I follow Aunt Naomi through the narrow path between the boxes, brushing away spiderwebs—both real and fake—until we reach a cleared-out space under one of the gables, where, presumably, I’m supposed to sleep.
There’s a standard bed with what looks like a vintage Laura Ashley bedspread and an antique-looking wrought-iron bed frame, a single whitewashed dresser, and a few rugs Aunt Naomi has layered across this section to cover the floor.
But none of them cover the fact that this is anattic. I can’t help feeling like Sara fromA Little Princess. I sigh. At least there’s a window.
“I know it’s not perfect,” my aunt says quickly, no doubt noticing my hesitation. “But I hope you’ll be comfortable….”
I glance at my mom, who nods at me, prompting me to thank my aunt for her hospitality.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “It’s great.”
I’m beyond angry at my mother for putting me in this situation, but it isn’t Aunt Naomi’s fault. Iamgrateful she made space for us, even if this is the last place I want to be.
We’ll be back home soon enough.This is only temporary,I remind myself. Sloane comes panting up the steps, carrying the box with my sewing machine and materials.
“Sloane!” my mom chirps. “You didn’t need to bring that up. Ellis and I would have taken care of it!”
I let out an annoyed huff. Bringing it was her idea. There was no way I was hauling that thing up two flights of stairs.
“It’s no problem, Aunt Annie. Happy to help! Where would you like it?”
Before I can tell her it doesn’t matter because I don’t really sew anymore, Aunt Naomi chimes in. “Oh yes, that’s right! Annie said you design clothes, Ellis, so I brought up a table for your machine.” She points to our left at a dusty antique sewing table with a small stool. Sloane waddles over to it and drops the box with a grunt. “Now, I know you probably use all kinds of special city fabrics for your outfits, but we do have stacks of boxes up here with donations from last month’s clothing drive. We had so many come in, the donation center said I’d have to bring the rest back in December. So you’re welcome to whatever you find.”
I decide not to tell her that almost all my creations have been made from thrifted oxfords and instead opt for “Um, thanks. Sounds good.”
My aunt claps and beams at us. “Great! Well, I was thinking I’d make everyone breakfast. What do you think?”
“I’m starving,” Mom says. “Ellis?”
“I just want some coffee, honestly. I don’t suppose this place has entered the twenty-first century and gotten a Dunkin’? Or any coffee shop, for that matter?” I ask.
Mom sighs, exasperated, but Sloane laughs and says, “Still no Dunkin’.Butwe do now have the Caffeinated Cat.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “It’s a cat café. The coffee is to die for, and the cutestadoptable cats wander around inside. Trust me, you’ll love it. I’ll walk there with you.”
“Oh. You don’t have—”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not letting you walk around town by yourself on your very first day,” she says. “Come on.”
We all leave my dusty bedroom and file down the stairs.
“You two have fun,” Mom says, mouthing the wordsbe niceat me as Sloane and I head out into the crisp morning air, a welcome reprieve from the hot attic and Mom’s suffocating presence.
For two blocks, Sloane talks incessantly about her best friend, Asher, her mom’s job, the theater camp she attended this summer, and how excited she is for school to start the day after tomorrow—a fact I’m choosing to ignore because it’s nausea-inducing.
Along the way, we walk by several houses where people are sitting on their porch, sipping coffee, and reading the newspaper. All of them seem to know Sloane. Closer to town, we pass the local bookstore and the Bramble Falls florist, where a handwritten sign is already advertising fall flowers.
Finally, we arrive at a teal-colored building located on the corner of Peach Street and Oak Avenue, almost directly across the road from the town square. I don’t remember what was here the last time I was in Bramble Falls, but now a wooden sign with the wordsTHE CAFFEINATED CAThangs above its door.
Sloane holds the door open for me, and I step into the coffee shop, careful not to let any of the roaming felines out. The blended scent of coffee and sugar rides the air, making my mouth water and perking me up before caffeine has even hit mytongue. The line is six people deep, so I study the chalkboard menu behind the counter while we wait.
Not a pumpkin spice latte in sight.
“What are you getting?” Sloane asks as we step closer to the front of the line, a fat calico cat nuzzling her calf and making circles between her legs.
I sigh. “I have no idea. I don’t—” I’m about to turn to her when my eyes snag on the guy behind the counter. I squint as if it’ll make me believe what I’m seeing. “Sloane, is that…”
There’s no way.
Sloane follows my gaze and smirks. “Cooper Barnett? Yeah. You remember him?”
