Dominic stands abruptly, his movements jerky, I don’t look up at him. I don’t say goodbye when he strides toward the mouth of the alley, because if I say anything, it will be muddled with stupid tears.

I hear his steps pause at the entrance, though; they shuffle to a stop. When he speaks, his voice is tight, grudging.

“Think about something, will you, Berkeley?” he says. “Because I’m confused. When you make decisions, how do you choose your next steps? Are they even based on what you want?” He pauses. “Or are they based on what you fear?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and I don’t have one to give. I listen to his footsteps as they disappear, reaching for my donut to give myself something to do—but it’s gone. I’ve already eaten the whole thing, and I didn’t even realize.

My tears finally escape.

I try to keep hold of the autumn magic in the air when I return to Bugelbach’s after my discussion with Dom, but it’s difficult. I feel a little like one of the warty gourds I usually find so endearing—warped and splotchy inside, trying and failing to be a regular pumpkin.

“I’m not sure that makes sense,” Liv says when I call her after the pumpkin patch closes and everyone has left for the day.

“I know,” I say glumly, the bench swing creaking softly as I sit. “It doesn’t make sense at all. But it’s still how I feel.”

“And you are totally allowed to feel like that. So…” she continues slowly, “do you want to tell me what’s going on? You and Dominic argued?”

I haven’t told her exactly what happened, only that Dom and I talked earlier and it didn’t go well. Liv would happily listen to all my woes, but she has enough going on as it is—I don’t want to add more to her plate.

Of course, underneath all those reasons, one more burrows nastily beneath my skin: I think I’d be ashamed to admit what Dominic and I talked about.

“I wouldn’t call it an argument,” I say with a sigh. “There are some things we don’t see eye to eye on.”

Even though you know he’s right, says a little voice in my mind, and my heart sinks.

“Everything will be okay,” Liv says, maybe sensing my desire to change the subject. “Worst case scenario, you, me, and Ari can move to Alaska and start our own commune.”

“I would die in Alaska,” I say, frowning. “Do you know how cold it is up there?”

“Somewhere warm, then,” she says, and a reluctant smile comes to my lips.

“Deal. Our own commune, somewhere warm.”

We say goodbye and hang up, but I don’t leave right away; I stay on the bench. I swing my legs and stare aimlessly at the hay bales across the gravel lane, and the entire time, my head swirls with questions I don’t have answers to—riddles without solutions.

In the end, all my tired mind can settle on is that too many rubber bands stretched around a pumpkin will not snap themselves—it’s the pumpkin that will explode.

“Go home and go to bed,” I mutter to myself, standing up and leaving the swing swaying gently behind me. “You’ve looked at too many pumpkins today.”

Tuesday is more of the same, minus visiting the ongoing festival in the middle of the day. There’s also an added migraine, one that pulses painfully behind my right eye until I take the migraine medicine that gets rid of it. I’m fairly certain the headache is caused by my nighttime tossing and turning, not to mention the floor I’ve been sleeping on.

I don’t hear from Dominic, and like the spineless slug I am, I’m glad. Dom has always had a way of asking questions I had to answer, questions I didn’t let myself think about because of how sticky they were.

But with Dom, keeping my head buried in the sand won’t fly. Not completely, anyway.

Why must he encourage me to be a better person? Why can’t I wallow stagnantly in my comfort zone?

I snort as I tromp over the straw-strewn gravel, a large pumpkin in my arms, dirt smudging my overalls. It’s been a more hands-on day at Bugelbach’s, because we’re moving some of our stock around. Musclewoman I am not, so it’s slow going, but we do get it done, and after that I’m able to sit down and rest.

In rest, my mind turns to my mother, and Daryl, and Dominic. Those three are impossibly tangled together, and no matter how I think about it, Dom is right—not everyone will be happy, regardless of what happens with the situation we’ve found ourselves in.

I don’t want my mother to date Dom’s dad. Everything in me repels that idea, because it’s wrong. It’s just wrong. If anyone will be together, it will be me and Dom⁠—

“Stop,” I say severely when I realize where my thoughts have strayed. I press my back into the prickly bale of hay I’m seated against, trying to bring myself to my senses. “No. Stop.”

But that’s the real reason, isn’t it? That’s what I’m trying to ignore. If Alvina marries Daryl, Dom and I will be stepsiblings. And as stepsiblings, any far-off future for us would be difficult, if not impossible.

But if Alvina finds out I’m trying to ruin her relationship, she’ll be so, so angry—and when Alvina holds a grudge, she’s punitive. Add in the fact that she genuinely seems to like Daryl, and the equation becomes more complicated still.

“Maybe I should talk to Liv and Ari about that commune,” I say.

A child running past slows down and gives me a weird look as I talk to myself, so I snap my mouth shut and try to look like I’m busy.

Which is true! I’m very busy. I have a lot to do.

And that’s how the rest of my day goes: talking to myself like a weirdo, moving pumpkins all over the place, and keeping the farm orderly while Archer continues to ferry people to and from the festival.

The hours stretch on, and if I had a feather bed, I would collapse onto it with abandon when I returned to my storage room set-up that night. As it is, I’m working with a sleeping bag, so I move a little more carefully. My hair is still damp from the shower I snuck at Nathan’s house after work, but I don’t mind; my body aches after the day I’ve had.

It’s about nine-thirty in the evening when I receive a text from Dominic, and it comprises three words only: Where are you?

His name on my phone screen causes a little jump in my veins, excitement and worry and trepidation. I bite my lip at his question, and I glance around the storage room, at the looming shelves and my sleeping bag and my camp light.

Then I lie through my teeth.

“I’m at home,” I breathe as I text him back.

But why is he asking? We haven’t talked to each other since our conversation in the alley yesterday. It’s not even that we’re not speaking; we just…haven’t spoken.

There’s a difference.

A distant roll of thunder outside echoes the worry bubbling in my chest. I don’t know why Dominic is reaching out now, but given the time of night and the odd question, something might be going on.

Has Alvina brought Daryl to our house, maybe? I can’t picture Nathan letting that fly, but he could be out. Or what if they’re having a romantic evening somewhere else, laughing and bonding deep down in their souls?

What if they’re making wedding plans?

She could be happy, part of my brain says.

You could be heartbroken, the other part says.

Another boom of thunder echoes, followed by the steady start of rain—gentle at first, then heavier.

And despite my concern, I find my lips curling into a smile. I burrow down into my sleeping bag, listening to the downpour on the roof and relishing the cozy atmosphere.

I’d give anything for a fireplace and a fuzzy blanket.

I pull up Dom’s phone number and then call him to ask what’s going on. We’ll have to smooth out yesterday’s conversation sometime anyway. I’m not particularly excited, but I’ve let things sit all day.

I clutch the phone tighter in my hand. “You’re a strong woman,” I say, even though I don’t feel like a strong woman.

Being on iffy terms with Dominic is not quite like being on iffy terms with anyone else. It’s a bur against my skin.

But although the phone rings and rings and rings, he doesn’t answer. When I hang up and try again, there’s still no response, so I sigh and plug my phone in, pushing it aside and flopping back onto my pillow.

I drift in and out of sleep for a while, lulled by the sound of the rain but troubled by my swirling thoughts. I’m not sure how long I stay in this half-awake state, only that I’m jerked unpleasantly out of it with a jolt.

I sit bolt upright, my heart jumping into my throat as I listen. For a moment I only hear the downpour, but then a sound filters toward me, and I realize what’s happening.

Someone is knocking on the door—pounding on the door. I hear it over the rain, three thuds in quick succession.

I scramble out of my sleeping bag and grab the lantern, hurrying out of the storage room, down the tools aisle, and to the shop entrance.

For a brief second, a long rectangle of light from the street lamp outside streams across the floor; it’s obscured into shadow when a dark, looming figure moves in front of the glass, and I almost scream.

Someone is out there.

“Berkeley.” The call is faint, but relief floods through me when I recognize the voice. I unlock the shop door and fling it open to reveal Dominic, standing on the doorstep and looking like a drowned man back to life.

His chest heaves choppily as he holds his arm over his head like that will calm the storm, and his eyes rove over me, lingering on my tropical pajamas as rain blows into the shop. “Are you living here?”

“I—” I break off, embarrassed to be found homeless by a man I absolutely do not love anymore. “So what if I am?”

Dominic pushes past me and into the store, and I hurry out of his way, closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

But he doesn’t answer. He looks at the puddle he’s brought in with him, water dripping all over the place, and then turns to me. “You’re actually living here?”

“I asked if I could use your shed,” I point out, keeping my voice steady. “And you said no.” Then, because I can’t help it, I add, “Very rudely.”

“I didn’t—” He looks bewildered as he goes on, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Well, I was,” I say. I pause, my brows furrowing. “How did you know I was here?”

Dom’s entire sweatshirt seems to slump, hood and all, as he sighs. “Rosie told me you came by the other day, looking for a place to stay. I checked at your house and you weren’t there⁠—”

“How come you can come to my house unannounced but I can’t go to yours?” I say, indignant.

He doesn’t answer my question. “Get your stuff,” he says wearily.

I blink at him. “What?”

“Get your stuff,” he says again. When I stare blankly, he goes on in a tight voice, “You can’t live in the storage room of a hardware store, Berkeley.”

Then he brushes past me, except he’s sopping, so it’s less of a brush and more of a squelch. He trudges wetly down the aisle, his shoes squeaking, and I hurry behind him.

“What are you doing?” I call. “Hang on. What are you—wait!”

He’s barged into the storage room and flipped on the light, revealing my current living space in all its pathetic glory: a squashy sleeping bag, an open duffle bag with jeans and underwear hanging out, and my phone plugged into a dusty extension cord.

I lunge for the underwear as Dominic stares at the setup.

“We said boundaries, Dom,” I say loudly as I tackle my duffle bag and shove everything back inside, pushing my cardboard box of memories to the bottom so he won’t see. “Boundaries! We made a big deal about it—there were rules! Stay out of⁠—”

But my words turn into a yelp of protest when Dominic steps further into the room and grabs the plastic bag I’ve been using as a laundry hamper.

“Leave my clothes alone!” I say.

“Then get them yourself, unless you want to go naked,” he says, tossing the bag to me. I miss, and my dirty clothes go flying.

“This is not boundaries!” I all but wail. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you move,” Dominic says calmly, and I freeze.

“What?”

He sighs, and even that simple motion sends a few extra water droplets onto the floor as he continues to drip. “Do you or do you not want to live here?” he says.

I snatch a dirty shirt from off my sleeping bag. “It’s obviously not ideal⁠—”

“And do you want to go back and room with Alvina Berkeley?” he goes on.

“Clearly not,” I say stiffly as I ball the shirt up and stuff it in the plastic bag. “She wears too much perfume⁠—”

“Which gives you headaches.”

“And she won’t let me turn on white noise⁠—”

“So you have to listen to the snoring.”

“And I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

The words explode out of me, louder than I expected. My heart thuds in my chest as my hand tightens around the blue jeans I’ve just yanked off the floor.

In the resulting silence, accompanied only by the steady drip, drip, drip of Dominic’s water-logged clothes, a flash of raw understanding passes between us.

Then Dom nods, picks up my duffle bag, and shoves it into my arms. “Take this to the truck,” he says.

I continue to stare at him.

“It’s not like we have all night,” he goes on when I don’t move. “Pick up the pace or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you myself.”

“Take me where, exactly?”

A violent crash of thunder sounds overhead, so loud the shop itself seems to quake, and Dom looks around before muttering under his breath—something about Don’t have time for this.

Then, without any more warning, he hauls me into his arms, bridal style. I gasp and clutch the duffle bag hanging from one hand, slinging my other arm around his neck so I don’t fall.

“Put me down—no, don’t drop me!” I say quickly, and he scoffs.

“When have I ever dropped you?”

We both still at this, an awkward pause curdling the space between us.

He recovers first, lurching out of the store room and down one of the aisles. He pushes the door open with his foot and launches the both of us out into the downpour, his head ducked against the rain, and pushes through the wind, around the building, and to his truck.

“Well?” he says loudly when we reach the Ford. “Get in.” He starts to put me down, but I cling tighter to him.

“No,” I yell so I can be heard. “You cannot just pick me up and force me out of my living quarters⁠—”

I break off with a yelp as he resumes his grip and lifts me again, his expression somewhere between annoyed and businesslike.

Then he proceeds to drop me into the bed of his truck.

“The bed?” I screech as he rounds the front with my bag and gets into the driver’s seat, tossing the duffle over to the passenger side. I scramble forward and bang on the cab window. “This is illegal⁠—”

“Don’t fall out!” he yells back, words I barely hear.

I call him a name I’m not proud of.

He whips around to look at me through the little window, but he’s clearly not offended; he just gives me a tsk, tsk as he shakes his head.

“Dominic! Dom!” It’s no good; my words are drowned out in the roar of the engine and the deluge of rain. “My sleeping bag! What about my sleeping bag?” But I yelp when the truck lurches forward⁠—

And off into the night we go.

I have never had so many unflattering things to say about this man, but it occurs to me now that the back of his head looks stupid, and his hands look dumb on the steering wheel of his truck, and he’s mean.

“You’re mean!” I shout over the rain and the wind, thumping my hand against the cab window again. “You are a mean person!”

My would-be tirade dies when my wet hair gets blown into my mouth, and I swipe at my face, spitting and blowing raspberries like a very bad beatboxer. The only saving grace of the moment is that no one is there to witness it.

The truck rumbles down First and then turns onto a residential road, one with gorgeous trees and small homes; it’s the kind of neighborhood you’d see in a movie from the nineties. Nostalgic and reminiscent, even in the dark and the pouring rain.

Because of my current predicament and mood, I refuse to be charmed. I am dressed in silky pajamas, my hair plastered to my head and face, and I am cold. The man driving this vehicle clearly never loved me. In fact, I think he might be a sociopath.

“You’re psycho!” I shout at him. I curl into a ball, my arms around my knees to block as much of the wind as possible. I’m pretty sure he can’t hear anything I’m saying, but I keep yelling anyway. “I’m psycho too, for loving you back then! This is cruel and unusual and I will put your face on a dartboard⁠—”

But I break off when the truck begins to slow in front of a small house, eventually rolling to a stop. It’s a cute place, from what I can see through my half-closed, rain-splattered eyes. If the situation were vastly different, I’d be interested in taking a closer look.

When Dom opens the driver’s door, a light in the cab blinks on, and he gets out of the truck. Then he saunters—yes, SAUNTERS—to the side and looks down at where I’m still curled up in the bed.

“I know for a fact you’re terrible at darts,” he yells over the storm.

My jaw drops. It snaps shut again when rain starts to blow into my mouth.

He smirks and then makes his way to the back of the truck, unlatching the door and beckoning for me to get out.

My annoyance and stubbornness urge me to stay exactly where I am, but survival instincts say otherwise. I scurry toward him, preparing myself mentally to unfold my body and walk barefoot when I hop down⁠—

But that moment never comes. The ridges of the metal bed dig painfully into my knees as I crawl, and then suddenly he’s holding me, hoisting me up.

It is worth noting, by the way, that this process is neither gentle nor romantic. There’s a good deal of airborne manhandling that occurs, and I may as well be a bag of flour cradled in his arms.

I will never admit that I prefer this to walking myself, simply because I am so, so cold.

He ducks his head closer so I can hear him. “Still worried I’m going to drop you?” he breathes down to me as he strides around the truck and then up the driveway.

“What if I get hypothermia?” I say through shivers. “Did you ever think of that?”

I feel rather than hear his snort of laughter, because the rain is still torrential. I turn my head to protect what I can of my face, but the rest of my body flops with every step he takes. He tromps all the way up the driveway and then into a yard of some kind; thirty seconds later he comes to a halt and swings me to my feet without warning. I yelp, but his hand is already at the small of my back, pushing me forward through a door as he opens it.

I stumble helplessly over a threshold and feel relief rush over me at once. I’m inside at last. The air is still, the rain loud on the roof overhead. Dominic bumps into me as he comes in behind and then closes the door, officially sealing out the storm.

And based on the familiar scent of wood shavings, I think I know where I am.

“Dom,” I say, my voice shaky from my continued shivers but also from triumph. “Is this your shed?” I glance around, but I can’t see much by the light of the windows. “Are you going to let me live in your shed after all?”

His voice emerges from the darkness behind me, firm with warning. “Only temporarily, and only because sleeping in a hardware shop is pathetic, Berkeley. Okay? That’s the only reason.” I hear a shuffling sound, and then a light pops on overhead.

Dominic strides over to a large cabinet against the wall while I peer at my surroundings; there are some metal shelves on one side, not unlike those at Berk’s, and on the other side is a long, ancient-looking couch and a mini fridge. Toward the back of the shop are some work benches, a saw, and a pegboard wall full of tools.

Comfort and fond memories rush back to me at the sight, and the indescribable sense of home I always get when I’m reminded of my dad. He was always safe for me in a way Alvina never has been.

It’s a feeling, I realize, that Dominic has always given me too. Even after all this time; even when we broke up.

By the time he returns to me, my lips are curled into a smile. He raises one questioning brow and holds up a threadbare towel.

I glance past him and realize the big wooden cabinet seems to be full of linens and maybe clothes. I don’t get a chance to inspect it, though, because a second later Dom has tossed the towel over my head.

I startle, about to protest, but when a gentle touch begins drying my hair, I freeze.

“What’s with the smile?” Dom says. And although his voice is hoarse, his hands work slowly and softly.

It takes me a second to find words, because this is the last thing I expected to happen. “Uh,” I say distractedly as his touch through the towel moves to the base of my neck, wringing the water out of my hair as he goes. “It smells good in here.”

He hums but doesn’t speak; a minute or two goes by, in fact, and he doesn’t say anything else until he pulls the towel off my head and drapes it around my shoulders. Then he points to the cabinet against the wall. “Find something to wear,” he says quietly, his gaze not meeting mine. “Change in the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

I give a wide-eyed nod, speechless once more. I watch as he heads back out the door, a gust of wind rushing in when he opens it and then ceasing when it closes.

I shiver—from the cold, I’m sure, and not for any other reason—and hurry over to the open cabinet. The sloppy footprints of numb feet follow me as the chill begins to set in, and I stare into the wardrobe for only a second before reaching in and grabbing some clothes. I find a soft long-sleeved shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and then contemplate digging to see if there’s somehow a spare bra in here.

There is not, of course. So I deem the shirt and shorts good enough and search for the bathroom.

It’s at the very back, through a door located past the work benches, and it’s the tiniest bathroom I’ve ever been in. I manage to change by contorting slightly, after which I roll up the sleeves of Dom’s shirt and then wring my wet pajamas out over the toilet. They need to be hung up to dry, but there’s no place in here to do it, so I go back out to find somewhere else.

Dominic has already returned when I emerge from the little bathroom. He’s still drenched himself, leaning against the closed door with his arms folded, looking lost in thought. My duffle is on the floor next to him, I see with relief.

I hang my wet pajamas on the door knob of the bathroom door and then move toward him. His basketball shorts hit just below my knees, the shirt similarly too big, but they’re blissfully comfortable. “Thanks,” I say.

He startles, his gaze swinging to me as he straightens up.

I hold one foot out, wiggling it. “Uh, do you happen to have any socks?”

Dom’s green eyes travel up and down my body, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Then he looks away, takes a deep breath, and gestures to the cabinet. “There should be some in there,” he says in a hoarse voice.

I nod, feeling self-conscious. He seems content to stay where he is, though, so I help myself, searching through the closet until I find a pair of mismatched white socks. I sigh happily when I pull them on, as high up my legs as they’ll go, and then glance at Dom.

He’s still determinedly not looking at me.

“So,” I say into the silence that’s starting to feel a tad uncomfortable.

His eyes jump back to me for only a second before they dart away again, and then he moves to the cabinet. After digging around briefly, he holds up an old bomber jacket and tosses it at me over his shoulder. “Go ahead and put this on.”

I barely catch it. “Oh,” I say in surprise. “That’s okay. I’m actually not⁠—”

“Just put the jacket on, Berkeley.”

I put the jacket on.

I am still braless, after all.

Dom relaxes a bit when he turns around and sees me zipping the jacket up, some of the tension leaking out of his frame. He sighs tiredly and gestures to the couch. “Sit,” he says. “We need to talk.”

Such doom-filled words, normally, and yet all I feel at hearing them is a faint sense of relief. “I agree,” I say with a skeptical nod, “but do you want to change first?”

He glances down at his wet clothes, the trail of water he’s left on the floor, and looks faintly surprised to see how waterlogged he still is.

“Yeah,” he says. “I probably should.”

And then—AND THEN—he begins undressing.

Right there, right in front of me, he removes his sweatshirt, letting it slop to the polished concrete floor.

That’s not so bad, I think. Just one layer. It’s not like he’s getting naked⁠—

But then comes the shirt. It’s plastered to his torso, so much that I can see every muscle. They are plentiful, those muscles, but I do not stare, because I am a lady. I just glance casually instead, a little peek from the corner of my eye while I pretend to scratch my head.

When he begins peeling the shirt off, I give up my charade.

“Dom,” I snap at him.

He emerges from the shirt a second later, messy-haired, and raises one brow at me. “What?” he says innocently.

But I swear there’s laughter in his eyes.

I point toward the back of the shop where the bathroom is located, and he shrugs, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

He takes his sweet time finding new clothes to wear, and I have to wonder if a simple cabinet search really causes all that muscle movement in a man’s back.

It’s just...

Here’s the thing. There’s a certain kind of muscular that maintains a perfect balance, and Dom walks that line beautifully. He’s not bodybuilder muscular. He’s not even gym muscular. He’s hard work muscular. The kind that comes from years of applied labor; the kind that made lifting me into his arms seem as easy as breathing.

I grit my teeth and sit down on the couch while Dominic continues to search.

“I refuse to look at you any more,” I tell him, “so you may as well hurry.”

“I assure you, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” he says in an easy voice. “Found it.” He holds up a bundle of clothes, and I roll my eyes as he and his shirtless self weave between the workbenches and table saw and then disappear out of sight, into the bathroom.

I don’t know why I have to force myself not to smile or laugh.

I settle on one end of the couch while he’s gone, staring aimlessly around as I wait. When Dom returns, looking much better in a dry t-shirt and sweatpants, he sits at the other end, leaving a cushion’s length of space between us.

He glances at me, the laughter gone from his eyes. It’s been replaced by something more serious, and my heart sinks.

I guess it’s time to talk.

“Did you mean what you said?” Dom says finally. “That we should let them date?”

No need to specify who they are.

“I—” I begin, but I break off. Because it’s complicated, as things with Alvina always are.

Do I want her to date Dom’s dad? No. Definitely not. It’s viscerally wrong.

But…

She actually seems happy. Can I really be selfish and take that away from her?

“Selfish?” Dom says when I ask this question. His eyes have widened, his brows furrowed, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “In what universe is it selfish to try to stop a train wreck?”

He’s most likely correct. History and experience suggest their relationship won’t go well. And yet…

“But what if it’s not a train wreck?” I find myself saying, a note of pathetic pleading in my voice.

“People don’t change, Reese!” The words burst out of him, and I startle as they sink in, daggers to my heart.

“People can change,” I bite back. My nails dig into my palms as I clench my hands, a prick of pain to quell the rising tide in my chest, the dam that will burst if I let it. “Of course people can change. People change all the time.”

I have to believe people can change.

I blink my lids rapidly as I turn my head, looking away and trying to banish the burning in my eyes.

“Fine,” Dominic says from the other end of the couch. “Let’s assume people can change.” A hollow laugh escapes him. “Our parents get married and live happily ever after. Picture their wedding, Reese. The dress your mom wears, and they’ll probably get married in the chapel here. You and I attend the wedding. We’re brother and sister now.”

The silence after he says this is thick and heavy and horrible. It presses on my chest until I can’t breathe, until tears trickle down my cheeks because I’m useless at trying to stop them.

When Dom speaks again, his voice is blank, no emotion detectable. “And you’re okay with all of this?”

My heart is ripping.

“Reese,” he says when I don’t answer. “I’m going to say it, all right?” A beat of silence, and then—“You know as well as I do that we can never be—be siblings.” He spits the word out, bitter and poisonous. “That’s not going to work. It will never work, and you know it.”

Despite my desire to hide, to run, to retreat to safety, I can’t—because Dom no longer sounds emotionless. My gaze is dragged helplessly to him, over a neutral expression to a pair of eyes that betray what his face conceals.

Pain. Hurt. Disbelief that I could sign off on something that could be so painful for both of us, and with no guaranteed end.

“Dom,” I begin, sighing, but he shakes his head.

“You’re scared of your mom,” he says, and he sounds so tired now. “She drives you nuts. You don’t want to be like her, and yet that’s where we’re ending up again, Reese. Trying to have the best of both worlds with no accountability. Just like throwing out marriage proposals you didn’t mean back then, like it was nothing⁠—”

“Hey,” I say sharply as my ripping heart tears further. What hurts isn’t that he’s saying these things—it’s that most of them are true. “It wasn’t nothing. Maybe it was ill-timed, but I wanted to marry you. I meant it.”

“How could you have meant it?” Dom says. He pushes himself off the couch, his shoulders tense as he puts his hands on his hips.

I watch him rise, watch him turn away from me and take some deep breaths. Then he faces me again.

“We’d only known each other a few months, Reese. That’s not enough time to—to know someone well enough,” he says, shaking his head. “Or to love them well enough. You didn’t think it through at all—you couldn’t have. It was a whim.”

“I thought it through,” I snap. “I loved you.”

“I thought you did,” he says quietly. “I genuinely thought you did—until you said we should get married. And then it felt like you cared so little you were willing to throw out marriage as a Band-Aid, knowing it wouldn’t work and diving in anyway.”

