“Some say the land here will always remember you,” he says after a beat. “Others say it waits to see if you’ll remember first.”
I blink at him. “You’re giving me whiplash. Yesterday, you pointed out every crack in the inn like you were hoping I’d run. Today, you’re making me breakfast and waxing poetic about the town.”
“I was in a bad mood. Now I’m feeling better. Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’m just not sure which version of you is real.”
He huffs. “It’s normal human behavior, Elsie, to shift depending on the day.”
Normal. I hate that word. I’ve spent my entire life on the outside of it.
Normal is people who can soften their voice without thinking. Who pick up social cues without rehearsing them. Who say thank you without worrying it sounds wrong.
I’ve always been too much or not enough, too blunt or too quiet, too hard to read. When people shift around me, I can’t track it. I don’t know which version is safe, and I don’t know how to adjust in return.
“I just want to fix up the house,” I say. “That’s it. I don’t want to think about the town, or the magic, or anything else. It’s not what I’m here for, and I don’t need you deciding what I should feel.”
He shakes his head. “The rest of us can’t simply shut off the parts of ourselves that see the whole picture. Your grandmother, for one, would have hated that.”
Would she? I used to believe she loved every part of me. But he’s right. Her doubt is why I left. Maybe there were parts she couldn’t accept after all.
The back of my nose stings. I didn’t cry when I got the call. I didn’t cry when I left my job, packed my car, crossed the state line. I didn’t cry when I read the will or walked through the front door.
Now, the dam breaks.
The bridge of my nose stings as the first tear slips free. Another follows, hot and quick, blurring the edges of Main Street.
“Fucking hell.” He steps closer, shakes his head. “Dammit ... I didn’t want to make you cry, Elsie. Jesus Christ.”
His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing my jaw. He swipes one tear with his thumb before I duck my chin, heat rushing to my face.
“It’s not entirely your fault,” I say with a sniffle. “I haven’t cried in eight years. I was due for a flood.”
He frowns. “That’s way too fucking long.”
I hiccup. “I think I’m emotionally stunted or something. My mom always said I was too internal for my own good. I didn’t think my grandmother agreed with her, but—”
“You don’t need to explain it to me.”
“Right, trauma dumping. Sorry.”
“S’okay.” His hand falters and falls away. “Really. Do you ... should we head back?”
“We made it all the way here.” I swipe at my cheeks and square my shoulders. “Let’s go in, say hi to Bobby, grab another damn space heater.”
He chuckles. “Whatever helps you survive the arctic tundra of upstairs.”
I hiccup again, this time on the tail end of a laugh, and swipe the edge of my sleeve under my nose. My head feels fuzzy, lightat the edges, like the tears loosened something I’d been holding together for too long.
It feels good to let it out, but also dangerous. Wells is not the kind of man you unravel in front of. He’s guarded, proud. Keeps his hurts stitched tight and expects everyone else to do the same.
Though he does have gentle hands and a steadiness that doesn’t match his sharp exterior. It’s confusing—comforting and unsettling all at once.
When he tilts his head toward the general store, I finally snap out of it. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and follow, boots crunching against the hard crust of snow. I try to ignore the weight of his gaze at my back.
Inside the shop, the air will be warm, and Bobby will be there with his crooked smile and recycled jokes. All I have to do is keep my head down, make it through the next few weeks.
Then, once the house sells, I can go back to Florida. Take the rest I should’ve taken years ago. Maybe even figure out a life that doesn’t leave me scraped hollow.
