But I don’t. Instead, I say, “It’s good to see you, Lo.”
That makes her look up. Just for a second.
And in that second, I can see all of it—the thunder in her, the grief, the exhaustion. But under it, the girl I used to know. The girl Istillknow, even if the town forgot.
Her mouth twitches, like she wants to say something but doesn’t. So I fill the silence. “You know people are going to talk.”
“They already are.”
“I don’t care.”
She snorts softly. “You’re still bad at lying.”
“I’m not lying,” I say, and this time I hold her gaze. “I meant what I said. It’s good to see you.”
We sit for a few quiet sips. Her hands are wrapped tight around the coffee mug, bracing for a storm. Part of me wants to reach across the table, just to touch her wrist, to remind her she’s not alone.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I do what I always do and try to make it comfortable.
“So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “you missed seven years of parades, three mayors, two bakery fires, and exactly one very tragic Christmas pageant goat incident.”
Lo raises an eyebrow. “Goat incident?”
“Oh yeah.” I lean back and give her my best scandalized whisper. “Someone decided we needed live animals to reallyelevatethe nativity. Midnight mass, packed church, baby Jesus in the manger… and this goat named Princess Buttercup got spooked by the choir’s rendition of ‘O Holy Night.’ Bolted straight down the center aisle, kicked over the frankincense, and took out a pew.”
She snorts. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Just Sylvia Hammond’s pride.”
That earns a real smile. Still small, but it flickers at the corners of her mouth and softens her shoulders a little.
“She still running the town like it’s her personal Pinterest board?”
“She’s mellowed,” I say before I put some thought into it. “Well, actually, no. She just got sneakier.”
Lo hums into her cup, and it hits me with a punch to the chest, how much I missed that sound. That quiet hum of amusement when she’s trying not to give you the satisfaction.
“And you…” She runs her eyes up and down my presence. “You look important these days.”
“Yeah, I’m assistant to Peter Holloway.”
Her eyes widen. “You work for themayornow?”
“Started as an intern right after college. Didn’t think I’d stay, but… well. Here I am.”
“And your dad?” she asks, then seems to realize too late what she’s done. Her eyes jerk away, the question half swallowed.
I nod, a beat slower. “He’s… pleased. Mostly. I think he was hoping I’d go corporate. Follow in his footsteps, put on a suit, crush a few dreams.”
“Sounds about right.”
I feel a grin spreading across my face. “But I’mimportantin this town, and you know he likes that.”
Her lips purse together in a thin line. “Hmm, yeah.”
God, I hate the way she sees right through me. No one else but her knows this isn’t exactlydream-come-truestuff for me.