“I loved you,” I say as the accusation pierces. “And you loved me; don’t pretend you didn’t.”

His eyes jump to mine, and something electric passes between us—not painful but tauntingly bright with possibility, especially given the wounds we’re digging into tonight.

I didn’t expect this conversation to happen here, or now. I knew it would probably come up at some point. But I wasn’t prepared, and I don’t think Dom was either.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then he blinks and looks away, taking a step back. He runs one hand over his face.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Or brought the proposal up,” he adds, the words stiff. “Sorry.”

I deflate. “It’s fine. You’re not—” I break off, trying to figure out the words I want. “You’re not wrong. About a lot of it.”

“I know things aren’t black and white with Alvina,” he says grudgingly.

“They’re not,” I admit. “But it’s true that you shouldn’t have to deal with her mess.”

He returns to the couch, sitting at the other end once more and staring ahead in silence. He’s waiting for me, I know; waiting for me to decide what I want to do.

He’ll stay there until I make a choice. He probably won’t even say anything else. But he won’t leave, because he feels as much as I do that we need some sort of agreement between us if we want to move forward—as friends, or acquaintances, or as people who simply exist in the same town.

The minutes stretch on as I put myself through Olympic-level mental gymnastics, asking myself questions and listening for answers.

“All I know,” I finally say, “is that I don’t want them to date. I don’t want them to get married.”

I don’t want to be your sister, I add in my head.

He looks slowly at me, raising one brow. “That will mean your mom’s heart might get broken. If she really likes my dad, she might be hurt.”

I swallow and admit the searing truth to myself, just once: that even though she may love the people in her life, Alvina will never love anyone more than she loves herself.

“I know,” I say hoarsely.

Dom gives a decisive nod, although nothing shows on his face. He stands up again and gestures to the couch he’s vacated. “What we’re doing isn’t working,” he says without looking at me; he’s already heading for the door. “We’ll figure out a new plan tomorrow.”

“So…” I begin, clearing my throat hopefully. “I can stay here?”

He stops with his hand on the door and turns around, blinking at me. “Why wouldn’t you? Did you want to stay at the hardware store?”

“I—no,” I say, my cheeks heating. “I—since we argued…” I fade into silence.

Dom shakes his head and looks at me with something unpleasantly like pity. “It’s disturbing to me how conditional you think love really is.”

It’s one final blow to my heart, and I don’t think he even realizes how much it hurts. He just leans down and picks up my duffle bag.

“Here,” he says. He tosses the bag toward me, harder and higher than necessary, and although I snatch it from the air, it finds my hands sideways.

I discover too late that the bag’s not zipped. My phone falls out, clunking loudly on my head and then to the floor, followed by the bra I wish I were wearing⁠—

—And then, in slow motion, out tumbles my little cardboard box full of mementos from my time with Dom.

The contents fall like they’ve been waiting for this moment; the ticket stubs flutter like flower petals, the wrapped candy clicks and rustles in a pleasant way.

And the hat? The hat somehow defies all laws of physics and chance. It tumbles and rolls until it comes to a stop⁠—

Right at Dominic’s feet.

For a brief second, even the rain overhead seems to quiet.

Horror rises in my chest, horror and mortification, as I watch the situation unfold. Dom is staring down at the hat now, his brow furrowing, and when he bends down to pick it up, I move.

I throw myself at the cap, trying to get my hands on it before he does, but I miss; he snatches it from the floor and then steps quickly back, holding it high in the air and leaving me grasping at nothing.

I scramble to my feet and look up at the hat, which could not more obviously be his. It looks exactly the same as it always has, faded blue with the ruined bill.

Dominic stares up at it too, and I see the recognition flash in his eyes after only a second; his brows jump, his lips parting. But then his expression smooths, and he looks back at me.

“You know,” he says in a quiet, conversational voice, “funnily enough, this looks familiar.” His gaze flicks over my shoulder to the ticket stubs and candy. “Those do too.”

His hair is still damp from the storm; his body is still tired from the late hour and our conversation. But he holds the hat high over his head anyway, looming over me, his brows raised as he waits for an explanation.

“I’m not—it wasn’t—” I begin, but I have no idea what to say. “It doesn’t mean anything!” I finally blurt.

My voice is too loud, the following silence damning, and Dom’s expression tells me plainly he knows I’m lying.

But he doesn’t call me out. He just shrugs. “In that case,” he says easily, “I’ll take it back. This was my favorite⁠—”

“No,” I say quickly. I go up on my tiptoes, trying to reach the hat, but Dominic steps away.

I trip forward on unsteady feet, grasping for it again, but my balance is thrown off⁠—

And so, for the second time in as many weeks, I find myself stumbling into my ex. Literally.

I’m conscious of a dozen things as our bodies slam together—Dom’s wince as his back collides with the door, the hat as it tumbles to the floor—but more than anything else, I find myself keenly aware of his arm as it slides beneath my jacket and wraps around my waist.

My breath escapes me at the impact, but Dominic’s grip keeps me steady. His eyes are as wide as mine as he looks down at me. And when his grip tightens around me, my heart triples its speed.

This is a version of home, this place in his arms. This is someplace I’ve missed. I can feel my body melting into his, trying to relax against him, trying to find rest.

“Dom,” I whisper as my cheeks flame, as my pulse races. I move my palms to the door we’re pressed against, hoping to lift myself off of him so I can think straight, but he doesn’t let go.

When Dominic speaks, his voice is rough. “It doesn’t mean anything?” he says as one brow lifts in clear challenge. “You kept my hat, my shirt—it doesn’t mean anything?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I repeat, my words breathless. “Just—sentimental stuff. Stupid. That’s all.” I swallow. “You were listening to my music. I know you were. And that didn’t mean anything either, did it?”

And for the tiniest moment, his gaze on me softens. I shiver dangerously as his hand on my back turns caressing, his fingers drifting gently over the thin fabric of the shirt I’ve borrowed.

One finger, up and down my spine; a shudder I can’t suppress, my breath hitching in my chest, my fingers curling against the door at his back, and his green eyes grow darker as they drop slowly to my lips.

His gaze burns—and it lingers.

But he blinks then, his eyes widening, and he gives his head a tiny shake as though throwing off a spell. His expression returns to something more neutral, and his arm falls away, his gaze leaving mine.

“You’re right,” he says.

I right myself and step quickly backward. “It’s really not—” But I break off when I realize what he’s said. “Wait. What?”

“I said you’re right,” he repeats. “I get it.” He pauses, glancing at me with hesitance. Then he lifts one hand to his neck and tugs on the cord of his necklace, pulling it from beneath his shirt and revealing the pendant that’s always been hidden before.

My jaw drops when I see it, and without meaning to, I step closer—to make sure I’m not imagining things.

But I’m not. It’s a little feather charm, so familiar I could cry, no longer the bright silver it used to be.

“You were right,” Dom says quietly. “It brought me good luck. So I kept it.”

I examine the cord and then straighten up, meeting his gaze. “It was on a chain before,” I say.

He clears his throat. “That broke years ago.”

My eyes drop back to the feather, a fond smile pulling to my lips. “I got this from my dad. Did I ever tell you that?”

Dom’s look of surprise is answer enough, and I nod.

“Yeah. When I turned sixteen.” I let my hand fall away. “I’m glad you took good care of it.”

He snaps out of his surprise, tucking the necklace back under his shirt and pulling his eyes away from mine. He turns to the door again. “I just wanted you to see. You don’t need to be embarrassed. I know it doesn’t mean anything, keeping stuff or listening to music.” He pauses. “Go to bed, okay? We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Wait—Dom, wait.” I glance around the shed and clear my throat. “Uh, what if I need to shower?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then he shrugs. “Come up to the house and use mine.”

My eyes pop wide at the suggestion, but he pulls the door open before I can respond, and then he’s gone—out of the shed and into the night.

SIX YEARS AGO || OCTOBER

Me

Calling your attention, please.

Dominic

Hit me with it.

Me

As per our agreement, Operation A-on-the-Midterm is now in action. I need to focus. I will therefore be cutting our library study sessions to only once a week.

Dominic

…I’m not sure you know how studying works, Berkeley.

Me

BECAUSE I don’t study as well with you!

You’re always right there, smelling good. The girls that walk past giggle when they see you, and while you never seem to notice, I find it very distracting.

Dominic

Now you know how I feel when guys walk past and check you out.

It’s a heavy burden to bear.

I stare at my phone, my brow furrowing as I read Dominic’s words. Then, without a second thought, I pull up his number—even though Intro to Engineering starts in fifteen minutes, so I probably could wait to talk to him then.

He answers after one ring.

“That doesn’t happen,” I say before he can speak.

“What,” he says, “guys checking you out as they walk past?”

“Yeah.”

A little puff of laughter filters down the line. “Of course it does,” he replies, sounding distracted. “Hey—do you have my green notebook?” The faint noise of shuffling papers reaches me. “I’m looking, but I can’t find it.”

I shift in my poorly padded auditorium seat, staring aimlessly around the mostly empty room and thinking back to yesterday. “The math one?”

He hums his assent as the shuffling sound continues.

“Check in your expanding folder,” I say, trying to remember. “I kind of think you put it in there.”

“Did I?” There’s a brief pause, until—“Oh! Here it is. Good catch.” Then, a second later, he returns. “Are you really ditching our library dates?”

“If you think those were dates, you need some practice.”

A beat of silence. “I could practice.”

His voice is normal, but the words send a spike of adrenaline through my veins—maybe even because he sounds so casual.

“Well, yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “You should do that.”

With me, my traitorous mind adds. You should practice dating with me.

“Anyway,” I go on. “Because you are mildly distracting, I need to study alone.”

He sighs, but I can picture his lopsided smile as he says, “I guess I’ll allow it. If you’re abandoning me, though, you’d better work extra hard.”

“I am working hard,” I say, glancing down at the notebook and flash cards in my lap. “I came early to class to study. It’s me and two other people in this entire room.”

“Is the guy in the front row there already?”

I know exactly who he’s talking about. “Yep.” I lower my voice. “Glasses? Snacks on celery from a baggie? He was here when I came.”

“I’ve wondered what time he shows up.”

“Are you allowed to tell me his grade?”

“No,” Dominic says with amusement, “but I can tell you that you should do whatever he’s doing.”

“Eat celery from a bag?”

“Study your butt off. Sallow should be passing out the midterm study guides today.”

“I’ll memorize everything.”

“And?”

“And I’ll come to the TA sessions you guys hold,” I say. “Happy?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he points out. “It’s your midterm, your financial aid.”

With this sentiment playing in my mind, I set up a studying schedule for myself. I go to the TA sessions hosted by Jeffrey Gulliver, because I’m not sure I would focus as well if I went to Dom’s. I take on half the batches of creative brief work I normally do, and I spend the extra time holed up with my notes and the midterm study guide.

Dominic doesn’t even question my late night calls anymore. He just asks what I need help with—or tells me I should be in bed.

“I could be calling because I miss you,” I say one night at ten-forty-five while I stare blearily down at the flash cards I have arranged all over the living room floor. The midterm is tomorrow, and part of me wishes I could take it right this very second, just to get it over with.

“Go to sleep, Berkeley,” Dominic says. “You need to be rested.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “I know this stuff, right?”

“You do,” Dom says, and I can picture him nodding. “I know you do. I’ve quizzed you myself. Now go to bed.”

“I have to get an A on this test,” I mutter. “I need my GPA to stay up. And Autumn Ridge—I want to go to Autumn Ridge with you.”

“Go to bed, Reese,” he says, softer now. “Everything will be fine.”

When I don’t answer, he sighs. “Come on. Go to bed. Put on your pumpkin pajamas and crawl into bed.”

I slump backward against the couch and then stand up. “I’m going,” I say. “I’m going.”

“Sweet dreams.”

They are sweet, because I dream about him.

I take the midterm on Wednesday. When I get home, I look up how long it takes to grade a Scantron.

Not long. That’s the answer. And I will pace that entire period of time.

I pace most of Thursday. I pace most of Friday.

Because I’ve been working less in order to give myself more study time, I decline my roommates’ invitation to go to an early dinner with them on Friday evening. I’m not sure I’d enjoy myself anyway. My temporary greatest fear is that the grades won’t be entered until next week, and I will live in a liminal hell all weekend.

What if I don’t get my grade in time to go to Autumn Ridge? We could go next weekend, I guess, but the pumpkin patch will be closed. It wouldn’t be the same.

And a greater worry—what would a B on this test do to my overall average? I have to keep my scholarship. I need to keep it.

It’s around five that I find myself flopped down on the couch, staring at the ceiling for literally no reason at all. I’m debating calling Dominic to discuss logistics when there’s a knock at the door.

I force myself off the couch so slowly that my feet drag, and I trip over the area rug and almost face-plant. I right myself with windmilling arms and push myself to the door, which I pull open with a creak.

“Hi,” I say, blinking in surprise when I find Dominic waiting on the doorstep.

“Hi,” he says with a crooked smile. He tugs his phone out of the pocket of his faded jeans, giving it a little wiggle. “Check your midterm grade.”

I’ve been checking. Obsessively. Every fifteen minutes. But…

“Is it up?” My voice is loud now, so loud that it bounces around the stairwell and then fades.

My feet freeze in place for the briefest of seconds, because what if I didn’t do well? I genuinely think I’d cry, and I don’t want Dominic to see that. I don’t like anyone to see me cry, but especially not him.

The hesitation doesn’t last very long, though. I spin on my heel, letting Dom come in on his own as I bolt back through the living room, down the hall, and into my room. I all but throw myself at my bed, where my open laptop rests.

The student portal is already pulled up, of course. But I refresh the page, waiting with bated breath, my eyes trained on the blank square until sure enough…

A number pops into that space.

The sound that rips from my lungs isn’t quite a shriek or a scream. It’s closer to a yelp, maybe—pure joy and disbelief as that little ninety stares up at me.

“I got an A!” I yell. “I did it! Dom”—I jump off the bed and hurry out of the room, tears pricking my eyes—“I got an A!”

I find him leaning against the back of the sofa, laughing, and without thinking, I launch myself at him—I fling my arms around his neck as our bodies collide, our legs tangling as the breath is knocked out of my chest.

“I did it!” I say as he lets out a little oomph, laughing harder now and even more as I jump up and down. 

“You did it,” he agrees, his arms sliding around my waist and squeezing me tightly. “Ninety, right?”

“Yes!” And it’s so stupid that more tears are welling up in my eyes, but I can’t stop them. I’m just so happy. This class has been difficult, and I worked so hard⁠—

But these thoughts come to a halt as I realize for the first time what I’m doing—that my arms are around Dominic’s neck, that we’re embracing each other in a way friends never would. And it gets worse because oh my goodness, my hand is in his hair.

His HAIR.

I freeze and then lean back, watching his smile fade as the mirror of my own. His arms loosen, as do mine, but neither of us let go.

My breath hitches in my chest as I look up at him, my wide eyes dropping to his Adam’s apple as he swallows, my heart trying to burst out of my chest.

I like him. I really like him. Not only because he’s helped me with school but because he’s him. I love his laughs and his rare smiles and the way he works so hard. I love the light that appears in his eyes when he’s fixing something or building furniture, and the little furrow when he’s trying to figure something out. I love the way he teases me but also the way he listens.

Slowly, hesitantly, I tighten my arms around his neck once more.

His eyes widen further, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “What are you doing?”

My inhale is shaky at best. “What are the rules about dating students in the class you’re a TA for?” I say.

His eyes flutter closed as though he’s in pain. “It’s a pretty strict no,” he says, the words hoarse.

“What about if someone else graded my papers?”

His fingers clench where his hands rest loosely on my hips, and whether he realizes it or not, he draws me closer as my heart races.

“Might be a little better,” he says, his body tense, “but not much.”

I hesitate and then push my question out. “Do you want to date me?”

Finally his eyes fly open, and they’re burning, searing as he exhales, tightening his arms all the way and eliminating the rest of the space between us. “What if I say no, Berkeley?” he says as his gaze drops to my lips.

I look at his face, the sheer longing in his eyes, the way he’s holding me, and I know. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then why even ask?”

“Do you want to wait until the semester is over?” I whisper.

His breath whooshes out of him, and he swallows. When he speaks again, he’s so close that I can feel his words puff against my lips. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he says in a rough voice.

I lift onto my tiptoes, hesitating only briefly as I tilt my face up to his. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but maybe it’s relevant. “I’ve never kissed anyone before,” I admit.

And for the first time, faint humor flashes in his eyes. “Good,” he breathes. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips over my forehead and then surprising me as he presses a tiny kiss to the tip of my nose, too—sweet and gentle and heartachingly tender. Our eyes meet as something indefinable passes between us, something soft and sure but sad.

“Reese,” he says, and disappointment curls in my chest, because I know what he’s going to say. “We can’t kiss now, either.” He moves his hands to my shoulders and pushes me gently away.

I swallow the knot in my throat, try to banish the tears that sting my eyes. He’s right, of course.

So I step out of his hold and turn my head, swiping at my cheeks and giving a fake laugh. “I know,” I say, but my voice is still pathetically tremulous. “I understand.”

“Do you?” he says.

I still can’t look at him. “Of course I do.” I hesitate for a second and then make a decision. Because if I can’t give him a kiss, I want to give him something else. Something important, to acknowledge what’s happening right now, the things we’re saying—and the things we aren’t. So I reach up to my necklace and fumble at the clasp for a moment, pulling it off and then holding it up. The feather pendant catches the faint light as it twirls in the air.

“My good luck charm,” I say hoarsely. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“You worked,” he replies, sounding amused, but he takes the necklace anyway. “Is it going to make me lucky?”

I nod instead of speaking; I don’t have long before I begin to cry.

He nods too, a slow duck of his chin, and tucks the chain into his pocket. Then he strides toward the door—and maybe I’m imagining things, but he seems to be struggling to look at me too. It’s a selfish wish, but I find myself hoping he’s wrestling with his feelings as much as I am.

It’s only when his hand is on the door that he speaks again. “Autumn Ridge this weekend?”

Relief floods over me, and tentative hope for the future. “Yeah,” I say, exhaling a little laugh. “Definitely.”

Relief of all reliefs, Pumpkin Day begins the morning after I move into Dominic’s shed. This means that I don’t have time to ruminate on all the things we said, or the embarrassment I’m still swimming in, or the possible meaning behind the necklace I once gave him that he apparently still wears.

Instead, I spend the day scurrying around like a pumpkin with its lid cut out, directing all our activities and making sure the events move along at the right times. The kids have a blast with the craft stations Farmer Joe and I set up, and he’s even good-natured about losing the pumpkin weigh-in to the FFA students from the high school. I get to say hi to Ari for a minute there too, her fake boyfriend at her side.

“You two do not look fake,” I whisper to her, glancing at Wade when he’s not paying attention.

She blinks uncertainly. “You think?” she says as she looks at him too, and I give her a knowing grin before waving and hurrying off to keep the day rolling.

When the afternoon arrives and the carving contest begins, I’m able to take a moment of rest. I sit on one of the benches lining Main and watch as Joe narrates the pumpkin carving. There are a few adults participating for themselves, but it’s mostly kids and parents together.

My dad and I did that one year. He let me choose the face we made—a smiling jack-o-lantern with stars for eyes. I don’t remember if we won. I just remember how much fun it was, doing something together, being so excited.

“Nice sweater.”

I startle at the familiar voice and turn my head. It’s Dom, strolling toward me with his hands in his pockets and a baseball hat shielding his eyes. His gaze is on my shirt, and I glance down too.

I’m wearing my orange sweater again, but today I’ve taped on two triangle eyes and a smiling pumpkin mouth, all made of black construction paper I pilfered from Nate’s house early this morning.

I look up at Dom just as he drops onto the bench next to me. Only when he’s so close do I see the feather necklace; it’s outside of his shirt today. My heart jumps and my cheeks heat, but I don’t say anything. Even when he notices me looking and raises one challenging brow, I don’t comment.

If he’s not going to mention it, I won’t either. My mind tries to leap to all sorts of conclusions, though—and I’m talking Olympic record, pole-vaulter leaps. He always kept the necklace hidden before.

But it’s out there now, and he sees me looking, and he’s daring me to say something. What am I supposed to do with that? What messages am I supposed to be getting here?

Why aren’t Ari and Liv here when I need them?

“How’s Pumpkin Day going?” Dom says, and I tear my eyes away from the necklace.

“It’s been good,” I say, facing forward. I nod at the carving contest, relieved to have something else to think about. “Did you ever do this?”

“No,” he says, his voice musing. “But I think Emma might have won once when we were kids.”

I hum. “And what are our parents up to today?”

Dom leans back and folds his arms, huffing a frustrated laugh. “My dad works today, I assume, so he’s safe for the time being.”

“I went over to Nathan’s early this morning and Alvina was still asleep.” I pause, remembering the state of our previously shared room when I poked my head in. “She hasn’t said anything about me moving out, but she has her clothes laid out on the bed I was sleeping in, so she clearly knows I’m not there anymore.” Then I frown, turning to Dom.

He raises his eyebrows when he sees my expression and waits for me to speak.

“How did you get my car to your house last night?” I say. “It was in your driveway when I got up.”

“Oh,” he says. “I stole your keys.”

I snort at this, but he goes on.

“No, I’m serious,” he says. “I grabbed them last night. They were in the outside pocket of your duffle. I forgot to tell you, but I did. After the rain stopped I drove the truck over”—he nods down Main to Berk’s—“and left it in the parking lot. I drove your car back to my house and walked here this morning.” His eyes trail over the pleasant hubbub of the festival around us. “It’s not a bad walk.”

He’s right, but still.

“I’m not sure if I should thank you or scold you,” I say, unconvinced.

A smile twitches over his lips, and he grabs the bill of his hat, adjusting it mindlessly. “I’m open to either.”

I open my mouth to respond, but my phone rings, the tinny strain of “Monster Mash” by Bobby Pickett. I pull it out and look at the screen while Dom shakes his head and grins at the ringtone I downloaded this morning.

I frown, though, because it’s Alvina’s name that’s popped up. Alvina doesn’t call unless she needs something, so I answer quickly.

“Hi,” I say as a twinge of nervousness finds me. “What’s up?”

“A woman of class answers the phone more politely than that,” Alvina says, and my body relaxes at the disapproving note in her voice. If she’s immediately telling me what I’m doing wrong, she’s fine. In fact, she’s right where she wants to be.

“Sorry,” I say automatically—and I’m keenly aware of Dominic still sitting next to me now, of apologizing to my mother out of habit rather than need. “But what is it?”

She sniffs, a fussy little sound I hear even over the phone. “Daryl has informed me that there’s a potluck dinner tomorrow evening,” she says. “He thought it might be fun if we all attended together.”

“All of us?” I say, blinking in surprise and glancing over at Dom. “Like, our families?”

Dominic’s brows jump in question, and I hold up a finger to tell him to wait.

“Of course,” Alvina says. Then, her voice more uncertain than I’m used to, she goes on, “He feels very strongly about families. He says spending time together is part of a healthy relationship.” After a pause, she adds, “I suppose…I can see what he means.”

I genuinely have no words.

“Anyway,” my mother clips on, back to herself once more, “I’ll expect you at the church tomorrow evening. Wear something suitable for a gathering, please.”

“It’s a potluck,” I say blankly.

“Something suitable for a potluck, then,” she says, and I can picture her exact expression—dismissive, already moving on to other, more important things. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

She hangs up without letting me speak, and I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at it. Then I turn to Dom.

“I think our parents have invited us to dinner.”

“What—the potluck?” he says with a frown.

I nod as a breeze whooshes past and pushes my hair into my eyes; tucking it behind my ear, I speak again. “She says your dad thinks it would be fun for our families to get together.”

Dominic’s expression is grim now. “I’m not sure fun is the word I would use.”

“Me either.” I swallow. “She also says she can see what your dad means when he says families should spend time together.”

An exhale issues from Dom, slow and measured, as his features tangle into something less certain.

“But we’re supposed to be breaking them up, not getting together with them,” I go on.

He glances at me, adjusting his hat. “Well…” There’s debate in his eyes, and then he shrugs. “I was sort of planning on going anyway. You know the food is always good.”

I bite my lip.

“And you do love dessert.” His voice is expectant, leading. “Especially pumpkin desserts…”

“I love pumpkin desserts!” I burst out. “And Patty Keller brings a pumpkin roll every year and it’s always so good!”

“No one does a pumpkin roll like Patty,” he says with a nod; the feather necklace around his neck shifts with the movement, but I force myself not to look. “So should we go and see what happens? It won’t hurt anything.”

He’s right. It won’t hurt anything. So I nod too. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Dom slaps his knees and then stands up slowly, shaking his arms and legs like he’s an old man who’s been sitting too long. “I’ve got to go,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “The festival waits for no man.”

“That’s fine,” I say, and I stand too, glancing at my sweater to make sure all of my pumpkin face is still attached. Then I gesture to the lively goings-on around us. “I need to get back to all the pumpkin stuff. I left Joe by himself.”

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” he says as he heads off.

But I almost trip over my own feet. “What?”

He stops and turns back to me, folding his arms slowly and raising his eyebrows. “You’re staying in my shed, Berkeley. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.” He pauses. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

But there’s laughter in his voice and mischief in his eyes as he looks at me. My gaze drops to the feather necklace; when he sees this, he smirks, tucks the necklace back under his shirt, and then waves over his shoulder as he walks away.

When I return to Dom’s house after Pumpkin Day is over, I’m breathing a bit easier about tomorrow’s potluck. A new worry finds me soon enough, though—because I really, really need to shower.

I let myself into the shed and look around for a second, not sure what to do or where to be; finally I sit down on the lumpy sofa and sink back into the cushions with a sigh of relief. Then I pull out my phone.

