The burgundy sweater it is, then. With dark jeans that actually fit and boots that say "I'm put together but not trying to impress anyone" even though we both know that's a lie. I add a cream scarf because November in Montana is no joke, and I'd rather not freeze my ass off trying to look cute.
The face staring back at me looks older than I remember. More serious. Like someone who's made hard decisions and lived with the consequences.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders. I've managed to straighten it into submission, which feels like a small victory. Mascara without stabbing myself in the eye—another win. I look... human. Maybe even pretty, if I squint.
My phone buzzes again: Stop squinting. You're beautiful. Now get down here before Dad starts the truck without you.
"I'm surrounded by psychics." But I'm smiling as I grab my jacket.
I grab my heavy winter coat and purse, take one last look in the mirror, and head downstairs. My parents are waiting in the living room, and their faces light up when I appear.
"You look lovely, honey." Mom's genuine smile makes some of the tension in my chest ease.
"Thanks. Can we go before I lose my nerve?"
"Absolutely." Papa drops a kiss on top of my head. "And remember, if you want to leave early, just find one of us."
"Or text me," Ben adds from the doorway. "I'll create a diversion."
"What kind of diversion?"
"The kind that involves me accidentally falling into the duck pond."
Despite everything, I laugh. Ben's been threatening to fall into the duck pond at every town event since we were kids. He's never actually done it. It's become a running joke in our family.
"You've been saying that for fifteen years."
"Which is why everyone will believe it's finally happening. The long game, Bea."
"You're an idiot."
"An idiot who loves you." He reaches over and musses my hair, and I swat his hand away.
"I just fixed that!"
"Consider it authentically windswept."
"I will consider pushing you into the duck pond myself."
"That's the spirit!" Papa calls from the back seat.
We pile into Ben's truck—me in the passenger seat, parents claiming the back—and pull out of the driveway. The Thanksgiving Festival is set up in the main square and surrounding streets, with food booths and craft vendors and the kind of wholesome small-town entertainment that makes city people think we're all living in a Hallmark movie.
They're not entirely wrong about that either.
As we get closer, I can see the crowds milling around, the bright colors of booth awnings, the smoke rising from the barbecue pit and turkey fryers. Kids run between the stalls with painted faces and sticky hands. Couples stroll arm in arm, sharing hot cider and looking disgustingly happy.
My stomach twists with something complicated—homesickness and dread tangled together until I can't tell which is which.
"You okay?" Ben asks quietly. I realize I've been gripping the door handle hard enough to leave marks.
"Yeah. Just getting my game face on."
"Remember, you don't owe anyone explanations. If someone asks a question you don't want to answer, change the subject."
"To what?"
"The weather. Annie Winslow's prize-winning chrysanthemums. How great the apple cider donuts are. Literally anything."
