I cringe. This is the part I’m not looking forward to. All the looks, the questions, the judgment, and worse, the reminder of why I left.
“Don’t worry. I’m planning on holding you and Ava hostage with movies and chocolate-chip pancakes, cookies, and anything else that’ll put us in a sugar coma until Monday. Then you can face life.” Liv stands up from the table, taking my empty cup and plate with her to the sink.
“Starting with trying to find a job,” I say, already feeling dejected.
Even though it isn’t my first career choice, working the wedding season still allows me time behind the camera. I love the phone calls from the happy couples after they see the first proof of their wedding photos and how I captured their special day.
I don’t know if I can do that in Stillwater.
I don’t know if I can face all the old ghosts.
Fuck, have I jumped from the frying pan and into the fire?
2
ARLO
I’ve traveledthe world and called many places home. However, Stillwater is the first place that’s really making me work for it.
As I wait in line to grab a weak coffee before the monthly craft committee meeting at the town hall, I already know this isn’t my time…again.
Why? Because Mrs. Martin already has her eyes on me from across the hall as she whispers something into Mrs. Jenkins’s ears.
If she could shoot real daggers at me, I’d be dead by now.
Why?
Because I, a non-Stillwater native, dared to move into this sleepy Connecticut small town, make it home, and dream of selling my art in the renowned monthly craft fair.
I take my eyes off Mrs. Martin and look ahead to see how far along the line is. Not that I’m particularly looking forward to the bad coffee, but holding the cup will give me something to do with my hands while I pretend the outcome of the meeting doesn’t affect me.
The two women in front of me start off talking about knitting baby sweaters, but suddenly the conversation gets a little more hushed. Naturally, my curious ears pick up on the change of tone.
“Haven’t you heard? He came back last week,” one of the women says.
“Who?” the other one asks.
“Him,” she first replies, coming closer and continuing to whisper. “You know. Levi Ryan.”
The second woman gasps, and I want to laugh because whoever this Levi guy is, he probably doesn’t realize the gossip mill is already running fierce, and because I must be invisible to them since they’re standing less than two feet away from me and seem completely unbothered that I can hear them.
“Poppy Denison said he came back with a little girl. A daughter,” the first woman continues.
“Really? Well, I never.” The other puts her hand to her chest. “It’s the end of the world, I tell you. Now even homosexuals can have babies. God bless that poor child.”
The woman’s statement makes my blood curdle. I’m about to give her some education when, thankfully for her, she arrives at the end of the line and it’s their turn to order a drink.
The topic seems to come to an end as they decide which of the two varieties of homemade cake they want today, and then it's my turn.
“A coffee, please. Black, no sugar,” I say to the guy behind the table that serves as a makeshift coffee station. By the time I pay for my coffee, I no longer see the women.
Maybe it’s for the best. The last thing I need is to make a scene and give Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Jenkins any reason to decline my most recent application for a license to sell at the fair.
I go over to the many rows of chairs laid out for the audience and pick a seat at the end, waiting for the start of the meeting. My coffee is still far too hot to drink, so I stare at the dark liquid swirling around the cup until, once again, a conversation nearby catches my attention.
“Poor Glenda Martin. After everything she went through with her son,” someone says.
“I know, right? Sounds like he’s doing well up in the city, but you know if he comes home and sees that boy…” someone else says, and I wonder if they’re talking about the same guy the other two women were talking about.