I bite my lip as I stare at it, debating. Dominic said I could come use the shower in his house, but that idea is a little…scary? Intimidating?

The alternative is to go back to Nathan’s or to wash myself in a river. Since I am not a river-washing kind of girl, and since going to Nathan’s requires driving somewhere rather than walking across a single yard, in the end I decide to give Dominic’s shower a try.

Dialing his number—which I absolutely do not have memorized—I bounce my foot and ignore the butterflies taking flight in my chest. It’s just a shower, a quick trip inside the house. I wanted to see more of the interior anyway.

This will be fine.

“Berkeley.”

I startle when he answers the phone. “Hi,” I say quickly, straightening up like a prairie dog. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he says, and there’s faint amusement in his voice.

“Uh, I was hoping I could use your shower. If that’s okay,” I add.

“I said you could, didn’t I?” he says, and some of the tension drains from my shoulders. “I’m home”—I already know this, because his truck is parked in the driveway—“but I’m working on some stuff in the kitchen. The back door should be unlocked. Let yourself in. Up the stairs, first door on the left. It’s probably open.”

“Great,” I say, picturing him in his kitchen working on a clogged sink or a broken fridge. “No bleach in any of your shower bottles?”

“No bleach,” he confirms with a quiet huff of laughter. “Use whatever you want.” He pauses. “I think there might be towels folded under the sink?”

I hum. “Very impressive, but I’ve got my own towel. My own soap too. Just no shampoo.”

“Come on over, then,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He hangs up without saying anything else, and I toss the phone aside, gather my things into a plastic bag, and then leave the shed. The air is brisk as I hurry through Dominic’s yard, crunching leaves as I go, but the back door is open like he says, and I step gratefully inside, emerging into a laundry room.

It’s hard to get a feel for someone’s home based on their laundry room—not that I want to get a feel for his home, because obviously I don’t. But a better picture begins to form when I exit the laundry room and find myself in a breezeway, next to a set of stairs. Part of the family room is visible, with half a TV, an end table, and part of a couch in my sight; it looks clean, mismatched but well-maintained and functional, minimal clutter.

Exactly what I would picture, to be honest. Dominic isn’t worried about aesthetics. As long as everything is tidy and working right, he’s good to go.

I can hear the faint clatters of Dom’s work in the kitchen around a corner, but I don’t peek; I hurry for the steps, locating the bathroom with ease when I reach the second floor. Unlike the bathroom at his dad’s house, this one produces no teenage awe. This is where Dominic looks at himself in the mirror now; this is where Dominic the man shaves and showers and⁠—

And I’m being weird about this. I’m being really creepy. It’s just a bathroom, and he’s just a man.

So I flip the light on and hurry inside, locking the door behind me. I’m here to bathe, not to ferret out the details of my ex’s life. I won’t be able to divine his inner thoughts by figuring out what brand of toothpaste he uses.

(Colgate, by the way, which I ONLY KNOW because it’s right there next to the sink.)

I set my folded clothes and towel on the counter and then undress, pulling the shower curtain aside and stepping in. After yelping at the temperature of the hot water, I wash quickly, allowing myself one deep inhale of Dom’s soap before using my own shower gel. I’m done in probably five minutes, thanks to the absence of face wash and conditioner.

My lungs fill with steam when I step out of the shower, and I wince when I realize I didn’t turn on the bathroom fan. So I hurry over and flip it on. Then I wrap my towel around myself and tuck it securely in place before cracking the door a little too.

I stare at the fogged mirror for a few seconds and then smile; leaning over the sink, I use my finger to write THANK YOU! on the glass.

I set about gathering my dirty clothes into the plastic bag I brought, and I’ve halfway reached for my shower gel when I stop, an idea popping into my mind.

I could…leave it here.

But that says something, doesn’t it? Leaving your soap in someone else’s shower says something. It means something—especially when that person is your ex.

My insides twist, but not in a bad way; it’s the feeling you get when you go on stage to perform. Anxious, but excited, too. I stare at that bottle of bodywash, surprised at my own daring, and then I nod. My lips try to smile and my hands try to shake as I brush my hair, but I leave my innocuous vanilla and nutmeg shower gel where it is.

“Berkeley?”

I startle at Dominic’s voice, distant but audible. “Yeah?” I call back.

“Are you decent?” he says, getting closer.

I glance down to make sure my towel is covering everything. “Yeah,” I say.

“I’m coming in,” he says.

I make sure nothing embarrassing is hanging out of my dirty clothes bag, shoving everything further in as the door swings in. “That’s fine.”

I look over my shoulder to find Dominic in the doorway. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and he scrubs his hand down his face. Then, shaking his head, he looks at the ceiling.

“Do you know what decent means?” he mutters.

“Nothing is showing,” I say. I pause, swallow my nervousness, and then add, “Can I leave my soap here?”

His body hasn’t been moving, but somehow it freezes in place all the same; then, slowly, he brings his gaze back to me. He takes a step into the steamy bathroom.

“That depends,” he says evenly, his voice soft. He glances over my bare shoulder to the open shower; then he looks back at me. “Does it smell good?”

I know the heat on my skin is from more than the lingering fog. “Vanilla and nutmeg.”

He lifts his brows. “So…pumpkin pie.”

“You know I love pumpkin pie,” I say with a delicate shrug.

“I do know,” he says, his eyes narrowing. His gaze darts over my face for a second, and then he takes a neat step backward, out of the bathroom once more. “The soap can stay.” His throat bobs as he swallows and turns his back to me, speaking over his shoulder now. “Get dressed, Berkeley. And from here on out, decent means fully clothed. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say lightly.

“Good,” he says under his breath. After a pause, he says, “There are linens and blankets in the hallway closet if you want to take some for your couch. And there’s fresh pumpkin bread in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

I blink in surprise. “Do you bake now?”

“Only sometimes.” He reaches blindly back and finds the door knob, adding, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”

“What—why would I wait up for you?”

His shoulders jerk into a shrug. “You’re walking around my house in a towel,” he says. “Who knows what kind of salacious thoughts you might be having?”

I gasp and throw my bag of dirty clothes at him, but he dodges with a huff of laughter. Then, without waiting for me to say anything else, he pulls the bathroom door shut.

I don’t see him again that evening, but the pumpkin bread is delicious.

To ensure that the bar is sufficiently low regarding Thursday’s potluck dinner, it will be helpful to review several prior experiences involving “family quality time.”

The Soccer Incident. Picture, if you will, a children’s soccer game. Elementary kids in polyester uniforms, bleachers full of enthusiastic parents, and the overall scent of sweat. Now add to this scene one camp chair—“I will not perch like a bird for that long, Reginald; I need back support”—where Alvina Berkeley lounges, wearing stilettos and J. Crew. She has with her several magazines, behind which she promptly disappears. She does not reappear until a soccer ball flies out of bounds, sails through the air in a graceful arc, and hits her square in the nose, immediately fracturing the nasal bridge with a crunch that witnesses (me) would later describe as “so, so gross.” Never one to waste an opportunity, Alvina seizes this incident as an excuse for rhinoplasty. Recovery includes one week of nose bandages and bruising consistent with a violent, anything-goes boxing match.

The Road Trip Incident. Alvina gets carsick on long trips, and she does not suffer in silence. I don’t necessarily blame her; nausea is horrible. But on this particular journey, a three-day-weekend trip to New York City, we failed to restock her supply of Dramamine. As such, we were ten miles outside of New Windsor, New York, when she threw up all over herself and the passenger seat. We were then required to stop in New Windsor, rent a hotel room for less than five hours, purchase new clothing, and allow Alvina a shower and a nap before setting back out.

On the whole, I think the potluck dinner tonight will have to be better than either of these experiences. It may be stilted and awkward, but the food will be good, the duration short, and no vomit or broken noses will be involved.

I’ve made myself very at home in Dominic’s shed. The squashy couch has now been covered in an old set of sheets, and before I had my pumpkin bread last night, I dug out a few blankets from the closet too. Before I leave for work—another busy festival day—I brush my teeth in the bathroom at the back of the shed. I pull on my jeans, tank top, and cardigan, and I’m about to head out the door when I remember today is the costume parade on Main.

I think for a second and then grin; I change shirts, grab exactly one prop, shove it in my bag, and head straight out the door.

It’s nice, having everything I need here.

I drive with my windows down on the way out of Dom’s neighborhood, but I don’t go straight to Bugelbach’s. The parade will be starting soon, so I go to the hardware store instead and park in the back lot. I round the building and emerge onto a bustling Main Street, filled with the shrieks of laughing children in costume and even some pets on leashes.

I stroll down the street with my bag over my shoulder, my eyes searching for Dominic. My smile widens when I spot him, and even though my stomach still flutters when I think about last night, I make my way in his direction.

He spots me through the crowd, well before we’re close enough to talk. I stop when our eyes meet, pull his old blue baseball hat out of my bag, and then put it on.

It’s enormously rewarding to see his expression as he looks me over. His gaze goes from the still-warped hat on my head—his—and then down to my black shirt—also his. He folds his arms slowly, shaking his head as he bites back a smile.

“What do you think?” I say when I reach him, my lips twitching. “I’m you.”

“Spitting image,” he says as his smile finally breaks free too.

I nod and glance down at my clothes. “I just need to get in your pants and the outfit will be complete—” But I slap my hand over my mouth in horror when I realize what I’ve said.

Dom’s eyes fly wide open too, his jaw dropping.

“Oh—no,” I say as my skin heats and panic jumps in my chest. “No, no!” I gesture frantically. “No. I didn’t—that’s not what I meant.” I can feel myself starting to sweat. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to get in your pants. I don’t even like pants.” The words tumble helplessly from my mouth, but I babble on. “Well, I mean, I like some pants, obviously”—a nervous laugh escapes me—“Just not...yours.”

Dom’s shock is melting into faint amusement, although there’s an undeniable flush creeping up his neck. “There’s no need to insult my pants,” he says now, looking down at his jeans.

“I’m so sweaty!” I groan, airing out my shirt and then fanning my face. “I didn’t mean to say that. I panicked. Your pants are fine. Forget the last thirty seconds. Wipe them from your memory.”

He tilts his head down in a mock bow, smirking. “I’ll do what I can.” Then he shrugs. “But my clothes have, historically, always looked better on you. So if you want a pair⁠—”

“No pants,” I snap, still fanning my face. This entire situation has backfired miraculously. “I’m going to work.” Then I stomp off toward Berk’s.

Dom’s laughter bids me goodbye.

It’s hard to describe how bizarre it is, attending a potluck dinner with my mother, Daryl, and his family.

The entire basement of our little white church smells incredible. The scent of the potluck is strong, but the good kind of strong—soups and casseroles and bread and desserts. I inhale deeply when I arrive, a smile stretching across my face.

I wish I could say I’ve moved on from this morning’s pants incident, but that would be a lie. So when I step into the church’s activity room, my eyes search for Dom first. A sigh of relief escapes me when he’s nowhere to be found, even though I know he’ll be here shortly. I head over to the table in the corner that’s occupied by his sisters, who are chatting together. They both look apprehensive, and I don’t blame them. None of us are thrilled our parents are dating.

Rosie and Emma both smile when I join them at the otherwise empty table.

“Hi!” Rosie says.

“Hey,” I say, looking around again to see if anyone else is here, but Daryl and Alvina haven’t come yet, either. “How are you guys?”

“Good,” they say in unison, and I smile.

“Emma, you work over at the library, right?” I say. I don’t know Emma as well as Rosie, but I’ve seen her around my whole life, and I’ve always liked her. Now her eyes brighten behind her cute glasses.

“I do!” she says. “I’m a children’s librarian.”

“I heard you once corralled the family into dressing up as Dr. Seuss characters for Halloween,” I say, my lips twitching as I remember what Dom told me. “Are there pictures of that?”

She laughs. “I did do that one year, and it was so cute. There are billions of pictures—I made sure of it.” She pauses, glancing at Rosie. “Did you tell her that?”

“Dom told me,” I say. “We’ve been in touch”—what a horribly weird way to say we used to date—“about our parents. Dating, I mean.” An awkward silence falls between us, and it’s not at all helped by the sudden arrival of the aforementioned dating parents.

Alvina does not enter rooms quietly. Even though there’s already a pleasant buzz of conversation going on around the activity room, her voice can be heard over the masses as she calls to me: “Reese, darling, you made it.”

I turn and give her a weak wave, watching as her eyes scan what she can see of my outfit; I doubt Dominic’s old shirt counts as something “fit for a potluck” in her mind. Her lips purse in disapproval only briefly, though, because Daryl is behind her, and she turns to speak to him instead.

“Here they are,” I say in a voice full of false cheer. Emma and Rosie both nod with similar sentiments written all over their faces. Rosie’s expression brightens a second later as she spots someone, though, and she waves toward the entrance.

“Dom!”

Because I possess self-control and no small amount of lingering embarrassment, I do not turn in my seat to look at Dominic. I wait until our table is joined by him, Alvina, and Daryl.

“Oh,” Rosie says, looking surprised as Dominic settles into his seat next to her. He’s dressed the same as he was this morning—short sleeves despite the cool weather, muscles on prime display, the feather necklace tucked beneath his shirt. “You smell good.” She leans closer and sniffs. “What is that? Do you have new cologne?”

His gaze locks with mine, his lips twitching when he sees I’m still wearing his shirt. “Nutmeg,” he says. His voice is easy, but his eyes aren’t; they’re searing as they bore into me. “New soap.” Then, so casually I could kick him, he adds, “Are you feeling okay, Reese? You look flushed.”

“Just fine,” I gurgle around my own spit. It’s mostly to reassure Daryl, who looks at me with concern. Alvina doesn’t seem bothered about my health either way. Then I pull out my phone and send one furious message.

Me

Did you use my bodywash???

I watch Dominic check his texts. A faint smirk flits over his lips, and a second later, my phone buzzes in my lap.

Dominic

If it’s in my shower, it belongs to me, Berkeley.

Remember that the next time you’re here.

I momentarily forget how to breathe.

“Dominic is actually right, Reese,” Rosie says from across the table, sounding worried.

My head snaps up, my brows jumping. “What?” I say faintly.

“You do look a little warm,” she says. “Do you feel feverish at all?”

“Yes,” I say. “Or—no. Not feverish. Warm.” I clear my throat and fan my face, trying to get some air. “It’s warm in here.” Then I scoot my chair out and stand up, sending a covert glare at Dom, who’s still smirking. “Let’s grab some food.”

Anything to change the subject.

The rest of the Harpers follow suit, rounding the table and heading for the food. Dominic glances over his shoulder at me as he passes, but I ignore this as I pull out my phone. It’s just begun to ring, and I’m a coward who would rather put off the inevitable dinner for a bit longer.

I smile when I see Nate’s name on the screen, though. “Hi,” I say, drifting around the table and standing in the very corner of the room. I have to raise my voice a bit, because it’s loud in here.

“Hi,” Nathan says. “I was calling to see how everything is going. How’s Mom?”

I make a noncommittal sound.

Nate gives a knowing hum. “Yeah. And are you still sleeping at the shop?”

“No, I found somewhere else,” I say. Then, before he can ask where exactly I’m staying, I move on. “But your timing is impeccable. I am about to begin a dinner with Alvina, her new boyfriend, and her new boyfriend’s family,” I say in a low voice.

“That sounds like a nightmare,” he responds, but his voice is perfectly cheerful. He has the luxury of cheerfulness—he’s a million miles away with his girlfriend.

I glance around to make sure no one is nearby before speaking again. “I think I’m suitably prepared, but you never know with Alvina, so please wish me luck.” I pause. “Or if you have any teleportation technology up your sleeve, get me out of here. That would work too.”

Nathan laughs. “No teleportation on my end.” Then, more serious, he goes on, “But get out of there if you need to, Reese. I mean it. Don’t let her walk all over you.”

It’s a conversation we’ve had before, but I sigh. “Yeah,” I say, and even I’m not convinced. “Well, I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Good luck, little sis.”

My lips twitch at this. “Thanks, old man. Be safe.”

He lets out a snort of laughter, and we hang up. I do feel better, though, having talked to him.

I turn around and head toward the tables stretched with food, tucking my phone back in my pocket. I’m stopped in my tracks, however, by my mother, who appears in front of me with a plate of food.

“Here,” she says, holding it toward me.

I blink at her, confused. “What—for me?”

“Of course for you,” she says, waving the plate at me. But her impatience is laced with uncertainty, with hesitation I don’t understand as she smooths her free hand over her hair and fidgets with her earrings.

I think…

I think she’s trying to be a proper mother right now. Is that what’s happening here?

But what else could this be? The way moms get food for their kids in buffet lines; the way mother birds regurgitate worms for their chicks to digest.

“I—” I begin in a stilted voice. Why do I feel so weird? “Thanks.” I take the plate in a kind of haze, barely looking down at it before I make my way to the table where Daryl is already seated, an open seat for Alvina on one side and Rosie on his other.

Dominic is already there with his food, his earlier smirk gone. He’s across the table next to Rosie, and I nod when I see his brows raised in question.

I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, and I don’t know exactly what I’m answering, but the moment makes sense nonetheless.

His presence is grounding, and my body eases into the seat next to Alvina’s rather than folding in robotically.

My mother settles next to me in a cloud of perfume and jingling jewelry, and I lean away to give her more room. Then I pick up my fork and look down at my plate.

Salad of some kind, with dried cranberries and sunflower seeds, and two pieces of turkey.

I swallow uncomfortably and remind myself that what’s important is Alvina tried. I guess she doesn’t know I really don’t like turkey—I never have. And I’ll still be hungry when I’m done, but I can get up and get more.

So this is fine. The salad will probably be good, too. I don’t mind dried cranberries.

I stab a bite of lettuce onto my fork and pop it in my mouth, chewing determinedly and looking around the table. When my eyes find Dom, though, my chewing pauses; he’s staring at my plate with a look of disgust, his lips curled, his nose wrinkled.

I swallow my bite slowly and look down at my plate too, checking to see if there’s a bug. But there’s not—just the turkey and salad.

His eyes jump to mine, his shoulders slumping as he sighs. Then, shaking his head a little, he grabs his plate and slides it toward me.

I stare at him. Rosie and Emma stare at him, too, both of their hands stilling on their utensils.

But Dominic doesn’t pay attention; he just gestures impatiently for my plate, pushing his own further in my direction.

There’s a roll on that plate. Fried chicken. Some sort of casserole that looks delicious—and a slice of pumpkin roll.

What follows is a completely nonverbal conversation. I shake my head a bit—I’ll eat this and then go get more of what I want.

A more enthusiastic push of his plate toward me by Dom, accompanied by the tiniest eye roll—You don’t even like turkey, Berkeley, and you love pumpkin desserts. Come on. Take it.

A more significant shake of my head and a knot in my throat that Dom can’t see—I’m FINE.

Dom’s jaw twitches, his lips setting in a firm, determined line. Then he stands up, removes my plate from in front of me, and sets his own in its place.

Even Daryl and Alvina notice this; Alvina looks scandalized and Daryl confused. But Dom just spears his fork into one of the slabs of turkey and brings it to his mouth, taking a giant bite and staring me down as he chews.

“So,” Rosie says—beautiful, sweet, tactful Rosie—“there’s a great turnout, huh?”

The spell over our table breaks as Emma nods vigorously. “Everything looks great,” she says, tucking some of her short auburn hair behind her ears. Then she gestures to a bowl in front of her—butternut squash stew, I think. “This soup is delicious.”

My body slumps with relief as Dom’s sisters take over, and I think I’ll be sending them both giant gift baskets very soon. I dig into my food and take deep breaths, trying to figure out why I feel like crying; when I’ve finally calmed down, I shoot a glance at Dominic.

But his eyes are already on me. They soften so slightly I might be imagining it, and when I mouth Thank you to him, a little smile crosses his lips. Then he looks back down at his plate and continues eating.

I do too, for that matter. The roll is soft and fluffy. The fried chicken is crispy. The casserole turns out to be cheesy potato with green onions, and I’m seriously debating going up for seconds when the conversation at our table drifts into dangerous territory.

Alvina is the one who takes us there, of course, and she’s talking to Dom.

“Now you’re handsome like your father, Dominic,” she says. “Is there anyone special in your life?”

The activity room buzzes with chatter and laughter around us, but our little corner table goes uncomfortably silent for a moment. Rosie is looking back and forth between me and Dom, her eyes wide, while Dominic’s expression has gone blank.

Alvina doesn’t notice; she just goes on, her cutlery clinking as she speaks. “There’s no one in Reese’s life, of course,” she says.

Of course.

“But you know—now that I think about it—” she says, and her hands pause as she looks up at me. Her eyes widen like she’s remembered something. “Reese, darling, you did have a crush on Dominic when you were children!”

Kill me now. Stab me with a fork. Drown me in Emma’s butternut squash stew.

“In high school, I believe, or middle school?” Alvina chatters on, her voice perfectly pleasant as she reaches over and pats my hand in an almost affectionate manner. “Her eyes all aglow when you came into her father’s shop—and I do remember a notebook with the name Reese Harper drawn in a heart. As if the two of you would ever be together! But teenage girls are like that, you know.”

She laughs—not malicious, just painfully certain that someone like Dom would never have loved someone like me. My face is on fire, my body still, and the tension at our table is palpable. The only one who doesn’t seem to feel it is my mother, who plows on like she’s telling a merry story of sweet childhood mishaps.

“I faintly remember her crying when Dominic left for college. Oh, no need to be concerned”—she’s looking at Dom now, and vastly misinterpreting his look of utter shock—“it passed ages ago, I’m sure. Love doesn’t last that long, after all, does it? And then you just move on.” Another laugh, tinkling and tittering like a chirping bird.

But Daryl’s brows furrow, his lips pursing into a frown.

I’m too frozen to frown, my brows too stony to furrow. There’s a buzzing in my ears, and my vision blurs against my will as humiliation rises like bile in my throat.

Because I would rather let Dom think I didn’t take our relationship seriously than reveal that I was a pathetic teenager moping after him, watching starry-eyed when he didn’t even know I existed. Past dating faults can be righted; my adolescence cannot.

I blink a few times to get rid of the stinging at the corner of my eyes, and my pumpkin roll returns crystal clear in my vision. I memorize every crumb and then move my gaze to the empty spot where my potato casserole used to be. We’re all still silent, but there are words dancing on my tongue, begging to be let out, pushing⁠—

Until it becomes painfully clear in my mind, and in my heart, that nothing is more important than what I must say right now, at this very moment. She needs to know; she has to know. Mothers have to be able to feed their young. They have to.

So I speak.

“I don’t like turkey,” I say faintly. “I’ve never liked turkey.”

Another second of silence, and then Alvina lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, really,” she says. “How am I to know⁠—”

“You’re my mother,” I cut her off, barely able to speak past the knot in my throat and the weight on my chest. My bones are cracking, my heart infected and inflamed, and my body shakes in a way I don’t understand—my fight-or-flight frantic in the face of the one person who should be safe.

But it’s occurring to me, in this moment, that maybe it isn’t enough that she tried.

“You’re my mother,” I repeat, and my voice tremors now as the words tumble forth, scattered and broken. “In the wild—the birds. They regurgitate worms for their chicks. They know what their babies eat.”

I stand up without waiting for a reply; the motion is jerky, even awkward. I hesitate only briefly before grabbing my plate, which still contains my pumpkin roll, and then I nod aimlessly.

“I need to go,” I say to no one in particular. “Have a good evening.”

And I leave.

I don’t mean to walk all the way back to Dominic’s. I mean to go to my car. But when I arrive at the parking lot, my legs continue to carry me, and so I let them—down the side of the road, another fallen leaf being carried by the wind. I become aware maybe halfway that someone is following me in the darkness, an echoing set of footsteps, but a quick glance at the shadowy figure reveals Dom’s stature, his easy walk, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Distant but watchful, he follows me all the way home.

It occurs to me, on Friday morning as I start my third maple bar in a row, that my coping mechanisms might need some work.

I’m not even hungry anymore; I’m just giving myself a stomachache.

So I sigh and then tuck the maple bar back into its white paper bag, standing up. The bench swing I’ve been sitting on sways slightly, and the pumpkin patch is so quiet today that I actually hear the creaking of the chains.

The Homecoming parade is currently happening on Main; the marching band is faint but audible even from here. On Monday the schools will open again and fall break will be over, which means things will slow down at Bugelbach’s except for on weekends. Joe hasn’t decided if he wants to change our weekday hours yet, but if he does, I’ll need to pick up some more online work to make up for it.

I debate going all the way to my car to stash the remaining donut there, but ultimately I tuck it in a corner of the corn dog stand instead. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket the entire time, but I don’t pull it out.

I’m hiding. Not forever—just until I figure out what I’m going to say.

Because I haven’t talked to Dom or my mother since last night. I haven’t seen either of them, apart from the silent vigil Dominic kept behind me as I walked home. And I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I do speak to either of them, after the things I said and the things that were revealed at the potluck.

It would be stressful to have three missed calls from Alvina on my phone when I finally check. But it might be sadder to have none. So I’ve spent the morning training myself to be okay with either of those options.

I guess, overall, I’m less worried about Dom. It’s humiliating, knowing that he now knows I doodled his name in my school notebooks. He didn’t even know who I was. But my embarrassment has lessened overnight, possibly overshadowed by my outburst toward Alvina.

Dominic is safe for me. He’s never malicious or careless. He’s made mistakes in the past—but so have I, and even then, our intentions toward each other were always good.

It’s my mother who could cut me to the bone. And the question I found myself asking last night is still swirling through my head, leaving painful tracks everywhere it goes.

At one point do intentions cease to matter? At what point do results become more important?

Dom would say we passed that point with my mother years ago. He doesn’t understand.

The thing is…my understanding is beginning to waver, too.

Because I’ve never actually bought into that saying—The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Intentions matter a lot to me. But Alvina’s good intentions still ended up hurting like hell.

From that, I can only conclude that meaning well is not the same as doing good.

It’s a sticky bit of logic to wade through, when my emotions are grasping at me from all sides and trying to pull me down.

I sigh and swat a bug away from my face before tromping off to find something to do.

The rest of the day meanders on until Joe and I finally close early and head home at four. Normally we’d be open tomorrow—Saturdays are busy—but the barn raising is going on over near the church at the end of Main. Most of the town will be there, and I’d like to visit, too, so we’re closed until Monday.

It’s nice, getting off a bit early. I retrieve my last donut from the corn dog stand and eat it on the way back to my humble abode.

And I know it’s only a shed in Dom’s back yard. But with the white picket fences and red-orange trees of classic New England suburbia all around, it’s an easy place to romanticize—to imagine it as an adorable, cozy cottage full of soft cushions and twinkling lights.

When I let myself in, it is still very much a workshop. But I smile anyway before getting my stuff together and then hurrying up to the house so I can shower the pumpkin patch off of me.

After that I spend an hour on the my sofa bed doing a large batch of creative briefs, formatting titles and checking links and keywords. It’s tedious, but I’m getting paid, so I persist.

I don’t hear the rumble of Dom’s truck pulling into the driveway until past six. By the time I reach the window to peek out, all I catch is a flash of his heavy-duty canvas pants and work boots before he disappears into his garage. My heart leaps, because it is a stupid muscle, but I remind myself it’s because we still haven’t discussed last night.

That is the only reason.

Still, my brain doesn’t work quite as efficiently after that, and when I’m finally interrupted, my fuzzy thoughts only gets more chaotic.

“Berkeley.”

My muffled name is accompanied by a knock on the door. It’s Dominic, obviously.

I ignore him.

“Berkeley,” he calls again, thirty seconds later and louder now. “I obviously know you’re in there.”

With a jittery sigh, I get off the couch.“There’s no Berkeley present,” I say through the door. “She’s busy at the moment.”

A faint snort of laughter reaches me. “Really? Because I think she’s hiding.”

“She’s not hiding,” I say, indignant. “She’s very tired. Exhausted. She needs her rest.”

“Is she at least decent?” he says back.

I glance down at my tropical pajamas. “Nope,” I call. “Stark naked.”

“Even better.”

My cheeks flush. “Such a scoundrel⁠—”

“I’m coming in through the window. You have ten seconds to get dressed, and ten seconds to stop referring to yourself in the third person.”

I’m already glaring at Dominic when I yank the door open. But he smirks and steps neatly past me, his hands in his pockets as he strolls casually into the shed.

I close the door and turn to look at him, my eyes still narrowed. “This is breaking and entering.”

“Not a single definition of that term applies to this situation.”

“Coercion, then.”

He makes himself comfortable leaning against the large cupboard, folding his arms over his chest. Then he raises his eyebrows at me as his gaze trails up and down my body, lingering on my pajamas and my wet hair. “Used my shower again, I see.”

“You said I could,” I point out. “The back door was open.”

He hums. “Did you snoop while you were in there?”

“Yes. No medicine cabinet was left untouched.”

“I don’t have a medicine cabinet.”

“I would have opened the medicine cabinet, if you had one.”

His lips twitch, but the expression fades. “So,” he says, clearly changing the subject. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

“Nope,” I say, because I know exactly what he’s referencing. I gesture at the door. “You can see yourself out.”

But he shows no signs of moving, much less leaving. “Middle school, huh?”

“High school,” I correct him quickly. “Not middle school. High school.”

“My name in your notebooks?” His voice is casual, but his expression isn’t, and I can see what he’s trying to do.

He’s giving me space to respond however I want, to take this conversation in whichever direction I feel most comfortable. Bantering and joking, or simple and frank.

I choose neither. I just keep my mouth closed until he sighs.

“You could have said something.”

“When?” I say with a snort of laughter. “In high school?”

He shrugs, tilting his head. “Sure.”

“I don’t date smokers,” I say with a sniff, and a little smile tugs at his lips.

It fades, though, as he continues to look at me. He inhales deeply, his broad shoulders expanding, his eyes regretful. Then he exhales roughly. “The other night.” He pauses, his gaze falling away. “I accused you of not—not loving me. Of not being serious about our relationship.” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff.”

“You didn’t know,” I say, uncomfortable now. “It was normal for you to think the things you did.”

He hums, an unconvinced sound. “Maybe.”

Then he pushes away from the cabinet as his arms fall to his sides. He tucks his hands into his pockets, drifting slowly toward me, his gaze questioning.

I push away my sudden nervousness and stand my ground, once again reminding myself that there’s no need to get worked up. There’s no need for my pulse to skip or my heart to race.

Dom approaches with easy steps, but his presence is anything but casual. His gaze is locked with mine, no hope of escaping, and when he reaches me, he leans down.

For one wild, absurd second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But his face tilts only enough to take a deep breath.

“More pumpkin pie,” he murmurs in my ear.

“Did you expect something else?”

He begins to step backward, but I reach out and tug on his shirt. Two can play this game, and if my pulse is thundering through my veins without permission, his should be doing the same.

He stumbles forward, his eyes widening as he bumps into me. I go up on my tiptoes and inhale deeply in the crook of his neck, discovering a scent so familiar I could cry, or smile, or both. Laced with the faint aroma of wood shavings, though, is the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and nutmeg.

“You used my soap again,” I breathe before letting go of him.

“Yeah, well, I told you,” he says in a hoarse voice as he looks down at me. Challenge dances in his expression as his gaze flits over my face. “If it’s in my shower, it belongs to me.” He tilts his head. “Or did you forget?”

“I remembered.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, so briefly I might be imagining it. “Good.”

I lick my lips, self-conscious of his attention—but when I do, heat flares to life in his eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and for a second he looks torn, but then he wrenches his gaze away and turns on his heel, heading for the door.

He stops right as he’s about to leave. “I am sorry,” he says roughly.

“I know,” I reply.

Without looking back at me, he nods. Then he yanks the door open, and with one swift step, he’s gone.

I never hear from Alvina.

It is a mind-boggling feat of modern muscle that a plot of land can go from barnless to barned in the space of one day, but that’s exactly what happens. The admirable citizens of Autumn Ridge—yours truly excluded, because barn raising is not in my DNA—come together on Saturday morning and assemble the giant building, Amish style. I’m put in mind of swarming ants as I watch them, especially when they’re scurrying around on top during the framing portion.

The barn will eventually become a community event center, but when the barn dance is held later this evening, it will still have concrete floors and bare walls that echo the sound of live music. I’m not much of a dancer, but even I’m excited.

I spend most of the day at the construction site, chatting with friends and watching the barn go up in stages. Dominic spares me little more than a glance and a smile as he works, frequently consulting with Bennett. Archer from the stables is there working as well, and James Carver from Carver Maple Farm. I spot Ari and Wade too, who are supposed to be in a fake relationship, but their flirting looks very real; I give her a thumbs up when our eyes meet, and she smiles in response.

I’m forced to acknowledge as I watch that our town has a statistically unlikely number of attractive bachelors. There are even some I recognize only faintly—Rosie’s eyes are carefully following a guy I think is named Dean, and a few times I spot Emma looking at Carson Price, who’s a dentist over on Main.

Looks like Dom’s sisters have their eyes on some of Autumn Ridge’s finest, too.

When the afternoon rolls around and I get a text from Nate telling me he’s home, I take a break from all my important moral support work to go see him. Although his car is the only one I see when I pull up to the house, I tiptoe across the front porch anyway.

I inch the door open, just enough to poke my head in, but all I see is Nathan on the couch, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Psst!” I say. “Is Alvina here?”

He lets out a snort of laughter when he looks over at me. “No, you coward,” he says. “Stop lurking. Come inside.”

I step in and close the door behind me. “How was your trip?” I say, slouching over to the sofa and plopping down next to him.

“It was fine,” he says around a mouth full of Cheerios, but his words are accompanied by a lackluster expression and a little shrug.

“A rousing sentiment,” I say, unable to hide my skepticism. I pause. “Is everything okay?”

Once he’s swallowed his food, he says, “Yeah.” Then he runs his hand over his hair. “I don’t know. Long-distance is just—difficult.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically.

If we’re getting technical, I don’t actually know. I’ve never done long distance. But I can imagine.

Either way, Nathan doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it, because he changes the subject. “How was the dinner thing?” he says before taking another massive bite of cereal.

“Ah,” I say, shrinking back into the cushion a bit. I clear my throat. “It was…not great.”

His brows jump in question as he looks over at me, his cheeks still bulging with food.

“It was messy,” I say. “And I got kind of emotional.” I’m not sure how to explain it to him, so I just add, “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

He shrugs again, an easy motion. “You need therapy, Reese.” He shoots me a glance. “You know that, right?”

The couch swallows a little more of me. “I’m mostly fine.” I hesitate, and then, for the sake of honesty, I go on. “Except…”

“Yeah,” Nathan says with a nod. “Except for when you’re not.”

“Well, what about you?” I point out.

But he gives another snort of laughter, his spoon clinking against his bowl as he fishes for the last of the Cheerios. “Me?” he says. “I’m fine. I have firmly placed Alvina in the none-of-my-business category.”

My brow furrows in confusion, and Nate sighs.

“She forgets my name? None of my business,” he says. “She’s dating a raccoon? None of my business. As long as she doesn’t get in my way, she can exist however she wants. Because,” he adds, stressing the word and looking meaningfully at me, “she is rain on the window. I know it’s there, but I’m not getting wet, and I get to decide if the window ever opens.”

“I don’t like this conversation.”

“You never do.” His eyes are gentler when he looks over at me again. “But I think you might be drowning.”

I think he might be right.

I battle with the sofa for a few seconds before it releases me, and I stumble to my feet. “Well,” I say, “I’m heading back to the barn raising. Are you coming to the dance this evening?”

Nathan puts the bowl to his lips and proceeds to drink all of the milk, slurping sounds included. I take this to mean no.

“You’re such a frat boy,” I say, wrinkling my nose as he continues to slurp.

His loving, brotherly goodbye gets lost and turns into a rude hand gesture instead, but I just laugh. Then I hop back in my car and return to the barn raising.

I hang out with Ari and Liv for a while as the sun sinks lower and the barn comes together. A collective cheer goes up when it’s finally finished, and my eyes search for Dom; I find him talking to Ben, wiping sweat from his brow and looking tired but pleased. Our eyes meet, and his smile stretches wider.

I don’t think he needs to be that attractive. It’s rude, you know? He’s sweaty and gross. My heart should not be galloping when I see him like this.

But gallop it does, and I’m left to chase after it while waving my perfectly good common sense in the air like a flag—a reminder that letting Dom back into my heart could end badly.

I watch him as he appears to say goodbye to Bennett; then he looks around the crowd and the site, his gaze searching until he finds me again. He holds his phone up and wiggles it at me before turning and walking off in the opposite direction.

Sure enough, when I pull my phone out, I have a new text.

Dominic

Going home to shower. I’ll be back in a bit.

A jolt of pleasant nerves goes through me, the kind I got at prom wondering if my crush would ask me to dance (he did not, because it was Dom, and as previously established, he did not know me at all).

I push those feelings away, biting my lip, but I can’t stop my smile, either.

The barn dance has an easy, joyful atmosphere, one I’m happy to let sweep me away. It’s warm in here, and noisy, but I don’t actually mind. The musicians are great, too, especially when Maven Price steps in and begins to fiddle. Her blonde hair glows in the makeshift lighting—twinkle lights and construction lights hooked up to a generator—and I can say without question that she’s the best musician I’ve ever seen.

“Miss Reese.”

A voice speaks my name, and I turn to see Ben Walker, standing next to me with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on the people dancing around us.

He directs his attention at me, and it’s only when his face falls that I realize I’m frowning.

“Do you want me to leave you alone—?” he begins.

“No!” I say quickly, laughing. “Sorry. I was just thinking…” I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember. “I think the last person to call me Miss Reese was Hal from the Maple Bar. Or maybe Joe Bugelbach?”

“Hmm,” he says, his expression easy with humor once more. “I see what you mean.” He pauses. “I’ll call you Reese, then.”

I smile, raising my voice over the swell of the music. “Sounds good.”

“Well, Reese,” he says, leaning sideways toward me. “I have an idea I want to run by you.”

I raise my brows, waiting for him to go on.

He glances up at Maven playing the violin, and then he turns his eyes to the other side of the room.

I follow his gaze and find Dominic, who’s standing against the wall and talking to Archer Kade.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “He’s back.”

Dom’s gaze catches mine and bounces back and forth between Ben and me, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Yep,” Bennett says, looking back at me. “So I think you and I should dance together.”

I snort. “When your ex-wife is standing right there?” I say, nodding toward Maven. “No way. Girl code is very strict on situations like this.”

“We’re technically still married,” he says, and I can’t help but notice how quickly the words come out of his mouth.

“Well, she will be your ex-wife, won’t she?” I say slowly. “Unless…” I look more closely at Maven, watching her for a second, until I see her gaze jump to where Ben and I are talking.

A sneaking suspicion pops into my mind then—that if Ben had his way, he and Maven wouldn’t get divorced at all.

“What’s going on with you two?” I say. “You were married, and then you thought you were divorced, but you’re still married and getting divorced again…?”

He hesitates, sighing. “It’s complicated. But honestly, your guess is as good as mine.” Then, rallying his spirits, he brightens. “What I do know is that a dance could be beneficial for both you and me.” His eyes dart to Dominic. “And I’d love to see how red Dom’s face gets.”

“His face doesn’t really get red,” I say absently, my gaze wandering to Dom as well. “His neck does, though.”

Ben laughs, and when I look back at him, he’s wearing a knowing grin. He grabs my hand and leads me to the center of the barn. “Look at that,” he says over his shoulder, his grin widening. “Dom is frowning already.”

I laugh too, despite my stumbling feet. “I don’t even know how to dance!”

“I’ve got you,” he says easily. “You’ll be surprised by your own abilities if I lead.” Then he raises his eyebrows at me. “So?”

My laugh lingers into a reluctant smile. “All right,” I say. “Okay. Show me how to dance, then. As long as,” I add quickly, raising my voice and speaking as sternly as possible.“As long as you tell Maven this was your idea. I am not a husband stealer. Got it?”

“On my honor,” Ben says, and then we’re off—my feet move easily beneath me, which shouldn’t be the case, but Ben was right. He’s great at this. He swings me around, pulls me close, maneuvers the two of us all around the floor until I’m laughing and completely out of breath.

We only slow down when Dominic approaches, his face suspiciously genial.

He claps Ben on the shoulder—with much more force than necessary, I might add, so that Ben winces—and then looks at him with a perfectly pleasant expression.

“Should I go ask Maven to dance, then?” he says.

Bennett’s eyes narrow, but Dom goes on, his voice still conversational.

“And I’ll hold her nice and close, or maybe swing her around for a few line dances?” He glances over at Maven and then back at Ben, raising his brows expectantly.

Ben grumbles and lets go of my hands, his face souring as he glares at Dominic. “You’re no fun,” he says, but when he turns his eyes to me before walking away, I could swear I see laughter.

“I was enjoying my dance with Ben,” I say lightly.

Dominic hums, placing his hands on my waist and pulling me close as the music slows down. “I could tell,” he says in a dry voice.

A pleasurable rush zips through me at his touch, and I slide my hands up his arms until they loop around his neck. Then I look up at him. “It was rude of you to butt in.”

“Noted,” he says, sounding not at all sorry. “I’m a rude man.”

“Presumptuous.”

He nods. “Presumptuous too. Got it.”

“And so penitent.”

His arms tighten around me as he ducks his head and laughs softly in my ear. “Rude, presumptuous—anything else, darling Reese?”

That name.

My heart stutters, and I try to keep my words steady, but I’m not sure it works. “Haven’t heard that one in a long time.”

He pauses, even stilling his feet for a second. Then he moves again, back to the slow dance we’ve been doing.

“There are a lot of things we haven’t said in a long time,” he says. “And yet…” He leans impossibly closer, until I can feel his lips brushing against my skin as he breathes, “You’ve made yourself very comfortable, pressed up against me like this.”

“And your arms could not be tighter around my waist,” I respond immediately. “Don’t pretend this isn’t mutual—whatever it is.”

He lifts his head slowly to look down at me, his face half shadowed but his eyes bright. “I won’t pretend.” After a second of quiet between us, he goes on. “I am interested to hear what you think is happening right now, though.”

“We’re dancing,” I say, but my voice is breathless. “Like—friends.”

What a stupid word—friends.

Dom thinks so too, because a huff of skeptical laughter escapes his lips. Then he leans down once more to speak in my ear.

“Let me ask you something, Berkeley,” he says softly as his hands travel slowly over my back. He trails one finger down my spine, just like the night he moved me into his shed, and I shiver; another little laugh from him, amused now. “Do you think you and I can truly be friends?”

There are a million things I want to say, but only one true answer—and I can’t speak that word out loud.

Dominic doesn’t expect me to.

“What about siblings? Hmm?” he says, and his earlier amusement grows sardonic teeth, bites deep. “Do you think we can be stepsiblings?”

My breath catches in my chest at the question, desperate and trapped; my hands grasp each other tightly behind his neck, my fingers twisting painfully. “Stop,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Stop—please.”

I feel his sigh, the pliancy of his body as it curves around mine until our dance is more of a hug, cradling and deep and home.

“Monsters in the dark can be outrun,” he murmurs as his hand strokes my hair. “The truth never can.”

His words settle into my heart, my bones, and hot tears prick my eyes, because I know he’s right.

Something has to give.

I hesitate only a second before turning my face into his chest, his neck, breathing him in. I don’t know what the future holds for us. I don’t know if or when I’ll get to do this with him again. So I savor the moment—and all the memories it brings.

SIX YEARS AGO || END OF OCTOBER

Autumn Ridge knows we’re coming.

That’s the only explanation. How else could our town be so perfect? The trees are showing off despite the lateness of the season; the weather is everything you could want from a fall day. The sky is a crisp, clear blue, the sun bright overhead, and the air is infused with everything I love most: maple and autumn leaves and beautiful memories.

Like I said—perfect.

We pull into a parking spot on Main when we arrive in town, the truck idling as Dom looks over at me from the driver’s seat. No hat today, and his flannel button-up is open over a white shirt. He looks like the quintessential country boy I know him to be.

“All right, darling Reese,” he says with sparkling eyes. “You’re in charge. All of Autumn Ridge is at our disposal.”

“Because I got a ninety!” I say, gleeful.

A trick of the light causes Dom’s sparkling eyes to dim, a shadow hovering before it vanishes. “You did,” he says. “You studied hard, and it paid off. I quizzed you myself and you did great.”

I beam at him. I can’t help it.

“So where to?” he says.

“Bugelbach’s,” I say immediately, my smile falling away as I think.

He nods. “Pumpkin farm. Got it. What else?”

I point out the window and down Main a bit to where the world’s best bakery is located. “Keller’s, definitely.”

“And your baked good of choice is…?”

“Maple bar,” I say, an answer that needs no contemplation. “Maple bars all day, every day.”

“Mmm,” Dom says slowly. “They’re good, but…” He quirks his brows at me. “Have you tried the sticky buns?”

“I have, and they’re great,” I say. “But there’s just something about a maple bar.”

His lips twitch. “A maple bar it is.”

I nod with satisfaction. “Anywhere you want to go? Do you want to go see your dad or anything?”

“Nope,” he says, like I figured he probably would. “He calls, and I get back here every now and then. Do you want to go see your dad?”

He means the cemetery, but I shake my head. “Not today. I’ll visit next time I’m here.”

Dom shrugs. “Your call. Shall we, in that case? Are we grabbing donuts to enjoy at the pumpkin patch, or are we doing the pumpkin patch and then enjoying our donuts while resting at Keller’s?”

The seatbelt clicks as I unfasten it. “Let’s get donuts to take to Bugelbach’s,” I say, already opening the door.

“Wait,” Dom says quickly. “Wait.”

I pause, looking over to see him reaching into the back seat. He stretches for something and then emerges with the blue hat I ruined; with only the slightest hesitation, he places it on my head.

“There,” he says. “It’s yours.”

My heart leaps, but I just nod, and together we get out of the truck and head for Keller’s.

Dom gets a sticky bun while I get a maple bar, and then we drive to Bugelbach’s. The parking lot is really just a plot of dust and packed dirt, but we find a spot and trek on over; two ticket stubs later and we’re in.

Neither of us say anything, but we both drift toward a hanging bench as we dig our donuts out of their bags. The first bite hits my tongue in the way only a lifelong favorite can, and I sigh with happiness, scuffing the dirt and gravel with the toe of my shoe to get us swinging a bit.

“So?” I say through a very ladylike mouth full of food.

Dom nods. “It was a good idea,” he says. His jaw works in fascinating ways when he chews—it should not be attractive, and yet here I am.

Falling head over heels.

Because I keep trying to tell myself it’s a crush. Oh, you just think he’s cute. It will go away soon. But these feelings have only grown, and what’s worse—they’re real. They’re deep. And while I appreciate how handsome Dom is, that’s not actually where my heart is focused.

My heart is focused on his heart. His goodness. His kindness, his intelligence—his unmatched capacity for hard work. The little smile I catch on his face when I look up and find his eyes on me; his reassurances, the ones that remind me everything is okay.

“Reese.”

I blink when I realize Dom is waving at me, trying to get my attention. His cinnamon bun is gone, the paper bag folded neatly in one hand, and his gaze is full of amusement.

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “Yes.” Then, clearing my throat, I go on, “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I could tell you anything right now, and you’d never know the difference,” he says, and I duck my head as my cheeks heat. But he just gives a huff of laughter. “Come on. Finish your food, and then let’s go pick out pumpkins.”

We spend quite a while at Bugelbach’s, wandering aimlessly around as we talk, picking pumpkins, and even going down the slides. Being here with Dom is different from being here with friends or family or by myself. It’s new—golden and bright and meaningful.

When we leave the pumpkin farm, we go over to the straw maze and navigate our way through, leaving our fat, happy pumpkins in the bed of the truck. Dom’s sense of direction is infinitely better than mine, but we’re not really there for the actual maze.

We don’t say the words out loud, but I think we just want to spend time together, whatever that looks like. So we meander, taking our time, our fingers brushing as our arms swing at our sides. That golden feeling in my chest grows lighter and more giddy with every step we take, until I know in my heart that this is a day I will remember for the rest of my life.

Every second is imprinting itself on my soul.

The rest of the day passes in this dreamlike state, until when the sun begins to hover low and we head up to the Ridge to watch the sky.

Everyone calls it Make-Out Ridge, my mind says, very unhelpfully. I push this thought away.

Dom backs into a parking spot overlooking the town, and then we get out to sit in the bed of the truck. He has a few blankets, thank goodness, because a chill is in the air, so we lay one down and then drape the other over our legs.

I let out a contented sigh once we’ve settled, leaning back against the cab and watching the sun-stained sky. Pinks and oranges and yellows line the horizon, stark against the green of the rolling hills.

It’s never been this beautiful before.

“Incredible,” I murmur, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Dominic look at me.

“You’ve been up here before, right?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “In high school. But not like—like this.” The words are out before I can think better of them. I shift uncomfortably, hoping Dom won’t ask further—but of course that’s futile.

“Like this?” he says, and when I chance a glance at him, a smile is tugging over his lips. “You mean…with a very handsome man?”

My awkwardness dissipates as I laugh. “Yeah. With a very handsome man.”

He hums, pulling one knee up and resting an arm over it, the other still stretched out. “And…what about with any fumbling boys?” There’s hesitation in this question.

“No,” I say quickly. “Not like that at all. I mean—” My cheeks heat until they’re probably the same color as the dying sun. “I told you I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“All that means is that lips never touched,” he says, but his body relaxes, and his voice is easier. “It does not take into account missed kisses or teenage idiots.”

“No missed kisses,” I say. “No teenage idiots. Happy?”

“I don’t care either way,” he says, a little too nonchalantly.

“Really?” I point at his face. “Because you’re trying not to smile. Right there”—I poke the corner of his lips and laugh as he swats my hand away—“that’s a smile trying to happen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, grinning now.

“Liar,” I mutter, but I’m grinning too. I nudge him with my elbow, and he dodges out of the way with a laugh, catching my elbow and wrapping one hand around my upper arm.

We both freeze as we find ourselves pressed together, my side and shoulder leaning across his chest. I turn my head ever so slightly and find him right there, his face inches from mine, and his eyes widen as his grip on my arm releases.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I swear I can feel the racing beat of his where we’re pressed together. A rhythm frantic with longing and the ache of first love, surrounded by the sweetness of trust and comfort.

I don’t know who moves first. All I know is that one second I’m breathing air and the next I’m tasting him, the intoxicating slide of our lips as I climb onto his lap and run my fingers through his hair—everything I’ve dreamed of and wanted and more.

And the sun hides its head and dips below the horizon—unwilling to witness the birth of something that cannot be.

Because the sun, at least, knows better.

While I’m aware that Sunday is usually a day of rest, I do very little resting. Instead I worry a lot, and pace the floor of my shed, and commandeer Nathan’s kitchen for a quick batch of muffins—pumpkin spice, the kind from a box. Alvina drifts in wearing a velour tracksuit; I don’t know why, I don’t care to ask. It’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on her since the potluck. She asks what I’m making, if it’s sugar-free, and then wrinkles her nose and sighs in disappointment when I tell her the muffins definitely have sugar.

Then she leaves, a mournful air to her steps, and without another word.

My worrying and pacing come from a trip to the Walker house I make with Dom. The weirdo who’s been stalking Liv broke in last night. She’s understandably shaken, and I’m worried about her, so when Dom goes over to install new locks and security stuff, I tag along.

By which I mean I force my way into his truck and refuse to get out, even when he says he’s going alone. What finally convinces him is that he knows I’ll drive over myself if he doesn’t let me come. Despite the level of friendliness and even teasing we’ve cultivated recently, we’re unusually grim.

“Everything will be fine,” Dom says once we’re leaving, pulling away from the Walker’s house. His voice is quiet, but he glances over at me briefly. “The Walkers are a solid bunch, and they’re not going to take this lying down. Liv will be okay.”

“They should have asked me and Ari to run point on this whole operation,” I mutter, watching the house disappear in the rearview mirror. “No one is going to kick butts like the best friends of a woman threatened.”

He lets out his classic huff of laughter, and we fall silent again. There seems to be an unspoken agreement between us not to discuss our dance last night, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it. So when Dom speaks again, I’m grateful.

“Need a distraction?” he says. “There’s someplace I wanted to go. You can come along if you want.”

“A distraction would be great,” I say with relief, and he nods…

Which is how I find myself standing in front of my father’s tombstone, looking down at it and then turning to Dom.

“You are so bad at lightening the mood,” I say flatly.

“I didn’t promise a lighter mood,” he points out as he walks past me. “And you’re the one who stopped there.” He gestures to the other side of the little cemetery behind the church, to a spot next to the white fence and grass covered with colorful leaves. “I was always headed this way.”

He continues on, but I look down at my dad’s headstone. It’s simple and neat, nothing fancy, and I crouch down to dust it off.

Nathan and I keep it in pretty good shape, usually. I don’t know if Alvina ever comes. The stone is rough beneath my touch as I brush away a bit of dirt, some errant leaves.

“I miss you,” I say quietly as I trace the grooved letters of my dad’s name—REGINALD BERKELEY. I haven’t been to visit in a while, and I find the words bubbling to the tip of my tongue without much thought or prompting.

“I feel like our family is falling apart, and no one cares but me.” I try to swallow the knot in my throat, but it stays. “You were the glue that held us together. We were even back living in one house again—our house—but it’s not the same.” Tears prick my eyes now, and my voice is thick when I go on. “And I keep feeling like I should try one more time.”

The faint strain of holy hymn reaches me from inside the church, tries to wrap me in something soothing, but the wind blows it away too soon, until it’s lost. My eyes drop to the grass at the base of the rough stone, the weeds fighting for space, and I can feel them around my throat, too.

“Maybe I can make us happy again.” It’s a pathetic, desperate plea, choked with tears and stupid hope. “If I just—” My breath stutters, trembles in my chest, and I try again. “If I can just—do better.”

There’s something about losing a parent, though, that no one ever tells you. They may be gone, but you always know what they would say.

My father is off in the heavenly ether, but I can almost feel him here. He would stand behind me, his hands gentle on my shoulders as I kneel in front of his grave. Sweet girl—that’s what he called me—you’ve done what you can do, he would say. Now let it go.

But let go…what? My entire family? Obviously not. So what does that even mean?

“You’re not very helpful,” I mutter to my father.

I startle when a very real pair of hands rest on my shoulders, standing behind me; I yelp and whirl around, losing my balance and toppling to the ground.

It’s not my dad, of course. It’s Dominic.

I turn quickly to hide my watery eyes, swiping at them before looking back. Dom offers me his hand as a smile touches his lips, not of laughter but gentle understanding. I slide my hand into his gratefully and let him pull me to my feet, dusting my clothes off.

“Want to say hi to my mom?” he says.

I blink up at him in surprise. “I’ve never met your mom.”

“Sure you have,” he says easily. He lets go of my hand and turns away, speaking over his shoulder as he heads back toward her plot. “We’ve lived here forever.”

My cheeks heat, and I give my dad’s grave one last wave before following Dom. “You know what I mean.”

His footsteps slow for half a second. “I do know what you mean,” he admits, so softly I almost don’t hear, and then he starts walking again.

Had I interacted with Sally Harper around town before? Sure. But had I ever met her as the woman her son was dating? Had I ever been formally introduced as Dominic’s significant other?

No.

A faint wind rustles through the cemetery, playing with the leaves of the trees scattered around the edges. The sun is tucked mostly away, but enough peeps through the clouds to lend a few rays to the graveyard, making it feel breezy and bright rather than gloomy.

My heavy heart lifts some as I make my way toward Dom, who’s stopped in front of his mother’s headstone. I slow as I approach, eyeing him, but he seems calm enough, even casual.

I take my cues from him. My feet crunch over the leaves, and I give the grave marker a little wave. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Reese. I guess—you’ve seen me around town before.”

Silence falls for a second, until Dom quirks an eyebrow at me, his hands tucked easily in his pockets.

“That’s all?” he says. “Nothing else you want to say?”

So I look back at Sally. I would recognize your son’s hands in the dark, I tell her sadly. I loved him the way the bird loves the sky.

A crack of sun illuminates before me, casting Sally’s grave marker into a shaft of light; when I look up, more of the clouds have drifted away, revealing bright, vibrant blue.

“Maybe it’s clearing up now,” I murmur to no one in particular. I glance at Dom, but his eyes are still on his mother’s headstone, some of his earlier flippancy gone.

“The anniversary of her death was last week.”

“It was,” I realize with a start, and I inspect him more closely now. His attention remains trained on the sun-speckled grave.

Is he wondering what his future looks like, now that Alvina has entered Daryl’s life? Is he remembering the woman buried here, feeling like she might be replaced by my mother soon? Is he comparing them?

Because that comparison is inevitable, good or bad, and a sense of discomfort washes over me. I know it’s not my fault our parents are dating, but somehow I feel responsible all the same. Guilt by association.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dom says suddenly, and I startle, pulled back to the present to find his eyes on me.

“Like what?” I say, my answer too quick, my question too innocent.

He snorts and shakes his head. “Like that,” he says, gesturing to my face. “Like you’re—like you pity me.”

“I don’t.” When he looks skeptical, I go on, “I’m not. I don’t!”

It’s not a lie, exactly, but it’s not wholly true, either.

Finally I sigh under Dom’s stare. “I just think it’s sad. Your dad really seems great. And your mom was too, I’m sure. And now my mom comes in and…” I don’t know how to describe it, so I make an explosion sound as I mime something blowing up.

It’s only when Dominic’s expression shifts that I realize how depressed I sound. “Oh, no,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

I don’t even know what I’m trying to reassure him of. I just know that it’s what I’ve always done—tell people I’m fine, because it’s easier than explaining, and I sound stupid when I try to explain anyway.

It’s one of the great frustrations of my life: I can never adequately put words to what’s wrong with my mother, because taken in parts, nothing sounds particularly bad. She doesn’t hit me. She doesn’t scream at me. She doesn’t take joy in my pain. I grew up with a roof over my head and food on the table.

I’m luckier than most of the world with all of these things.

But my heart races when I speak against her. My hands shake. Tears jump to my throat for no reason. I gauge what mood she’s in and adjust my behavior accordingly; I do it without thinking. I know what her footsteps sound like when she’s angry, what they sound like when she’s not, because at some point my mind thought that information needed to be learned.

Is that normal? Are these things okay?

My heart crumbles a bit, because I have the horrible, sinking feeling that no—my relationship with my mother is not normal. And it’s not okay.

I take a deep breath and turn to Dom. “So,” I say, injecting new energy into the word. “What’s our plan moving forward? Our parents have been dating for…” I tilt my head. “A month?”

Dominic nods, accepting my change in subject. “Yeah, probably a month. Maybe a little more.”

“I think it would be helpful to hear how Daryl feels about my mother at this stage in their relationship.” My voice is brisk and businesslike, a relief to hear. “Alvina really likes him. But last time we spoke, she seemed to feel like he was too good for her.”

Dom’s brows notch upward in surprise.

“I know,” I say, but I shrug. “It was a rare moment of self-awareness that was very depressing and very uncomfortable. That was the gist, though.” Then I swallow. “She seemed sad. Like she wanted a good relationship with a man like Daryl, but didn’t think she was capable of it.”

Folding his arms, Dom wrinkles his nose, his brow furrowing. “That…is depressing.”

“Yep,” I say tonelessly. “It was when you and I ate in the alley on Main—the donuts. I had talked to her the night before.”

“Ah.” His expression clears with understanding, and he settles comfortably against his mother’s grave.

“Are you allowed to lean on that?” I say, my eyes dropping to the headstone.

He shrugs easily. “Seems sturdy enough. She never minded when she was alive.”

It’s a lovely thought.

“See what you can find out from your dad,” I say. “How he’s feeling about Alvina. We’ll move forward from there.”

Dominic nods and stands up. “Should we head out?” he says, dusting his hands off.

“Yeah,” I say, sending my silent goodbye to Sally Harper and then to my dad. “Let’s go home.”

I spend most of Monday working. When I get home from the pumpkin patch, I settle on the shed couch and do my online job. I saw Dominic briefly this morning as he was pulling out of the driveway; we waved at each other and then went our separate ways. I haven’t seen or heard from him since, but I’m anxious to hear what he says about our parents.

I don’t know how easy Daryl is to pry information out of, especially concerning blossoming relationships. Alvina will tell you everything you want to know and everything you don’t, mostly because she likes to feel like people are interested in her life.

Sighing, I settle back against the couch cushion and snap my computer closed. The sun is only just setting, but I’m unusually tired. So I make myself a ham sandwich, eat, and then watch TV on my phone for an hour before falling asleep.

It’s on Tuesday morning that Dom gets back to me. He calls while I’m in the middle of rearranging inventory—a fancy way of saying I’m moving pumpkins around.

“Hi,” I say, putting the phone on speaker and then setting it on top of the hay bale I’m next to. “What’s up?”

“You sound out of breath,” he says instead of answering my question.

“I’m switching up our pumpkin display.” I prop a large pumpkin against the hay bale and surround it with a few smaller ones, standing back to see how it looks.

“Well, I talked to my dad,” Dom says, and I momentarily forget about my display.

“Yeah?” I say, grabbing the phone and holding it to my mouth. “What did he say? How are they doing?”

“All I could get out of him was that he’s taking her to dinner on Monday. Someplace fancy in Burlington.”

I groan at this, slumping down next to the pumpkin I just arranged. “A fancy dinner? In Burlington?”

“Yeah,” Dom says, his voice grim. “So that’s not promising.”

I glance around at the empty pumpkin patch. We’re going to change our hours starting tomorrow, because no one is here. “You know what I’m realizing?” I say, trying to make myself more comfortable.

“Hmm?”

“Breaking a couple up is difficult.”

“It is,” Dom admits.

“Especially if you’re conscientious,” I go on. “Which we mostly are.”

“I recall some spying that happened a few weeks ago,” Dominic says now, and I can hear a faint smile entering his voice. “Peeking through windows. Would you call that conscientious?”

“But I wasn’t hurting anything. I wasn’t lying to anyone or doing damage, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says on a sigh. “I know.”

“I don’t want to puncture their tires or something, and even if I did, what would that do? Basically nothing. They could still meet up for dinner somewhere other than a fancy restaurant in Burlington.” I squirm as the hay makes my back itch. “So what do we do? Tell them lies about each other? Show your dad all my mom’s diagnoses?”

“Does she have official diagnoses?” he says, sounding interested.

“I don’t know,” I say. “And I’ve never asked. But I’d be shocked if there wasn’t something.” I clear my throat. “Anyway. Thoughts? About our parents, I mean. Not my mom’s medical history.”

“Because I do have thoughts about your mom’s medical history.”

A smile tugs over my lips at this. “I’m sure you do.”

“Well,” he goes on, “I think it would be worth it to tag along. Fancy dinners don’t usually happen for no reason.” Then, more casually, he adds, “You and I can grab dinner too, if you want. Watch them from across the restaurant or something.”

“Oh,” I say, straightening up at the idea. “I like that. I like that very much.”

A puff of laughter sends static down the line. “Let’s do it, then.”

“Also, I was thinking,” I go on. “Could I borrow your house this evening?”

“Why? Throwing a party?”

“A rager. Whole town’s invited.”

Another laugh, clearer this time. “Why do you need my house?”

I sigh and tell him the slightly pathetic truth. “Because my soul is tired and I’m sick of ham sandwiches. I want to make something delicious and take a bubble bath and watch a movie. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Yes to the cooking and the movie. Absolutely not to the bubble bath.”

“But it sounds so⁠—”

“No bubble bath,” he cuts me off flatly. “I cannot handle you taking a bath in my house, okay?”

Welp.

“Fine,” I say, suddenly wishing for more of a cool breeze than this morning has provided so far. I fan my face. “Just a shower, then.”

“I have an idea, Berkeley—let’s stop talking about your bathing habits.”

“Deal,” I say, but the word is squeaky. “So…can I use your TV and kitchen this evening?”

“Yes,” he says, sounding relieved. “Watch a movie. Bake a cake. Whatever.”

“Are you going to be around?”

“Probably,” he says. “Is that okay?”

I shrug and then wince at the renewed itchiness of the hay. “Sure, if you don’t complain about my movie choice.”

“I’ve never complained about your movie choice.”

“I might play music while I bake,” I add.

“Go for it.”

“And I might dance around the kitchen, too.”

He pauses for only a second, and when he speaks, it sounds like he’s smiling again. “I can honestly say I’d love nothing better.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the twitch of my lips.

That evening at seven, I head across the lawn to Dom’s back door, two bags with everything I need swinging in my hand.

Before I can open the door, though, it lurches open on its own and reveals Dominic. He leans against the door frame, folds his arms, and narrows his eyes at me.

“It occurred to me after our phone call this morning that I forgot to make a few things clear.”

I smile blithely up at him and pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Is that so?” I say, subtly shifting the bags I’m holding to behind my back so he can’t see what’s inside.

I try to step past him into the house, but his arm shoots out and blocks my path before I can get in.

“Yes,” he says evenly. “I have some rules.”

I am the picture of innocence. “Rules?”

“Actually, one rule.” He holds up his pointer finger. “One. No onions.”

My fingers curl more tightly around the bags’ handles behind my back. “So. Actually. It’s funny you say that⁠—”

“No,” he says firmly. “No. Is it that stir-fry you’re going to make? Berkeley, my house will smell for a week.”

“Not if you open some windows!” I say, dropping my innocent act. “And you have a stove fan, right? Probably? So I can turn that on and open the windows, and we can even keep this door open⁠—”

“No. Onions,” he cuts me off, his eyes narrowing on me. Then his gaze drops suspiciously to where I still have my bags hidden. “Give me that.”

I attempt a backward shuffle, out of his reach, but he’s too fast. He takes one giant step down from the doorway and wraps his arms around me—not a romantic gesture but one that lets him pry my bags out of my hands. A mostly silent struggle ensues, our bodies pressed together, and for two seconds our eyes lock, our faces inches apart.

I’m not sure if it’s his sudden proximity that startles me enough to release my grip, or if it’s my inferior strength; either way, he pulls the bags away from me and strides back inside the house without another word.

Very concerned about which bag he’s going to open first, I dart into the laundry room after him. Because while one of those bags does contain my cooking ingredients—and yes, FINE, onions are involved—the other contains things that are none of his business.

“Wait,” I blurt, scurrying past the washer and into the kitchen, reaching for the bag⁠—

But it’s too late. Dom is standing next to his kitchen counter, and from inside one plastic bag he’s lifting a pair of underwear.

They are not sexy. They are not cute. They will not make him picture me in a tantalizing light.

They are white, faded to gray.

A little stretched out, with full cheek coverage.

And there is a hole at the waist band.

“Give me that!” I yelp before he can find the bra, which has been a trusty companion for years and looks the part. “Give me—that—” I yank the underwear out of his hand and then grab the bags.

He puts up no resistance; just stares blankly at the space where the underwear were dangling from his grip a second ago.

“If you would please erase the last thirty seconds from your mind,” I say, out of breath, “I will be about my business.” I swallow. “We may discuss the onions when I’m done upstairs.”

And then I march away, my cheeks flaming.

I shower quickly and use liberal amounts of my pumpkin pie bodywash, because I find the scent soothing, and I need to be soothed. When I get out and see how red my face is, I choose to believe it’s from all the steam. I put on a t-shirt and leggings, take a deep breath, plus one more when the first doesn’t work, and then I return downstairs.

My head is held high. My steps are confident. I am a woman who does not care that her ex saw her unflattering panties.

It’s fine.

Dominic says not a word when I reappear in his kitchen. He just holds up the bag of cooking ingredients I brought, raises his eyebrows, and waits.

“I will commit to using only half of one onion,” I tell him, because this is his house. “If you would prefer, I will even forego the onions completely. Your choice.”

He hesitates, his eyes on me, and then he gives a single nod.

“Half is fine,” he says. He jerks his chin at the cabinet by the oven. “Grab a cutting board. You do the onion. I’ll start on the peppers.”

I blink in surprise, but I do as he says, and together we begin cooking. I turn my music on shuffle, letting the sound fill the space so we don’t feel pressured to talk if we don’t want. Because I was telling the truth this morning—my soul is tired. A weird thing to say, but undeniably true. The monotonous process of chopping veggies and swaying back and forth to music is strangely calming.

It’s also very domestic, which tugs a little at the sutures I’ve been fiercely guarding.

It could have been like this, my mind whispers. Your life could have been like this. If you hadn’t jumped the gun and pushed for a relationship rather than waiting, things may have turned out exactly this way.

Because I was the one who did that damage. Of the stupid decisions we made, that one was mine alone.

And I find myself speaking before I can think better of it.

“I think we should tell them.”

Dom’s rhythmic chopping falters before starting again. “Tell our parents?” he says in a voice that’s too casual. “That we dated?”

I set down my own knife, committing to the conversation I didn’t mean to start. “Yeah.”

“No way.” Chop, chop, chop.

“Dom,” I say with a sigh, reaching over to turn off the music. The kitchen falls silent except for the sound of Dom’s knife.

Chop, chop, chop.

I try again. “Dominic.”

Chopchopchopchopchop.

Then silence, and then, finally, he plunks his knife down too. The yellow peppers look more like salsa by now, but I wisely keep this to myself.

“If we tell them we dated, we’ll have to explain,” he says wearily. “Everything will come out. Are you okay with that?”

His tone of voice tells me that he is not okay with it.

“It would be fine, Dom,” I say, but he shakes his head.

“You would be fine. But I wouldn’t. How—” He breaks off and then pins me with a look as bitter storm clouds gather, hands balling into fists at his sides. “How am I supposed to look my dad in the eye and tell him I got both of us expelled from college?”

And there it is. My breath catches at the truth of the matter, the words we’ve been skirting around—not as simple as he makes it sound, but ugly nonetheless.

“Well?” he prods. “How do I tell our parents that I ruined your life?”

It takes half a second for me to figure out why his words cut.

“Hey,” I say sharply, louder than I mean to. “What part of my life is—is ruined?” I swallow and push away the image of my storage shed home, of my late nights doing dull work, of my mother’s scathing indifference. “Maybe I’m not doing what I thought I’d do when I was ten, but what’s so bad about that?”

The bitterness in Dom’s eyes clears, replaced by faint surprise. His tightened fists relax. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“It’s a little complicated, but I have a great life,” I cut him off, tilting my chin up. “I don’t have a house right now”—did Alvina even wonder where I’d gone? Did she care?—“but I’ll get an apartment.” I swallow. “I’m allowed to work an online job even if it’s not fancy. And I love—I love Bugelbach’s.”

“I know you do,” Dom says, softer now. “I didn’t mean—” His throat bobs. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t love your life. Or that it’s not worth loving.”

“Because it is. It’s a great life.” I sound so stupidly defiant.

“It is,” Dom says quickly, taking a step closer. “Of course it is.” He pauses. “Maybe I’m being too hard on myself.”

I shake my head and force myself to take steady breaths, trying to get rid of the knot in my throat. “You are, but that’s not what I mean.” I pause and then let the words out, rushing forward until I couldn’t stop them if I tried. “I loved you, Dom, but you didn’t have the power to ruin my life.” My inhale is shakier now. “Whether you dated me or loved me or even cared for me at all”—and she must care, right? She’s my mother, and mothers care for their children—“I would have been fine.” My vision blurs as something breaks through, a bloom bursting through oppressive soil in search of the sun, until I repeat the words so loudly they echo throughout the kitchen, ringing into the silence: “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

I don’t know which one of us realizes it first—that I’m no longer talking about Dominic. But by the time he’s reached me, understanding is in his eyes. He pulls my hair away from my face where it’s stuck to my skin, then wipes my tears with swiping thumbs beneath my eyes.

“You will be,” he says as his hands continue to move over my face, my hair, aimless and smoothing and gentle. “You are. You’re fine, sweet—” He breaks off as the endearment tries to slip from his lips. “Reese,” he corrects himself softly. “No matter who comes or who stays or who goes. You’ll be just fine.”

And he looks, for a second, like he wants to say more—but then he sighs, slides his hand to the back of my head, and tugs me closer, wrapping his arms around me in a hug.

Like a bird loves the sky, my heart says over and over, until it grows wings of its own that spread and take to the wind. Like a bird loves the sky.

It could be hours we stand there, or minutes. My tears slow as my numb body begins to thaw, until Dom tilts his lips down to speak in my ear.

“Go sit on the couch and turn on a movie,” he says. “I’ll cook. Onion included.”

SIX YEARS AGO || DECEMBER

Cloud Nine isn’t so far when you feel like you can fly.

It’s possibly the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said or thought, but it’s true—Dominic makes me feel like I could float away happily, lifted by dreamy, cheerful balloons.

I do my best to stay firmly planted on the ground, of course, because I have grades to maintain. But my mind and my heart race far ahead, and no matter how I try, I can’t seem to stop them.

I’ve fallen completely in love. With him, with the life we could build together—I’ve fallen in love. And I want to live in this pocket of time forever, until someday rolls around and we’re not encumbered by secret dating and student life.

Someday we can marry. Someday we can start a family. Someday we’ll grow old together. Promises I make myself but am too scared to say out loud.

Because both of us have grown more stressed as the semester wears on, but it’s taken a toll on Dom especially. He retreats into himself, distance where before there was closeness, and all I can do is wait it out. He doesn’t seem to feel the same relief I do as our classes wind down; if anything, he looks worse, circles under his eyes and a gaze that darts away from mine.

His avoidance births a fear that nibbles at me from inside, with sharp, frantic teeth and haunted dreams.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” I say one snowy day when we’re holed up in the library, studying for different classes across the table from each other. He’s doing all the right things—holding my hand, smiling, laughing—but they’re strained, and behind his eyes there’s a wall.

“Nothing’s going on,” he mutters, half distracted as he thumbs through a few pages of notes.

But he doesn’t ask what I’m talking about. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re a liar,” I say under my breath, loud enough that he can hear me; a rare flash of genuine laughter finds his lips before it fades away, and he’s gone again, retreated behind the wall in his eyes.

It’s the last laugh I hear from him. We’re supposed to meet for lunch the next day, but he cancels; later in the afternoon he calls.

“We need to talk,” he says.

I blink and grip the phone tighter in my hand as those four words travel down the line. “What?” I say—as though I didn’t hear him perfectly. As though asking again will somehow change what he said.

“We need to talk about something,” he says, slower and clearer, which is just as well because I’m not operating at full capacity as of two seconds ago.

“Okay,” I say faintly. I drift to my bed and sit down, nearly missing and slipping off the edge of the mattress completely. “Uh, what is it? Let’s just talk now.”

“No,” he says in a heavy voice.

Bad. This is bad.

“In person would be better,” he goes on.

But I’m already shaking my head. “What can you say in person that you can’t say over the phone?” I say. “Just tell me now.” Then, glancing around at the notebooks spread out all over my comforter, I add, “I’m kind of busy anyway, so⁠—”

“I’m at your front door, Reese.”

My heart sinks from my chest to the pit of my stomach, and it makes a horrible dying sound as it falls. “Oh,” I say. I swallow, but the growing knot in my throat doesn’t budge. “Okay.”

He looks horrible when I open the door. I mean, I love Dom. I love him. But he looks awful. His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it on repeat all day. The dark circles under his eyes have intensified, and his gaze looks everywhere but at me.

I step back silently to let him in, and he crosses the threshold with a finality that I might be imagining. He doesn’t come further in like usual; he remains by the door.

“So,” he says, his hands hanging by his sides.

The word hovers between us and then expands, noxious gas that fills the room with alarming speed. A sick feeling creeps into my stomach, poison.

“So,” I say hoarsely, waiting.

He swallows. Pushes his fingers through his hair. And then he begins to pace.

I watch him with wide eyes and shallow breaths, my hands sweaty as they twist together. Back and forth he goes, three or four times before I finally lose my mind.

“Dom!” I say. The knot is still growing in my throat, and although I try to tell myself this might not be what it looks like, I’m not hopeful. “Just say it.”

He stops in place, turns to me, and meets my eye for the first time since arriving.

“You didn’t get a ninety.”

I blink in confusion. “What?”

He speaks again—and I fall, headfirst, into a raging, swirling vortex.

“You didn’t get a ninety,” he says. “You got an eighty-nine. I changed your grade.”

It starts with as a faint ringing in my ears that grows, escalating into a dull roar, until I’m questioning what I’ve heard.

“What?”

And that’s when the mask drops.

The version of Dominic I’ve been seeing for the last month, the smiles and laughs that weren’t quite genuine—everything is stripped away as I look into his eyes now and find nothing but pain.

Horrible, terrible guilt, with a self-loathing that makes me want to cry. And he’s speaking again, his lips are moving, but the words are coming slowly to my ears.

“I changed your grade”—he looks like he doesn’t even know who he is—“just enough for you to keep your A”—tears pricking my eyes from sheer mental overload—“your scholarship”—what’s happening right now?—“you knew it when we studied together”—and everything is collapsing, a dying star about to explode—“just missed it on the test⁠—”

I wave my hands at him, backing up absently until my legs hit the couch. I sink down on the arm of the sofa as my brain tries to process. “You changed⁠—”

“Your grade. I changed it. I changed your grade.” Over and over again he says it, bewildered, like he can’t believe it.

I can’t believe it.

What’s happening right now?

The words must leave my mouth, even though I don’t realize I’m saying them, because Dominic strides closer and rests his hands on my shoulders.

“I changed your grade,” he says. “I’m your TA and I dated you.” Then he steps away and runs his hands through his hair again.

“What—” I break off, swallow. “What are we going to do?”

His shoulders slump further, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. I’ve never seen him like this, and it’s horrible to witness—especially as the panic leaves his eyes, only to be replaced by nothingness.

“I turned myself in,” he says dully. “I told Professor Sallow.”

And the living room is stupidly still, completely stagnant—the fake flowers in the vase by the window are just propped there, doing nothing, while a bomb is exploding⁠—

“So—what?” I say as question after question presents itself, all of them promising pain. “We—what? Are you⁠—”

My pointless stuttering and stammering die, because I don’t know where to send them or what to say. The roaring sound in my ears is growing louder, panic clawing up my sternum, climbing my ribs like a ladder, and the bright, golden future I hold in my heart begins to wither.

“I told him you didn’t know,” Dom says. “But…” His shoulders lift into a weak, helpless shrug, and his gaze is still staring but unseeing.

I wish I could focus, perform mental triage, but my thoughts are too frightened, too scattered. A roulette wheel of new fears, new issues, new possibilities, and the only one that emerges above the rest for long enough to grasp is that I’m losing him.

Right in front of my eyes, I’m losing Dominic, the only person I’ve ever fallen in love with, the one who makes me feel like I’m not alone. Because for so long I’ve been so lonely, even surrounded by people who come and go, but he’s the one who helps me feel the sun—and he’s vanishing, disappearing, and he’s going to take that light with him.

I have to keep him. I need to keep him. How can I stop him from leaving?

My eyes widen as an idea occurs to me, absurd to say out loud. Wild to even be thinking, in fact. But I can’t deny it’s been on my mind; putting words to the thought is only one step further.

So I look at Dominic, and when I speak, I can hear the breathless panic in my voice. “We should get married.”

His already still body freezes completely, and then he pulls his gaze from the floor to look up at me. My heart falls when I see his expression—furrowed brows and faint confusion, like he can’t have heard me right. “What?”

That’s okay. I can explain. “Let’s get married!” I nod and get off the arm of the sofa, grasping his arm tight. “Marry me. Please, Dom. Marry me.”

His eyes widen and flood with an emotion I can’t name, a light that vanishes almost immediately. The furrow between his brows returns, and the question in his eyes turns to something like incredulity.

Like—

Like he’s never seen me before.

“Wait. What?” he says again. “Why would we get married?”

I blink at him. “Because we love each other.”

He shakes his head and pulls his arm out of my grip. “No,” he says with a sigh. “That’s not what I—” He breaks off, still bewildered. “What could marriage possibly solve?”

Why is he not understanding how good this could be?

“We could stay together,” I say quickly. “We could be together.”

“We could stay together anyway,” he says. The baffled look in his eyes is spreading over his already confused face, and he’s still looking at me as though he’s worried about my sanity. “Although”—he sighs again and looks away—“I’m not sure we should.” He runs his hand down his face. “I’m not sure we should have dated at all, Reese.” His mouth sets into a grim line. “Do you not understand how serious this is?”

“Of course I do.” Impatience twists with panic in my chest, because I don’t like where this is headed. I don’t want to lose him. “But are you just going to give up?” I swallow the knot in my throat. “Have you really never thought about our future?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. I can see him hurtling miles and miles away from me, even though he hasn’t moved.

I grab his arm again. “When you love someone, you put in the work,” I say. I can hear the desperation in my voice, and I hate it, but I don’t know how to make it leave.

“Exactly.” Once again he removes his arm carefully but firmly from my grasp. “You work. You take the time to do it right. You think things through. You don’t jump recklessly into something that’s doomed to fail, just because you’re scared.” He pauses. “This was so dumb.” His shoulders curl in. “Impulsive and stupid. And asking me to get married?”

And, as though my mother has been summoned by talk of marriage, my phone begins to ring; I look at the screen impatiently, and when I see it’s Alvina, I have to stop myself from throwing the phone on the ground.

Dominic sees too; he lets out a tired, bitter laugh.

My face heats, but I shove the phone in my pocket. “We’re not doomed to fail, Dom. We would only fail if we let ourselves. The second you let yourself doubt, you open that door⁠—”

“Then I guess it’s open,” he cuts me off, and this is the closest I’ve ever seen him come to anger. His voice is quiet, but it’s simmering with emotion, his words clipped, his eyes masked. “If you want to say it that way, fine. But one of us needs to proceed with caution, and it’s clearly not going to be you.”

My mouth snaps shut as the accusation hits, and so does his. Then he shakes his head.

“This was a bad idea. This was a really bad idea, Reese. We should have waited⁠—”

“No.” I try to blink away the tears, to hold them in, but they sting my eyes anyway. For the first time in so long, I feel loved—truly, wholly, without conditions or hoops I have to jump through. “No. You’re just scared, Dom. You’re scared.”

I don’t mean to hurl the word the way I do, but it flies out all the same—an accusation of my own, full of the emotions bursting in my chest.

His eyes, already shuttered, go completely blank. “And you’re a dog on a leash, letting yourself be dragged around by your mom,” he says flatly. “You realize you’re just like her, don’t you? Making giant, reckless decisions on a complete whim? So neither of us are perfect.”

It’s a blow to the chest, broken ribs and sternum and everything else that protects my heart from damage. His words break through all of those bones and pierce me where it hurts the most. I blink in shock and swallow down my anger, my frustration, because I need to remain rational.

“Let’s talk about this later,” I say, my voice tight.

But Dominic shakes his head again, looking tired and crumpled. “No. Let’s not.” He exhales until he’s completely deflated. “It’s my fault. We should never have done this.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You’re really running away. As soon as it’s inconvenient, you run.” 

Am I so easy to cast aside? Was our relationship all in my head?

“I’m not running,” he says, but it’s not convincing. “I’m being smart.”

“Then what exactly are you saying?” I’m clinging to the hope that maybe I’m misunderstanding—that I’ve got this all wrong.

“I’m saying this was a mistake. That you and I were a mistake. I’ve lost my job, I’m probably going to be kicked out of school, and who knows what this will do to your academic record—and now you’re talking about getting married”—he throws one hand up in bewilderment—“and it’s insane. I’m insane. Dating a student?” He’s talking to himself more than to me now. “This whole thing was wrong.”

Wrong.

There’s no compromise I can come up with for that. No way to meet him in the middle. And I see it, all over his face, in his posture—he’s miserable. Dominic is completely miserable.

I clamp my jaw shut against what I know I have to say, because I don’t want to. I don’t want to offer him those words. But they nudge insistently at my lips anyway, until finally my heart crumbles.

“Maybe we should stop, then,” I say.

Because I have to give him a way out. I want to keep him more than anything. But if he’s been this miserable the whole time we’ve been together—a soul-crushing, devastating thought—I have to at least give him a chance to leave. So I struggle through my tears and say it again: “Maybe we should stop everything.”

And I hate the relief that passes over his face, mingled with the pain and the frustration—there’s true, genuine relief in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, an awful finality in his voice. “But we should. We should never have done this.” His words are quiet as he goes on. “It’s my fault, Reese. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“But you did. We did,” I say. “And we’re running from the consequences?”

“These are the consequences,” he says dully. “Ending this relationship because it never should have happened in the first place. That’s the consequence.”

I can’t argue. I can’t even disagree.

“Fine,” I say faintly. I can’t stop my tears, and there’s no point trying anymore. “Then I guess—” The words resist, but I push them out. “I guess we’re done.” I eye him as his posture eases, only slightly, but noticeable, and a hollow laugh escapes me. “You’re so relieved. You’re so relieved to be done with me.”

Dominic doesn’t look at me, doesn’t deny it. His eyes are fixed on the ground, his head hanging low. “I really am sorry,” he says. “But—water from a poisoned well. This has been eating me alive, Reese.” He pauses. “Your mom’s not good for you. You know that?” Then, with that final parting blow, he turns and opens the door. He closes it quietly behind him, but the sound echoes in my mind.

One week later he’s gone, like he never existed. I withdraw at the urging of my academic advisor.

And although I try to keep the sunshine he brought into my life, try to find the light wherever I can, it’s not the same.

I don’t see him again.

Ari’s little sister is getting married, with the wedding on Thursday. Dom goes over to the stables to help get the lighting ready on Wednesday, and now that my pumpkin patch hours are reduced, I come along.

I accompany him under the guise of being helpful, but really I just like to watch manly men do manly things. Initially I worried our interactions might be awkward after our dinner and conversation last night, but to my relief, Dom has acted like nothing unusual happened, so I do the same.

I spend some time at the hardware shop too—the man there is manly enough but unfortunately related to me, and therefore much less enjoyable to watch—before returning to my shed Wednesday evening and putting in more work for my online job.

By the time the sun sets, I’m officially tired out. I’ve been distracted all day, and now that I’ve finished what I need to do, I can let my mind wander. My eyes fall on the dress hanging from the cracked door of the wardrobe, and I bite my lip.

I stopped by Nathan’s earlier and grabbed it from my closet there, along with a pair of heels. Wearing it to Thursday’s wedding would be a bold move, but…

I guess I’m feeling bold.

Bold because it’s Dom’s favorite dress. He’s never said so in words, but the few times he saw me in it, he couldn’t quite pull his eyes away. They lingered in a way that made me feel warm, on the soft fabric hugging my curves and the low dip of the v-neck in front.

I haven’t worn it in years, since Alvina informed me that emerald green is not my color. I bet it still fits, though.

I get up off the couch and shimmy out of my clothes; then I slip the dress on. It wraps around the front and ties at my left hip in what ends up being an uneven bow. Looking down at my body, it seems okay, but I hurry to the bathroom in the back to check the mirror.

The light flips on to reveal my reflection in all her shed-living glory, hair on top my head in a floppy, messy bun. The dress looks fine, though, and dare I even say…good? It’s a little tighter than I remember, but everything is covered, and I like the neckline a lot. It’s lower than my usual attire without being too much.

I give myself a determined nod in the mirror before exiting the room. Alvina can say what she wants—and she will—but I like the green.

I’m wearing it.

My pajamas feel too loose compared to the dress when I lie down on my couch bed later that evening. It’s once again hanging from the wardrobe door, and although I’m nervous for tomorrow, I’m excited, too—a glittering, magical feeling. It’s been a long time since I actually dressed to impress. I fall asleep with butterflies in my stomach.

The butterflies are still there when I wake up, which is uncalled for, in my opinion. I try to shoot them down, but they dodge my attempts until finally I’m forced to let them be and get on with my day.

By which I mean work. I get on with my work. No pumpkin patch this morning, so I log into my work portal and check the creative briefs still up for grabs—I can take as many or few as I want, although as a project manager it looks different, since I’m the one proofing instead of compiling. I claim as many batches as I can realistically get done before the wedding this evening, and then I hunker down.

I’ll probably go over to Main and grab lunch later for a break, but right now it’s just me, my laptop, and my bottle of water. I power through until eleven-thirty, at which point I set my computer aside, do some stretches, and then head out.

My phone rings on the way, and I answer without looking at the screen. “Hello?”

“Question.” It’s Ari. “You’re going to be at the wedding tonight, right?”

“Of course I am,” I say, turning onto Main.

“And Dominic will be there too?”

“Yeah. We’re driving over together.”

“Great.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion when I hear the satisfaction in her voice. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she says, a perfectly cheerful lie. “See you later.”

And then she hangs up, not even waiting for me to say goodbye. I lower my phone slowly, my brows furrowing. I trust Ari, but disconcertion still twinges in my chest at the odd question.

Lunch is sufficient enough distraction for me. I grab a maple-glazed burger from the Maple Bar and Grill, and then I walk up and down Main a bit. I pop into Berk’s and pester Nathan, who’s looking a little glum; all he’ll say is that long-distance relationships suck. He’s not much of a chatter person, and he tends to keep his private affairs…well, private, but usually I can get more out of him than this. I hang out there for a while and stock some inventory; then I head back to Dom’s shed and settle again on the couch, right in the trusty butt imprint I left behind. My work grows less and less efficient as the hours roll on, and I’m flooded with tired relief when it finally comes time to get ready for the wedding.

When I moved out of Nathan’s house, I did not deem a curling iron important enough to bring along. I pin my hair back at the sides, though, adjusting everything until it looks nice. Then I put on some mascara and eyeliner—waterproof, of course, because I have learned my lesson. I make faces at myself in the mirror for a second, for which I have no explanation, and after looking at the time, I call Dom.

“About ready to go?” I say, craning my neck to see out the window of the shed.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be down in a minute. Meet me at the truck in five.”

I wait a few moments and then hurry barefoot across the lawn, heels dangling from one hand until I reach the driveway. Then I slip them on, straightening back up just as Dom steps out of the back door.

He isn’t looking at me; he’s frowning down at his shirt, adjusting who knows what as he tugs at the sleeves. Then he begins his confident stride toward the truck, his gaze trained on the ground.

We don’t make eye contact until he reaches the driveway. His steps slow as he glances up, footsteps silent on the concrete until he’s right in front of me.

He blinks, his lips parting as his gaze skates up and down my body. “Oh,” he finally says.

This single syllable—said by this man, in this tone, with this expression—is a full sentence.

“Thank you,” I say, and even though I smile, I can feel my cheeks heating too.

It’s lovely to know my bold choice paid off.

Dom pulls his eyes away from me rubs the back of his neck, drawing my attention to the hidden necklace. “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost,” I say as an even bolder idea than the dress pops into my mind. I take a few steps closer until I’m standing right in front of him.

He watches me suspiciously, but suspicion turns into surprise when I reach up and slip gentle hands around the back of his neck.

“Berkeley—” he says as my fingers brush against his skin. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “What are you doing?”

Despite his question, he doesn’t move. He stays perfectly still. I’m not even sure he’s breathing, and when I trail my thumb up behind his ear, his eyes flutter closed like he’s in pain.

“Berkeley,” he says again, a note of warning in his voice now.

I make quick work of the necklace clasp and hold it up to dangle in front of his face. “There,” I say with satisfaction.

His eyes open, and the second he sees the necklace in my hand, he reaches for it.

But I loop it around my neck, and his fingers find the feather charm as it’s settling against my skin. He lets his arm drop to his side, his eyes darkening as he looks at me. Then he leans closer and tilts his head to speak into my ear.

“Consider carefully before you start playing games,” he breathes, and I shiver as his lips brush over my skin.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie.

He hums skeptically, tucking his hands in his pockets and giving my dress a pointed look. Then his lips twitch.

“Get in the truck,” he says, jerking his chin at the Ford. “Unless you want to walk in those heels.” After a pause, he adds, “Or unless you want me to carry you again.”

I get in the truck—while chastising myself for wondering how it would feel to be cradled in Dom’s arms once more.

It would feel the same way it always does: uncomfortable and full of worries about being dropped.

What about wonderful? my stupid brain adds. You forgot wonderful.

“Calm down,” I mutter as I buckle my seatbelt.

Dom looks over at me, raising his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Then, to change the subject, I add, “You look nice.”

It’s true. He’s wearing a blue button-up shirt with tan pants—are they khaki? Is there a difference between tan pants and khaki pants?—and there’s not a smudge of dirt or grease or oil to be found. He smells like himself today, not like nutmeg, and I find myself torn about that.

His fresh, wood-shavings scent is always warm and appealing and comforting. But there’s something undeniably sexy about smelling myself on him, like we’ve been⁠—

“Berkeley? Your face is really red.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I agree in a strained voice, rolling down the window of the truck and kicking myself. My mind is clearly addled today. “I’m fine. Just need some air.”

Dom rolls his window down too, and for a moment, it feels like old times—driving with our windows down, music blasting, young and carefree and grasping life everywhere we could find it. I look over at him, his elbow propped carelessly out the window, his hand lazy on the steering wheel.

So many things have changed. But so many haven’t. And the more I see of Dom, the more my feelings try to sneak in his direction, subtle steps and occasional leaps.

Perfect mindset for a wedding, I’m sure. Watching other people be lovey-dovey and soaking up an atmosphere tailored for romance, all while my mind and my heart tangle themselves into knots.

The wedding is lovely, though, internal debates and all. Dom and I sit together for the ceremony and then later at the reception, and we both grin when we see Ben and Maven there, hand in hand and very much not divorced.

“Glad they got that figured out,” I say to Dom from where we’re seated at a table next to the wall of the tent—a soaring white affair, perfect for the occasion.

Dom nods, his eyes on them. “Me too.” Then he glances at the empty plate in front of me, scattered with crumbs. “You done?” he says. “Or do you want more?”

“I think I’m done,” I say. “Good cake, though.”

“It was.” Reaching over, he says, “I’ll throw these away. Do you want a drink?”

He makes the offer so casually that I accept. “I’d take a cup of water. Thanks.”

Since weddings are ideal for people-watching, I take in the crowd while Dom is gone. The Ednas and their husbands are here, of course, and I spot Liv and Tate sitting together. I look back and forth between them, and when Liv meets my eye, I give her a knowing smile. Her cheeks turn red, and I laugh.

I look around for Dom for a few seconds and then back to Liv, only to see her leaving her seat by Tate; so I turn my eyes back to the table in front of me, drumming my fingers and smoothing my dress.

When Dominic finally returns, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s something vulnerable about sitting at a table by yourself, especially when half the town is present and sure to notice. He appears over my shoulder, and I turn toward him.

He’s still looking stupidly handsome.

“Here.” He passes me a cup of water, and I smile up at him.

“Thank you.”

“No prob—” But he breaks off as the music changes, his brows jumping at the gentle strain of melody that begins to float through the air.

And I know exactly why he’s stopped talking. Because for the second time in as many weeks, I recognize the song playing as the one I’ll always associate with our love: “If,” by Bread.

My gaze searches the space until it lands on Ari and Liv, who sure enough are watching Dom and I with a little smile. I narrow my eyes at them, but they shrug and give me looks of grinning apology—as though to say Sorry, but you should at least dance.

I’m not sure if I have the worst friends, or the best.

I turn quickly back to Dominic, holding up my hands to forestall his comment. “It wasn’t me,” I say. “I didn’t do this.”

His lips tug into gentle laughter. “I know,” he says. “I could tell by your expression.” He pauses, his gaze hesitant. “Still…” Then he steps closer. “It might be a pity to waste such a great song, right?” Then he holds one hand out, inviting me to take it.

I swallow, but my answer is already at my lips. “Yeah,” I say. “We should dance.”

He nods and eliminates the remaining distance between us, gathering me closer with such ease that I can’t help relaxing into him. My arms slide around his neck as the music settles gently over us, the words weaving and twining—There’s no one home but you⁠—

And as I look up at Dom, as he looks down at me, I finally admit the truth to myself.

That I’m not the same person I used to be; neither is he. But who I am now still really, really likes who he is now.

Dominic’s eyes dart over my face, and he exhales roughly. “You look at me like that,” he says in a hoarse voice, “and I get ideas, Berkeley.”

I lift my brows at him, and after a second’s hesitation, he admits defeat. “Reese,” he corrects himself, ducking his head. “Not Berkeley.” Then his gaze jumps back to mine, serious but soft. “But it’s true.”

“I know,” I admit.

Because a heart with wings is difficult to hide and impossible to cage.

The music continues to drift overhead—If a man could be two places at one time, I’d be with you—and we’re dancing, but it’s really more of a sway. The press of our bodies and the lull of the song and the warmth of his touch—they combine into something potent and hypnotic, until my heart pounds wildly in my chest and the air is thin in my lungs.

Simultaneously, it seems, we lean apart to look at each other. Whatever I’m feeling, he feels it too; his head is tilted down toward mine, and my chin lifts, angling toward him.

When his gaze drops to the feather necklace resting against my chest, his hands clench against my back. I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it. But his grip tightens almost painfully as he drags his attention back up to me, to my face.

“Reese,” he says, so faint I can barely hear, and there’s a sudden battle in his eyes. He looks at me for only a second before speaking again. “I wanted—” His hoarse words fall away, but he finds them again. “I wanted to say yes. Even though it was a bad idea and made no sense—my first instinct was to say yes.”

I blink in complete shock. If electricity could replace the blood in my veins, I’d think it was happening right now.

My mind races for context, foggy from our proximity but aware enough to put pieces together.

Did he want to get married, too?

But it’s then that his eyes drop to my lips, and all thoughts flee. A low breath shudders out of him as I find myself pressing closer, my hands sliding into his hair as he leans down⁠—

“Reese, darling?”

Ice cubes slip down my spine at the voice coming from behind me, and I instinctively pull away from Dominic. He does the same, and together our heads whip in that direction—only to find Alvina Berkeley, a bit wobbly in her high heels, and supported by none other than Dom’s father, who is looking back and forth between us with the utmost confusion.

Although I know music is still playing throughout the tent, all I can hear is a dull roaring in my ears. Daryl’s eyes are still jumping back and forth between me and Dominic, and I have no doubt we look completely guilty.

Because we are. We are guilty. We were about to kiss. And somehow it feels wrong.

The realization makes me sick, a deep, writhing, horrified sensation. Seeing our parents together, hiding from them, lying—it all feels so gross.

“Kids,” Daryl says slowly, and next to him, my mother teeters. It’s enough to divert Daryl’s attention; he looks over at her and sighs, removing the half-empty flute of champagne from her hand.

I take the opportunity to put a little more distance between myself and Dom.

“Reese, darling,” Alvina says. She waves a hand at me and Dominic, her bracelet catching the light. “Are you two”—she hiccups—“are you getting along?”

“We get along,” I say quietly. I can’t look at Dom.

With a distracted expression, my mother nods. “Good,” she says. “Good.” Then she looks at Daryl, her face falling into something more real. It’s painful to see, a mixture of brokenness and hope. “We’ll get along, Daryl, darling, and they’ll get along.” She stumbles over her words as she goes on, “And we’ll live happily. See?”

I’m not sure Daryl does see. And judging by the tremor in Alvina’s voice—a tremor I don’t think is caused by alcohol—she’s not sure, either.

“Kids?” Daryl says, tactfully not responding to my mother’s inebriated words. “What’s—uh,” he says, still looking confused, but determined, too.

I think he’s deciding how best to ask his son and his girlfriend’s daughter if they were kissing.

“We were dancing,” Dom says, and his voice is much clearer than mine would be if I tried to say something. It’s brisk, matter-of-fact. “We can dance, can’t we?”

Alvina nods in time with the new song playing over the speakers, lost to the conversation now, but Daryl considers us with serious eyes.

“Of course you can dance,” he says after a second of silence. Then his expression twists in concern as my mother loses a bit of her footing. “Careful⁠—”

And I step forward without thinking. “I’ll get her,” I say to Daryl, my heart sinking. “Around the waist with her arm over your shoulder works best.” Then I look at Alvina and sigh. “Come on.”

I reach for her, but to my surprise, Daryl stops me.

“No,” he says firmly—he even pulls Alvina closer to his side, tightening his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll do it.” He pauses, and then, maybe because he sees my expression, he explains, “This isn’t your job, Reese.” His voice is gentler now, and filled with awful, humiliating understanding—the kind that says I see what you’ve been living with, even though you’ve tried to hide it.

I swallow and look away as shame dances over my skin. Shame I shouldn’t feel, but it’s made itself comfortable anyway.

“Well, get home safe, kids,” Daryl says with a nod to both of us. “I’m going to take Alvina back to her house.”

When I look in surprise at Dominic, he’s looking at me, too. Our brows have both jumped, but Daryl doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask why we were dancing or why we were so close. He just leads my mother away, through the dancing couples and then out of the tent.

We watch him go and then turn back to each other.

“Did he not—?” I begin, my voice dropping away when I run into the sticky business of actually talking about what happened.

“Did he not see?” Dom says for me. He rubs his chin, his gaze jumping back to where Daryl and Alvina left the reception. “I don’t know,” he admits then. “I wasn’t—I didn’t realize they were there.”

His neck flushes red at this, a slow turn of color I barely see, but I can feel the same heat creeping over me.

“So,” I say, barely audible over the music and the swell of people around us.

Dom eyes me, his expression unreadable. “So,” he says with a slow nod. “Should we call that…?” He trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“A fluke,” I say in a strained voice. It’s a big decision to make in such a small space of time, and I’m not totally sure about my answer. “A momentary lapse in judgment.”

He swallows and then jerks his chin toward the opening of the tent. “Agreed.” He pauses and then adds, “Well, I’m going to go.”

“What?” I say, blinking at him.

But he nods again. He digs in his pocket for a minute and pulls out his keys, pressing them into my hand without meeting my gaze.

I try to protest. “But you’ll⁠—”

“I need some fresh air,” he says, and despite how well I know him, I still can’t interpret the blankness of his features. The splotchy red rising in his neck has reached the tips of his ears; if I didn’t know he’s sober, I’d think him drunk.

Dom doesn’t drink. Neither of us do. But some sort of spell captured us earlier, and now, it seems, he’s coming down. He turns on his heel and strides off, and it’s not ten seconds before he’s gone.

I look down at the keys clutched in my sweaty hands—gross, but I’m feeling too warm—and I sigh, feeling stupid and horrible for reasons I don’t fully understand.

What did Daryl see? I don’t think my mother saw anything, because she’s not tactful enough to stay quiet. Even without her, though, my throat is tying knots, and the dress that felt so beautiful earlier now feels suffocating.

My heart is numb as I drive back to Dom’s, the interior of my shed blurry as I change into pajamas, and the swish of my dress defeated as I shove it into the trash can in the back of the shop.

I knock on Dominic’s front door at ten the next morning. He opens it with a confused expression, probably because I’ve never knocked at the front before. He looks awake enough, but he’s not dressed in his work clothes yet—just jeans and a t-shirt.

Before he can speak, I hold up the feather necklace. His hand jumps automatically to his neck—which, of course, he finds empty.

“Do you want this back?” I say, sounding very calm and very collected and not at all like we almost kissed last night. “Or should I keep it?”

He grabs the dangling necklace, snatching it away with a protective look. Then he fastens it around his neck, with the easy air of having done it many times before.

It is approximately then that the awkwardness sets in.

He stares at me—or, more specifically, at my forehead. I stare at him while he stares at my forehead.

There’s not another pimple patch, is there? But no, I’m positive there’s not. This is good, old-fashioned abashment.

The seconds stretch long and uncomfortable as the image of last night plays vibrant in my mind, in great detail with slow motion and technicolor.

We almost kissed. There is no way around it. Our lips almost touched in a very romantic way. And he said—he implied⁠—

My heart begins to beat faster as worry floods through my veins, concern over losing the tentative relationship we’ve reforged. I almost kissed this man, and now I am staring at him, and I don’t know what to do⁠—

“I’m sorry!”

The words explode from inside of me, from deep in my stomach, up my throat, and to my lips. I think they might echo up and down the tree-lined street. But the awkwardness is horrible, the cost not worth the gain. “I’m so sorry⁠—”

“No,” he says quickly. His shoulders slump, some of the uncomfortable tension disappearing from his frame. He’s shaking his head vigorously as he goes on, “Don’t be sorry. It was—I’m sorry, too.” He pauses here, stills and then rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting back and forth, unsure where to land. “We just got caught up. The song and dancing and everything. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

I take a deep breath. “And what you said?”

His look of casual confusion is not at all convincing.

“You said you wanted to say yes.”

“Oh.” He shifts his weight as though trying to find a more comfortable position, finally leaning against the door frame. It’s usually an easy pose, lounging, but right now he looks like a stone statue propped against an unsteady wall, ready to crumble the second it teeters over. “That. I—” Clearing his throat, he goes on, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was—back then.”

His eyes fix on a spot above my shoulder as he takes a fortifying breath, and I wait for him to continue.

Finally he does. “Back then. When you wanted to get married.”

My heart stops, but his words don’t.

“For a second, I wanted to give in,” he says, and he sighs into something more real. “Even though it wasn’t a good idea…I wanted that.” His shoulders twitch. “Back then.”

And he’s right; he really shouldn’t have said anything.

The necklace now resting against his chest taunts me with the words he spoke before—I know it doesn’t mean anything.

But if it didn’t mean anything, why did it feel so meaningful? Why do I feel like a rubber band, stretched taut until it’s going to break?

One step in the wrong direction, and I feel like I’m going to snap. I don’t even know what kind of snapping it will be—only that it will happen.

“Are we sure that’s all it was?” I sound like someone is strangling me from behind; the words gurgle as they issue from my mouth. But the question needs to be asked. I refuse to leave anything unspoken. Not this time.

It’s this, finally, that pulls Dom’s gaze to mine. If possible, his shoulders slump further, and he sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits, running his hand through his hair.

I nod, sensing the honesty in his words—that he’s truly as torn as I am.

It’s enough for now.

“All right,” I say. “Well, in the meantime…we’re good?”

“Yeah, of course.” He clears his throat. “Still up for keeping an eye on our parents on Monday? In Burlington?”

I nod. “Let’s do it.” I pause, thinking, and then go on, “How fancy is this place?”

“No t-shirts, I think,” he says, looking down at his own tee. “It’s a French restaurant⁠—”

“Alvina loves fancy foreign food,” I say with a grimace. “She thinks it’s sophisticated. Well done, Daryl.”

Dom’s lips twitch with a huff of laughter. “Well, it’s not black tie or anything. I’ll probably wear what I wore last night⁠—”

He breaks off, but I am a champion, so I soldier through.

“I’ll see what I’ve got,” I say as though my green dress is not buried in a trash can. I should probably dig that back out; I’m more clearheaded this morning than I was last night, and I can admit I’ll probably want to wear it again. Then I thumb over my shoulder. “Welp,” I say. “Uh. Pumpkin patch.”

I guess I am now a cavewoman, reduced to grunted words instead of those pesky, newfangled, more-evolved full sentences.

So without waiting for his response, I and my cavewoman self turn and head toward the driveway, around the back of the house and to my shed. Every step I take feels like an incremental stretch of the rubber band inside me, the tension that keeps growing.

But Neanderthal or not, I do need to go to work. Those pumpkins aren’t going to patch themselves, and although my weekday hours are now reduced, there are still things to get done.

The day passes in a haze of dirt and straw and leaves. I work extra hard, hoping to tire myself out, with the result being that I’m dirtier than usual upon returning to my makeshift home. There’s dust under my fingernails and brown smudges on my overalls. Dominic pulls into the driveway just as I’m about to enter the shed; I make eye contact with him, walk right into the door I’m trying to open, and linger just long enough to see him wince in concern before running inside.

I wait until he leaves again before sneaking up to his house to shower.

Saturday is spent at the pumpkin patch, and by the time Monday rolls around, I’m a balloon so full of air that I’m about to pop. I have two competing desires at war in my mind:

Hunt down Dominic and tell him every thought I’ve ever had, and

Hide from Dominic and never talk to him about anything ever again.

Neither of these feel smart or even realistic. So I’m hovering in the liminal space between, and I’d say the inner tension is one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever experienced—clocking in below nausea but above a UTI.

Our parents are going to dinner at six, so Dom and I start driving at five-thirty that evening. We can arrive a bit after they do and find a seat strategically out of sight. Dom has on what he wore to the wedding—WHEN WE ALMOST KISSED AND THEN TRIED TO ACT NORMAL ABOUT IT—but I’ve chosen a loose dress I grabbed from my closet at Nathan’s. Alvina was there when I dropped by, humming to herself and asking no questions about the night of the reception.

Small mercies.

Dominic and I greet each other a bit too casually before setting out. There’s a stiff breeze in the air that pushes at my back as though trying to move me closer to Dom, but I leave suitable space between us when we meet on the driveway.

It’s a relief when we get in the truck. He turns on the music immediately, and although it’s better than total silence, it doesn’t quite banish the living, breathing memories seated smack-dab between us. They’re crouched on the center console, looking back and forth to see which one of us will crack first, and every time a love song plays, they cackle.

I want to scream. I want to kiss Dominic.

I do neither of these things. I keep my hands in my lap and my face turned to the window, paying no attention to the autumn scenery as it zooms by. Honestly, Bigfoot could be running alongside the truck and I wouldn’t notice.

What I can tell you is that Dom clears his throat three times over the thirty-minute drive, and that seven songs play, and that five of them are love songs. I’m nervous-sweating so much that I feel sticky; when I roll down the window, Dominic doesn’t say anything. He pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant—medium-sized but understated with immaculate landscaping.

No pumpkin patches here.

My legs are shaky when I basically flop out of the truck, but a few deep breaths of crisp evening air help enormously. Strangely, it also helps that when Dom rounds the front of the truck to join me, he points at a car across the lot.

“There,” he says quietly, adjusting his sleeves. “That’s my dad’s car.”

I turn and look at the little sedan, some of my nerves falling away.

We’re here with a purpose.

“All right,” I say after taking another deep breath. Smoothing my hands down my dress, I ask, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he responds, so immediately that I’m caught off guard. “Always beautiful.” Then he tilts his head at me. “Ready?”

I nod firmly and resist the urge to fan my face. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Dom offers me his arm as we walk into the restaurant. He holds it out like this is something we always do, like we’re one of those adventurous couples who try new places to eat for fun.

We’re not a couple, and I’m not adventurous. But I slide my arm through the crook of his elbow anyway, ignoring the feelings it brings and turning my attention instead to the restaurant itself.

My first impression is one of romance—the soft lighting, the faint music, the flickering candlelight. My heels click on the marble floor as Dom leads us to the host stand, where an attentive man waits in a black-and-white uniform.

“Reservation for two under Berkeley,” Dominic says in a smooth, low voice, and I blink at him in surprise.

I guess it makes sense that he’d get a reservation; this place seems fancy enough that you’d need one. But I never thought to ask.

Turning my gaze to what I can see of the dining area behind the host, I scan the tables. It takes a few seconds to spot Alvina and Daryl, but thankfully, they’re off in one corner, next to a large column that surely can’t be made of marble.

But it looks marble, and there are more of them—the columns are tucked strategically around the edges of the room, simple and stately and so, so expensive-looking.

That’s going to be our best bet, I think; the table on the other side of the column next to our parents, close enough that hopefully we can listen but not be seen. I nudge Dominic and nod discreetly toward the spot; he looks and then returns my nod.

“Why is the reservation in my name?” I whisper as the host gestures for us to sit and wait for a moment.

“Because my father presumably made a reservation too,” he says quietly. “Also under the name Harper.”

Oh. Duh.

“It smells good,” I say, craning my neck and attempting to see past the host’s stand once more. “I’m starving.” Then I turn to Dom, some of the anxious tension inside of me searching for an outlet. “We need a cover story for why we’re here if our parents spot us. I figured we could tell them we’re getting to know each other since they’re dating.”

“That works.”

“Or do you think that’s too unbelievable?” I bite my lip, thinking. “We could say we knew they were coming here so we tagged along to try the food.”

Dom’s brows twitch. “That’s pretty much the truth.” Then he laughs. “Take that look off your face,” he says. “Don’t stress so much.”

“Me?” I say, disbelieving now. But come on—this is the man who refuses to tell his dad we dated. If anyone should be worrying, it’s him. “I’m not stressed. I’m great.”

I am not great. I am so far from great. I am a landmine, and one wrong step will cause me to detonate.

Dom’s smile lingers as he sighs. “Everything will be fine. We’re here to eat and take a look at our dating parents out in the wild.” He pauses, the corners of his lips falling. “If we can get a clue as to where their relationship is, all the better.” Then he nudges me with his elbow. “They’re ready for us. Let’s go.”

His hand hovers at the small of my back as we stand. Does he realize he’s doing that?

I don’t say anything, because I like it.

There. I said it. I like when a man’s hand hovers near me—not in a creepy way, obviously, but in an I’m-here-if-you-teeter way.

“We would like that table,” Dom says to the waiter—Charles, according to his name tag—when we reach the host stand, gesturing discreetly at the table behind the column, “if it’s possible.”

“Of course,” Charles says as the man at the host station nods. He tucks two large black menus beneath his arm and then smiles at us. “This way, please.”

We follow him more closely than is polite, and I feel totally stupid about it, but if he can shield us from our parents’ line of sight, that’s preferable. His long strides carry us around the tables, and I scurry along behind, Dominic at my back, until we reach the spot we asked for—Alvina and Daryl none the wiser.

Success.

“Oh,” I say in surprise when Dom pulls my chair out for me—Charles nods in brisk approval—but I settle down like this is the norm for us. The table is small, the tablecloth white, and there’s a delicate glass vase containing a single rose in the middle, accompanied by a realistic but hopefully fake candle.

Worry nags at me, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, most of it’s not centered on me and Dom and the kiss that didn’t happen. It’s centered around the couple on the other side of this unnecessarily large column. Because this could not more clearly be the kind of restaurant where people get engaged. And although Alvina didn’t think it was likely, marrying Daryl, that doesn’t mean she won’t try.

Her drunk words from the wedding reception come back to me, and I wince at the pitiful hope I heard in her voice—We’ll live happily, see?

Please live happily somewhere else, Alvina, I find myself pleading, words I send into the ether. Anywhere but here.

I look up at the waiter as he begins to list off an impressive memorized spiel. Dom and I both very quickly usher him past his wine pairing suggestions and on to the food portion; he hands us our menus.

Dominic takes all of two seconds to choose his dinner. I had forgotten until this very moment that he did that. He always knew what he wanted to eat when we went out, while I had to get to know the menu first.

But this place smells delicious, and I’m sure everything is good. Most of my focus will be elsewhere anyway; I just want to know what Alvina is up to. So I point at the menu, barely paying attention, and then pass it to Charles in relief when he holds out his hand. As soon as his back is to us, I swivel in my chair, leaning sideways toward the column.

“Put that on your lap, you heathen,” Dom says from next to me, and I look at him. He glances pointedly at the roll of silverware in their white napkin, placed neatly on the table in front of me.

“I’m hardly a heathen,” I say as I remove the silverware and then spread the napkin over my lap. “In fact, I seem to recall that while you keep your living space neat⁠—”

“Very neat.”

“Your manners could use some work.”

“My manners?” Dom shoots back. “Only one of us was caught peeking through windows at our parents.”

“Yeah. And only one of us tossed the other in the bed of their truck in the rain⁠—”

“I offered you the cab first,” he points out. “And what, did you want your bag to go there instead? So all of your stuff could get soaked?” He leans in, a gleam in his eye. “What would have happened to the box I saw if it got wet, hmm?”

I flush to remember my box of Dom memories clattering to the floor of the shed, right in front of him, but he goes on.

“Those ticket stubs would’ve been ruined in the rain, wouldn’t they? And the hat—” He breaks off, his lips twitching, and I snort too.

“Yeah. The hat was already ruined,” I say.

“Because you put it through the wash. Like a heathen.”

“Like a heathen,” I agree, but I can’t stop my smile. As my eyes drop to the feather necklace he’s wearing, the cord barely peeking out of his shirt, I swallow. My pulse jumps and my legs bounce a few times under the table. “I have to admit, though, it’s nice knowing I wasn’t the only one…”

Although I trail off, his gaze flies to mine. His body stills as I reach toward him, my fingers finding the cord of our necklace and tugging it, pulling gently until I work it out from beneath his shirt. I hold the little feather for a second before letting go; it falls and lands against his chest, deceptively simple for all the memories it evokes.

“Like a bird loves the sky,” I murmur without thinking as the charm catches the light of the flickering candle.

Dominic clears his throat, and I jump.

“I think we’re getting off-track,” he says in a hoarse voice. “We’re here to—” His eyes dart to the column. “To spy on our parents.” He pauses, his brows furrowing. “Like we’re in Parent Trap, except we’re not eleven, and therefore…possibly should be ashamed of our actions?”

“We discussed this already,” I say. “When we inadvertently dyed my mother’s hair. We agreed that some absurdity might be required.”

He hums. “Hair dye, Gregorian chant, spying,” he says, ticking them off with his fingers. “Yes. I’d say absurd is the right word.”

I’m glad he didn’t mention vomiting in his dad’s bushes.

“Do you think we could move this table over a bit?” I say, leaning forward so Dom can hear me better. “A tiny scoot?” Glancing at the column next to us, I go on, “Being closer might help.”

Dominic casts a critical eye over the table and then the space between us and the column. “We could probably move a bit. Steady the vase and the candle.”

I casually rest my hands next to them as under the table and tablecloth, Dominic lifts his knees. The table swivels rather than moves altogether, a few subtle inches, then a few more, until it’s perfectly reasonable for me to move my chair closer to the column as well.

“Excellent,” I say, draping my napkin back over my lap and settling in. I lean to the side again, my heart pounding in my chest for no other reason than that I’m sitting here with Dominic and tap dancing on a tightrope above the Grand Canyon.

My legs squirm beneath the table as I listen, trying to gather any hint or sign of what’s going on at Alvina’s table. Dom and I make idle small talk every now and then, smiles over the candle and accidental foot brushes that cause us both to startle with disproportionate embarrassment—because we almost kissed and he wanted to marry me and did I mention how overloaded my brain is right now?—but the most I hear from the other side of the column is the clink of glasses and occasional snippets of indecipherable voice.

Eventually I crane my neck, trying to hear better, until I spot the waiter headed to our table. He sets a plate in front of me, and I give him a distracted but genuine smile—because people who are mean to the waiter are the worst—before turning my attention back to the other side of the column. Dom speaks to the server for a second before he whisks off again, leaving us with our food.

I strain my ears. I selectively tune out the soft music. I become very familiar with the swirling marble pattern on this very large column.

But after a second of trying to listen, I turn to Dominic, my shoulders tight in frustration. “I still can’t hear anything,” I say with a frown. “Sometimes I catch snippets of their tone, but that’s it. They could be getting engaged over there. They could be discussing moving in together. They could be planning their future.”

A future where Dom and I exchange Christmas cards as stepsiblings. I want to vomit.

My eyes fall to the plates on our table, and I brighten. The food portions are small here, which I can accept as a fact of fancy foreign cuisine, but Dominic’s dish seems to be some sort of steak with vegetables.

My stomach rumbles.

I turn my eyes to my own plate, and my rumbling stomach makes a different sound—the sound a confused dog makes when it tilts its head and lifts its little doggy eyebrows.

Leaning closer to the plate, I frown. My food is…

Well, it’s not presently identifiable.

There’s crusty bread that looks amazing, but it’s spread with something tannish brown I’ve never seen before.

I pick up one of the pieces of bread and give the whole thing a few sniffs. A possibility flits into my mind, one I am loath to accept, but one that solidifies when I glance up to see Dom watching me.

The list of French foods I know I wouldn’t recognize on sight runs through my brain. It is short, because I don’t know much about French dining, but it does contain a strong possibility.

“So,” I say to Dom. “This is—” Giving my crusty bread another sniff and catching whiff of something faintly…meaty…my eyes widen, my heart sinking. “This is not escargot. So…foie gras?”

“Fatty goose liver?” Dom says pleasantly, his voice amused. “Why yes. Yes, it is.”

I groan and put the bread back on my plate. The crust is just hard enough to clink against the porcelain dish, which says very promising things about how soft the fluffy inside probably is, but I’m not going to get to taste it.

I do not eat meat in spreadable form. It is a rule I didn’t know I had, but I have learned, right this very moment, that it is a solid no.

I might even prefer Alvina’s offering of dry turkey.

“I did wonder when you ordered,” Dom says, still far too conversational about my food.

“I pointed without looking,” I say miserably. Then I glare at him. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because it’s not my job to stop you or weigh in on your restaurant order, Berkeley.”

Ah. Back to Berkeley, I see.

“Besides,” he goes on after a pause, “you seemed so confident when you jabbed randomly at the menu.”

“Was it expensive?” I say, looking around the table, but of course the menus are already gone. “Who’s paying for this?”

“I am,” he says with a smile. Then he slides his plate to the middle of the table and begins dishing a few veggies onto my own, without hesitation and without awkwardness. I stare at him as something painful but wonderful rises in my chest, a familiar sensation that’s been trying to appear more and more recently.

“Thank you,” I say. “I⁠—”

But I break off at a sound from the other side of the column, and Dominic’s hands stop with a carrot halfway to my plate. Our heads turn at the same time, and I nod in affirmation when Dom raises his brows at me in question.

That’s Alvina; I can hear her for the first time. And she sounds upset. I recognize the tone, even if the words themselves are too garbled to understand.

I motion at Dominic to stay quiet before standing up and inching closer to the column separating our space from our parents’. Dom scoots his chair out and joins me, and I’m glad not to see anyone watching us when I look around, because we’re acting very weird. I scoot around to the back of the column, as far as I can go before I no longer fit in the space between the marble and the wall; the heat of Dom’s body is at my back, his hand low on my spine as though to hold me up. I ignore the jump of my pulse, the way it pounds in my ears, and focus my attention on Alvina and Daryl instead.

For a moment there’s only a low murmur of voices, deep and soothing, which must be Daryl. I recognize when Alvina speaks, because it’s snappish and accompanied by the emphatic clink of silverware. This is followed by the first words I can actually make out:

“I need the ladies’ room. I’ll be back,” my mother says stiffly.

“Vee—” Daryl begins, his voice louder too, but it’s followed by more clinking silverware.

Dom and I both startle at their words, our heads whipping as one toward the Restrooms sign hanging opposite our table.

She’s going to see us. If Alvina gets up to go to the bathroom, she’ll pass right by our table.

“Hide,” I say automatically—as though there’s anywhere to go or anything to do. We’re squashed against the wall as it is. “Hide!”

Dominic points out the obvious immediately. “Where am I supposed to⁠—”

“She’s going to see!”

“There’s physically nowhere to go, Berkeley,” he says, and although he sounds exasperated, I can see the worry on his shadowed face.

The best we can hope for is that Alvina isn’t paying attention. If we both turn to the wall and squeeze in as far as possible, she might not spot us?

No. Of course she will.

So, with only the slightest hesitation, I decide to seize the opportunity presenting itself.

And in my defense—IN MY DEFENSE—I think my actions are very understandable. Dominic is right there and he smells very good and I think I might still be in love with him. So all these factors need to be taken into account when examining what happens next.

“Pretend to kiss me again,” I tell him. My voice is hoarse and somewhat desperate, but when I slide my hands over his chest, they’re steady. “Come on. Duck your head all the way down. Hide us.”

He just stares at me, which is probably wise. I might be insane.

But I go on anyway, my hands now tugging at his shirt of their own accord, pulling him closer as I press my back to the wall. “Come on!”

Dom’s eyes have widened, but it’s not just surprise I see there. He gives his head a dazed shake as my mother and Daryl exchange low words on the other side of the column.

“I can’t,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “I can’t—” A shuddered exhale slips out of him. “I can’t pretend to kiss you again, Reese.”

“Then…kiss me for real.” I swallow, my hands grasping at the fabric of his shirt as though I’ll drown. “Really kiss me.”

Time stops. The rise and fall of his chest stops. Everything except my heart.

Dom wars with himself for a brief second, a battle that plays out in his eyes, before leaning down and pressing a kiss not to my lips but to my forehead. It’s fierce, achingly tender, even possessive, and it’s far too short.

Like a stamp at the post office, stamped on errant packages: return to sender. His lips on my skin do the same—return to Dominic. Then he leans back, looking down at me once more.

“You asked,” he breathes. He ducks his head, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Don’t regret it.”

And then his lips are on mine.

One kiss. My back against the wall, half-hidden in the shadow of the column—just long enough for my mother to pass by our table. That’s what I’m expecting, what I’m hoping for. A tentative step forward, a place to start.

It’s not what Dom delivers. And I would be lying if I said I don’t sink into everything he offers me.

One hand tangles in my hair while the other slides to the back of my neck, angling my head up. He’s starving, parched, as his lips move over mine, and I feel in myself the same thing I know is happening to him: a final puzzle piece locking into place, the blessed relief of rightness when my heart has felt wrong for so long.

Out-of-step turning to synchronization.

I tilt my head further and tug him closer; his body seems to curl around mine as his lips grow more insistent, hungrier, his hands clenching.

Finally. Finally, I’m where I want to be, as near to him as possible, my heart on my sleeve and tangled up in his touch. I need to come up for air, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to move ever again.

When I finally have to breathe, I pull away as little as possible, and I hear his sharp inhale at the same time. He smooths one hand over my hair, my cheeks—aimless movements that nonetheless speak to me.

He has a chance to touch me, and he’s taking it. I know because I’m doing the same, my hands sliding over his back with no particular destination.

His breath is hot against my skin, his lips skimming over my forehead as he turns his head. Then he looks down at me, and I lean back to meet his gaze.

“Are we still hiding from our parents?” I say, out of breath.

His hands tighten almost painfully, a tug of hair at my scalp, a pinch of pain at my shoulder, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t answer.

He says nothing for a full five seconds.

“Sorry,” he breathes, and he tries to pull away from me, but the column and wall are at our backs. “I—sorry.”

“Of course,” I say with a humorless laugh—the only sound my falling heart can push out. I go up on my tiptoes and press one last searing kiss to his lips. It’s a kiss for myself, one to take with me. Then I look back up at him. “I’m not the only one running scared, Dom.”

The broken words cause his eyes to widen, a stricken look passing over his face. I untangle myself from his arms, smooth my hands down my dress, and then turn away.

I walk right past our table. Weave through the other settings. Past the host stand. The click-click of my heels on the marble floor—until I make it outside and step into the rain I didn’t realize was falling. I’m not sure if my vision is blurry because of the downpour or because I’m crying, but I find myself grateful—no one will recognize my tears for what they are.

No one will see my heart breaking.

I’ve only taken two steps into the parking lot, however, when a strong hand grips my upper arm and pulls me back.

It’s Dominic, of course. It’s always him. His shoulders and chest are heaving, and he looks utterly lost.

“Wait,” he says. One word, almost lost in the rush of the rain, but I freeze.

Slowly, I raise my brows at him.

“I lied.”

“What?” I say.

“I lied,” he rasps. He’s still lost for air, but something is coming to life in his eyes as he tugs my body back to his—blazing fire. His arm snakes around my waist as his gaze darts over my face. “I’m not sorry.” He swallows, a droplet of rain trickling down his throat. “I’m not sorry, Reese.”

And then his lips crash down on mine once more.

I startle, but his arms simply hold me tighter, keeping me close. His head is ducked against the rain, but I know he feels it as much as I do, on my arms as I wrap them around his neck and my face as I tilt it toward him.

He devours me. The kiss is hungry and desperate, a dam breaking free as we stumble together, up the curb, backward and backward again until the sidewalk disappears beneath our feet and we’ve hit the flower beds that line the restaurant. It’s a relief when my back finds the outer wall, pale stone and rough at first but steady and solid. Dom presses against me, his lips chasing as I cling tighter to him.

I feel more than hear his growl of frustration over the sound of the rain, his fingers digging into my back. A gasp escapes me when his hands slide lower and then hoist me up—I am in a SKIRT, sir—but it brings my face closer to his, and I surge forward, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist. When a little sound issues from the back of my throat, significantly more risqué than expected, Dominic’s kiss turns from hungry to ravenous, deep and wanting.

And there’s nothing particularly funny about this situation. But the absurdity pulls a laugh out of me anyway, a sound that’s muffled until I feel his lips curve into a smile too. And then, somehow, we’re both laughing, being pelted by rain as I straddle him in a skirt while our parents are inside, possibly making googly eyes at each other.

I let my head fall back to rest against the stone wall as my laughter lingers, Dom’s breath hot against my neck as he shakes his head. Then he presses a gentle kiss to my collarbone, skimming his lips further up and kissing beneath my chin, too.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s tell our parents. Okay? Let’s do it.”

Tilting my head back down to meet his eye, I lift my brows and wait for him to go on.

His gaze darts over my face for a moment before he shakes his head again. “If they get married and live happily for the rest of their lives—fine. But I can’t—” He breaks off, and his voice is softer when he goes on. “I can’t, Reese. I can’t love you from arms’ length my whole life.”

My eyes widen, my lips parting as his words find me. For a second I even wonder if I’ve heard him wrong. So I use one foot to nudge him in the butt, indicating I want him to put me down, and he eases me to the ground. Then he lifts his hands to my face and swipes gentle thumbs beneath my eyes—wiping the tears he knew were there before.

He lets out a shaky breath and continues, “I can’t do that. I can’t watch you find someone else and buy you silverware from your wedding registry and pretend—pretend I’m happy. So…you were right.” His hands tighten where they cup my jaw, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. “And I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I blink at him, dazed.

“But are you sure?” he says, leaning back to look down at me. He pushes some of the wet hair away from my face. “If we’re going to do this, we need to be sure.”

This, at least, I have an answer for, hoarse though it might be. “I’m sure.”

I’ve always been sure. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? I’ve always been sure about him, even when life demanded otherwise. Even when our situations were wrong, I knew he was the right one.

Dominic nods, glancing up at the sky as thunder rolls overhead. Then he looks back down at me, his eyes softening. “I adore you, Reese.” Such a manly voice, speaking such gentle words.

A flood of brilliant light and warmth erupts in my chest, impossible to contain. A little sob escapes me, but it’s accompanied by a growing smile. I clap my hand over my mouth to stop the tears, but it’s no use—and I’m not sure if I’m crying or laughing anyway, and Dom’s lips are pulling into their own smile as he wraps his arms around me.

I slide my arms around his neck as he holds me so tight I can’t breathe.

“I love you,” he murmurs into my neck, muffled and perfect. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say. The words are strangled in a way that makes me laugh, giddy and garbled, and the rain is in my eyes, and my heart is blindingly bright.

“Let’s go,” Dom says, letting go of me and taking my hand instead. “Now. Let’s go, all right?” But when he tugs on my arm, it’s not toward the car—it’s toward the door of the restaurant.

I balk. “Now?”

“Yeah,” he says with a nod, swiping the rain out of his face with his free hand. “Now. Unless—” He eyes me. “Did you want to wait?”

“No,” I say, my voice breathless. “No. Let’s go now.” I pause, looking down at my clothes and then at Dom.

We’ve been standing in the rain, and you can tell.

“Will they let us back in?” I say.

His shoulders lift into a careless shrug. “We can see.” Then he gives me another tug. “Come on.”

Although it is accompanied by quite a bit of disapproving side-eye, the man at the host’s stand does let us go back in the restaurant. We don’t go to our table, however. Maybe high on our reconciliation, we make the rather bold choice of going to our parents’ instead.

There are only two chairs, and they are obviously occupied. So we stand, holding hands, staring down at our parents.

Daryl’s expression is tired and grim, I notice, and Alvina looks a little worse for wear. Both of them blink like they don’t trust their eyes when we appear, and then they look confused. When their gazes travel down to our interlocked fingers, their brows furrow even more.

“We’re dating,” Dominic says bluntly. His hand tightens in mine. “Reese and I. We’re dating.”

Just like that—we’re dating. My cheeks heat as I watch our parents’ faces, but I find myself speaking to Dom.

“You didn’t technically ask me out,” I point out, and he frowns.

“It felt implied.”

“Still,” I say. “You should ask, shouldn’t you?”

His lips twitch. “Darling Reese,” he says, the words exaggerated. “Dearest Reese. Holder of my hand. Please date me.”

I nod, grinning, and then look back at our parents.

My smile falls away at Alvina’s appearance; I think she might actually be trembling, and her penciled brows are lifted in shock. Her nose is a little red, and she looks utterly scandalized.

“We’re together,” I confirm. My voice is shaking and small, but the words are clear. I force myself to say them again, louder this time. “We’re together.”

“We dated in college,” Dom says with a nod. “And we’re dating now.”

Interestingly, Daryl doesn’t seem surprised. He just looks thoughtful as his eyes jump back and forth between us.

“You dated in college?” Alvina says.

“Yes,” Dom says. He pauses, straightening up, and then goes on in a hoarse voice, “I was her TA.” He swallows. “I changed her grade without her knowledge so she could keep her financial aid.”

This is clearly a surprise, but Dom doesn’t respond to his father’s wide eyes. He just keeps talking.

“I turned myself in and got expelled. As I should have,” he adds bitterly. “I told them Reese had nothing to do with it, but⁠—”

“Yes, I did,” I cut in. “I dated you. I knew I shouldn’t have, and I dated you anyway.” It’s hard to maneuver my tongue around these admissions, but I look at Dom and push the truth out. “We were wrong. Both of us.” Then I turn to Alvina. “I withdrew in place of being expelled, but it amounted to the same thing.”

“You never told me that,” my mother says, aghast.

“You never asked.” It’s brutal, blunt honesty—all I have to offer her now. “You never cared. I told you I wasn’t going to college anymore, and you said I would have more free time.”

“Either way,” Dom says, his voice steel. “We shouldn’t have dated then, but it can’t be changed. We’re dating now.” He glances between our parents with a meaningful expression. “Do what you will with that.”

In the silence that follows this pronouncement, I look more closely at Daryl and Alvina. They’re not sitting particularly close, I notice, and neither of them looked very happy before they saw us.

“I’m not actually sure what we walked in on,” I murmur to Dom as I lean toward him.

“Me neither,” he says with a frown. Then, addressing our parents, he says, “So…?”

Alvina sniffs, but it’s not haughty this time; it’s tear-filled. She sets her napkin on the table, next to her salad. “Well,” she says in a stiff voice. She looks at me with watery eyes and arched brows; she nocks the arrow. She draws. Aims.

And then she releases. “I have to say, Reese, I’m disappointed in you. And feeling more than a little betrayed.”

The words pierce my balloon of happiness, sharp and true.

“I know I haven’t always been the best mother, no matter how I’ve tried,” she goes on, “but dating my boyfriend’s son in retaliation…it’s cruel, sweetheart.” She shakes her head, a jerky motion. “I thought you were above such petty tricks.”

Her lips purse as she fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist. I try to look more closely at her, to see if she’s faking or being sincere—because with Alvina it’s hard to tell—but I find it doesn’t matter. Sincere or not, my heart is deflating, even with Dom’s hand wrapped tightly around mine.

“My decision to date Dominic had nothing to do with you,” I say quietly as weight settles over me, over my chest and my mind and my wings as they try desperately to unfurl. “It will continue to have nothing to do with you.”

Her eyes widen—in shock or scandal, I can’t tell. “Well,” she says. “That is ridiculous. I am your mother.” Each word is clipped. “I carried you and birthed you and raised you.”

The sigh that slips past my lips is so, so tired. “Alvina⁠—”

“No,” she cuts me off, standing abruptly. Her fancy silverware falls to the fancy floor, and her napkin flutters to the ground. She brushes stiff hands over the skirt of her dress as her eyes fill again with glassy tears, which she tries to blink away with fluttering lids. “No. Choosing some—some boy”—she sends a bewildered but scathing look at Dom—“over your own mother is absurd, Reese.”

“You cannot speak to her like that.”

Dominic’s quiet, firm words come before I’m able to reply to Alvina, and I turn to him in surprise. He’s not looking at me, though; his hand is clenched painfully around mine, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he stares at my mother.

“I beg your pardon?” she says as her penciled brows lift in scandalized disbelief. “What are you saying to me?”

A soft, bitter laugh is Dom’s first response. “For years and years, I’ve had things I wanted to say to you. But for now…” His eyes dart to me and then back to my mother, and when he goes on, his voice is even and calm but utterly cold. “You cannot speak to Reese like that.”

“I’m not choosing Dominic over you,” I tell Alvina quietly, even though my legs are trembling and my heart is racing and my hands are sweaty. “I’m just choosing myself.”

It’s a line I’ve seen in movies, cliche and quippy, but saying the words myself is different. They’re knives on my tongue, and they don’t feel empowering at all, like I hoped they might.

They just hurt.

“Well,” Alvina says again. “In that case, I’m clearly no longer needed here,” she says, just as frigid as Dominic, her eyes still glassy with tears, her nose as high in the air as it will go. Then she looks at Daryl. “I’m surprised at you. Are you okay with all this?” She waves one vague hand at Dom and me.

And to my unending surprise, Daryl doesn’t even look at her. He just murmurs tiredly out of the side of his mouth, “For your own sake, make a graceful exit, please.”

It’s then that a waiter appears, his steps not easy but hassled and bustling. Poor guy; he probably drew the short straw. He approaches with darting eyes and says, “Excuse me.” Then, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the restaurant, he says, “I’m going to have to ask you to settle down or leave, please. We pride ourselves on maintaining a calm, elegant establishment.”

“Fine,” Alvina snaps—an unprecedented display of emotion in front of a man she’s trying to impress. The waiter startles, and some of his nervousness hardens into offense.

“Fine,” my mother repeats. She clears her throat, her expression shifting to something more grudging as she looks at Daryl. “Thank you for—for dinner.”

He hesitates but nods, his brows pulled low.

Alvina doesn’t even look at me before she clips away from the table.

Daryl sighs, rubbing his hand down his face and slumping back in his chair.

“Did you guys just break up?” Dom asks in disbelief.

“Yes,” Daryl says. He looks up at us and opens his mouth. For a second it seems like he’s going to say something disapproving to Dom, and Dom sees it too; his grip tightens, his body going stiff.

But after a careful look at us, he sighs again and shakes his head. He pulls out his wallet and digs around for a card, which he places on the table. Then he stands up, claps Dominic on the shoulder, and says, “I’m happy for you both. Truly.”

Dom is way more surprised than I am to see Daryl’s smile, small but genuine. He turns that smile on the waiter, too, who relaxes.

“Our apologies,” Daryl says, and then he looks at me. “I need to take your mother home,” he says his smile fading into something regretful. “I expect we’ll see each other again soon, Reese.” Then, with a little wave, he says, “Have a good evening, kids. On me.” He points at his credit card and then shuffles away without another word, the waiter following him, and Dominic and I are left standing at the empty table, staring at each other.

I want to say something flippant, or funny, or relaxed. My mother behaved exactly how I thought she would; no surprises here.

But being right has never hurt so much. It’s never been filled with so much exhaustion, either.

Dom squeezes my hand, and I startle, looking over at him. His eyes are full of understanding, but all he says is “So? What do you think?” Then he nods at his dad’s card and lifts one brow. “Should we try some dessert?”

And my heart feels utterly broken, worn out and tired and defeated, but…

“Yeah,” I say simply. “Let’s have dessert.”

Alvina does not speak to me for two weeks.

I try not to keep track. I really do try. Somehow my brain counts the time anyway, because she’s my mother, and brains are hardwired to notice things like mothers.

Despite Dom’s persistent questions, Daryl won’t give too many details about the relationship he had with Alvina, or why they broke up. I do have some suspicions, one of which Daryl confirms when he invites Dom and I over to his house for dinner at the beginning of November.

“I did wonder if there was something going on between you,” he admits, looking back and forth between us. We’re gathered around the dining room table, and I’m doing my best not to let my eyes wander to the living room, where a spying Dominic and I once saw Daryl and Alvina kissing. “After the potluck dinner,” Daryl goes on. “And then—at the wedding reception.”

“Well,” Dom says, glancing over at me. He startles when he sees me shoving my face full of food—shepherd’s pie, which Daryl made after asking Dominic what I like to eat.

But then Dom shakes his head and smiles. “You were right. There was definitely something going on.”

Daryl’s answering nod is slow, his expression thoughtful once more; it’s how he looks at us a lot, I’m noticing, and I get the impression that he has a good head on his shoulders.

Although I’m not convinced, based on what he says next.

“Believe it or not, Reese, your mother is quite the woman.”

“She’s…something,” I manage around a mouth full of food, and Daryl’s lips quirk in a way that reminds me of Dom.

“She is.” It could not be plainer that he understands all the things I’m not saying, but when he goes on, his voice is gentle. “She’s singular in many ways—most of them that you probably don’t see.” Then he sighs and shakes his head. “But she’s not in a place where she can have a relationship, I don’t think.”

I swallow, take a drink of water, and then look at Dom. “Actually…” I begin. I lift my brows in silent question when Dominic’s eyes meet mine—Can I tell him?—and he shrugs—Go ahead.

So I nod and confess the truth. “You’re right—about Alvina, I mean. But Dom and I had also been…uh”—I shoot another look at Dom—“keeping an eye on the two of you.”

Daryl’s brows jump, and he sets his spoon down on his plate with a little clink. “How so?”

I kick Dom under the table. “Fall on the grenade,” I say.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” he replies. “Why should I?”

“Because we should tell him,” I say. “He should know, shouldn’t he? And he can’t get mad at you forever. But I’m just the girlfriend⁠—”

“Kids,” Daryl cuts in, his brows still lifted, his expression expectant.

Dominic shoots me one last look and then sighs. “We were trying to break you up,” he says to his dad. No frills, no beating around the bush. “Not very successfully, but we did try.”

“We put bleach in your shampoo,” I say, my cheeks heating.

With a succinct nod, Dom continues, “And we were the ones blasting music up at the Ridge.”

A ruddy flush of color rises in Daryl’s neck—so that’s where Dom gets it!—but he arches his brow and looks sternly back and forth between us. “Anything else?” he says.

He is not impressed.

“Just some general spying and sneaking,” I mutter, because I need to own my part. I avoid Daryl’s eye and sink down in my chair a little. “I’m…sorry.”

When Dom doesn’t say anything, I nudge him.

“I’m not sorry,” he tells me before looking at Daryl. “I know that makes me sound like a jerk. But you two were not good together. You would’ve been very unhappy.”

“And…?” Daryl says.

“And I wasn’t going to sit back and become Reese’s brother,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. That was obviously my main problem.”

It’s nice to hear, even if I already knew how he felt. “Don’t sass your father,” I say as my lips twitch into a smile. “Show the man some respect.”

“Yes. Show me some respect,” Daryl echoes, but I could swear he’s smiling, too.

I don’t know if he and Dom have talked further about what happened in college. I sort of hope they haven’t, and that they won’t—because it’s the past now, and neither of us will make those mistakes again. Either way, Daryl doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the evening, and I’m grateful.

Discussing the past with my family, on the other hand, goes a bit differently than I know it would with Dom’s.

When Nathan learns what Dominic and I were doing to break our parents up—and when he learns what happened between us years ago—he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“It isn’t funny!” I tell him when I reach the part about Dominic changing my grade.

Dom winces and nods. “It was very un-funny, actually.”

It’s the day after dinner at Daryl’s, and we’re sitting in Nathan’s living room—Alvina blessedly absent, off who knows where doing who knows what—with Nate seated in the rocking chair while Dom and I are squashed together on the couch.

“I know,” Nate says, waving his hand. “I know it wasn’t funny then. But you have to admit…now it’s a little funny. Wrong,” he adds sternly, “but…funny in retrospect.” He pauses, his expression falling. “Or maybe I’m just looking for things to laugh about. October was quite the month for Autumn Ridge.”

He’s not wrong. October was crazy. The pumpkin patch is officially closed for the year, too, and I’m left figuring out what to do next with my life. I was planning on moving back to Burlington, but I have no real reason to.

“No more word from Serena?” I say to Nathan, who shakes his head.

“Nope.” He doesn’t actually sound too heartbroken that his long-distance girlfriend called things off between them, shortly after he last visited her. “A bit of a relief, to be honest.”

I snuggle closer to Dominic, who wraps his arm around my shoulders.

“Long-distance relationships are probably a lot of work,” he says to Nate as his thumb traces vague circles over my upper arm.

Nathan nods. Then he gestures at the two of us. “What are you guys going to do?”

It’s a good question.

“Not sure yet,” I say. “Figure it out as we go, I guess.” I pause and then go on, “I’d like to go back to school at some point—” But I break off as the front door lurches open, and in steps Alvina.

She looks weary but elegant as always, not a hair out of place.

“Oh,” she says when she looks up. Her eyes dart around in faint surprise, her lips pursing when her gaze finds me and Dom. “I didn’t realize we had guests.”

“Reese is not a guest,” Nathan says. “She’s family.”

Alvina sniffs but doesn’t say anything, her head held high as she steps out of her heels. She moves silently through the living room toward the stairs, stopping only when she passes me on the couch.

Her expression is haughty when she speaks, but her eyes are unsure. “I would appreciate a list of foods you do and do not like, at your earliest convenience,” she says. Her bony hands fidget and wring as she adds, “In pen, please. I don’t like pencil smudges.”

Oh, Alvina, I think sadly, but I nod. “Fine. I’ll make you a list.”

But I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll eat with her again. I truly have no idea.

Nathan is right—I should probably go to therapy. Daryl works in a doctor’s office; I’ll ask him if he has any recommendations. And in the meantime, I’ll stay sane in all the ways I know how.

“It’s supposed to be a clear night,” Dom says once we’ve left. His arm is still around me, draped lazily over my shoulder, as he looks up at the blue sky. “Want to check out the stars later?”

I nod eagerly, threading my fingers through his. The bed of his Ford is perfect for lounging and stargazing—and stealing kisses. “Where?” I say.

He tuts at my question. “You have to ask?”

“The Ridge?”

“Of course.”

Our feet crunch over brown leaves as we head back to the car, and although it’s getting chillier each day, our steps are slow and ambling. “I’ll buy a pumpkin roll to take along if you bring an extra blanket,” I say, shivering slightly.

“Done,” he says. “We leave at ten.” We reach the car, and he lets go of me to open the passenger door.

I give him a quick kiss before sliding in. “It’s a date.”

FIVE YEARS LATER

I can always tell when Dominic is home because the clang of his footsteps on the metal stairs echo up through the stairwell and into our little apartment.

Today, though, there’s a rush to his steps that isn’t normally there.

“Hang on, baby,” I say to Bella, who at two years old is trying to crawl up into my lap. I shift her gently aside, letting her hold onto the couch for support instead as I stand.

I reach the door right as Dominic opens it. He steps inside with bright eyes, a large, flat box in his hands.

“Look what came,” he says with a grin.

My eyes widen. “Is that⁠—”

“Yep. I think so.”

He passes me the box and then drops his tool bag by the door, after which he swoops toward Bella and picks her up. She shrieks with laughter as he tickles her, kicking her tiny feet in her footie pajamas while I hurry into the kitchen for a pair of scissors. 

I set the box down on our scratched, slightly sticky dining table and open it with trembling fingers. Some wrestling with the box is required, but after a slight struggle I emerge with my prize: a framed diploma with my name on it.

Reese Berkeley Harper has officially earned a degree in English language arts, with an emphasis in technical writing. I’m in my thirties, but it’s never too late to get an education, is it?

Of course not.

“So who all is coming tomorrow?” Dom says, trailing over to me with Bella in his arms. He smiles as he looks down at the diploma. “It looks great.”

“Rosie and Dean are coming, and Emma and Carson and your dad,” I tell him. “Nathan probably won’t make it but he said he’d do his best, and Ari and Wade and Liv and Tate will be there⁠—”

“Ben and Maven; Archer and Juliet,” Dom adds, and I nod.

“Yep, and Sadie and James. And…”

When Dominic lifts his eyebrows at me, waiting, I sigh.

“I don’t know yet,” I say, and he holds up one hand.

“Your call,” he says quickly. “I was just wondering. It’s a big deal, graduating college. You might want her there for your party.”

“Or I might not,” I counter.

“Or you might not,” he says with a nod. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”

“It’s not even a party, really,” I go on. “It’s just…dinner.”

Dom scoffs at this and sets Bella down. “Just dinner,” he says. “It will be a dinner party. I know for a fact my dad is bringing pumpkin cupcakes.”

“Is Daryl baking?” I say, impressed.

“He is,” Dom says.

Dominic’s dad has dated a bit over the last few years, but he’s never gotten serious with anyone, and Dom and I are half convinced Alvina scared him away from romance altogether. His time with her is collectively referred to as his Midlife Crisis Era.

Since Alvina’s life comprises more crises than periods of calm, on the other hand, I refer to her relationship with Daryl as an instance of legitimately good taste. It never would have worked between them, of course, but Daryl’s pretty great.

“Do you think it would be weird?” I say now, biting my lip. “Having them both in the same place?”

“Nah,” Dom says as he picks up the framed diploma, turning it over to check what kind of brackets are on the back. “They were both at the wedding, weren’t they?”

“Yeah…” I trail off uncertainly. “But there were more people there, and Alvina kept to herself. Plus I had Nate keeping an eye on her. He might not even be able to come tomorrow.”

Dominic shrugs. “Then don’t invite her,” he says, crossing the room and bending down to dig in his sturdy canvas bag.

“But…she’s my mom.”

“Then invite her.”

“But I kind of don’t want to.”

‘Then don’t.”

“But—”

Dom straightens back up and glares at me, and I laugh. Bella laughs too, because even though she has no idea what we’re talking about, she mimics our emotions a lot. Dom’s mock glare turns into a bright smile as we look at her, her hair in wispy, lopsided pigtails, her cheeks round as she giggles.

I let Dominic get started on hanging the diploma and scoop Bella into my arms, holding her tight and pressing a kiss onto her chubby cheek.

In truth, I don’t know if I’ll invite Alvina to dinner tomorrow. I might not decide in time, even if I end up wishing I had; while Dom and I live just outside of Autumn Ridge, Alvina is an hour away now.

My therapist says healing isn’t linear, and I’ve found this to be true. What I do know is that I’ll be the best mother to Bella that I can possibly be. I’ll cherish her and love her, and she will never question where I stand. She will never wonder if I care about her; she’ll never worry that my love is conditional.

I’m pretty sure at this point, and my therapist agrees, that I’m working with a chemically different brain from the one Alvina’s got. But these are choices I’ve made, too—not to be a perfect mother, but to be steady and constant in every way I can.

Dom is an incredible father, too, working as an electrician and utterly present when he’s home with us. It’s exactly what I expected, building a family with him.

Sticky baby hands from spilled applesauce. Stolen kisses in the pantry. Intoxicating squeals of laughter and bedtime stories and Sunday walks with our secondhand stroller.

When I first fell for him, really fell for him, it wasn’t the right time. He was the right person, even then—but it wasn’t our time yet. Now, though?

We’re not rich. We’re relatively sleep-deprived, in the throes of toddlerhood.

But we are so, so happy.

Thank you for reading Autumn on My Mind! If you loved Reese and Dominic as much as I do, please leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon—it makes a world of difference to indie authors! For a bonus scene from Dominic’s point of view, check here! And if you want to read about Ben and Maven, be sure to check out the next book in the Falling for Autumn series: Resisting the Fall by Jess Heileman!

NEXT IN FALLING FOR AUTUMN

Resisting the Fall by Jess Heileman

Their divorce never finalized. Neither did their feelings.

The Bodyguard’s Fall by Cindy Steel

Liv + Tate

Autumn on My Mind by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

Reese + Dominic

Resisting the Fall by Jess Heileman

Maven + Bennett

Falling for Keeps by Kasey Stockton

Emma + Carson

Once Upon a Fall by Becky Monson

Rosie + Dean

Fall Fake-Out by Kortney Keisel

Ari + Wade

Forbidden to Fall by Martha Keyes

Sadie + James

Autumn Kissed by Deborah M. Hathaway

Juliet + Archer

LUCKY IN LOVE SERIES

All’s Fair in Love and Blackmail (#1)

All’s Well that Friends Well (#2)

To All the Guys I Loathed Before (#3)

FALLING FOR SUMMER STANDALONE (MULTI-AUTHOR SERIES)

Beauty and the Beach

LOVE MISHAPS SERIES

Maid of Dishonor (#1)

Say Yes to the Hot Mess (#2)

Move It or Lose It (#3, novella)

HAPPILY EVER HOMICIDE SERIES

Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder (#1)

Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind (#2)

CAROUSEL COVE

Wish You Weren’t Here

CHRISTMAS STANDALONES

Five Stolen Rings

A Not-So Holiday Paradise

No Room in the Inn

STONE SPRINGS SERIES

Eye of the Beholder (#1)

City of Love (#2)

GRACIE’S POETRY

Sing My Soul

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am enormously grateful I got to write this book, and especially that I got to collaborate with such an incredible group of authors. They’re all a dream to work with.

I am blessed as well with the conundrum of too many friends—does such a thing exist? But to name them all would be long and tedious for all parties involved, so I’ll simply thank my critique group and my author friends and Scribere Ferro. I’m grateful to my support team as well, the friends who encourage me and root for me. I would not get very far without them.

To Marilee and Angela, for keeping me sane.

To my family for their unending love and support, for their smiles and their joy—thank you.

And to my God, for everything always.

Gracie Ruth Mitchell lives in a little Idaho town with her family, her dog, and the characters in her head. She loves that her job involves playing make believe—and working in her pajamas. When she’s not writing, you can find her hanging out with her people, bingeing Asian dramas, and daydreaming about all the stories she wants to tell.