I nod, but my throat feels tight. In about five minutes, I'm going to walk into a crowd of people who knew me before I knew myself. People who watched me grow up and leave and now want to know why I'm back. People who mean well but don't understand that coming home feels like giving up.
Ben parks the truck, and I can already see familiar faces turning our way. Mrs. Peterson waving enthusiastically from near the craft booths. The Parker family from down the street, their three kids running circles around their legs. Margie Winslow setting up what looks suspiciously like a kissing booth near the bandstand.
"Ready?" Ben asks.
I take a breath. "No. But let's do this anyway."
I open the truck door and step out into the crisp late-November air, into my past, praying it won't swallow my future whole.
Chapter 2
Bea
The Thanksgiving Festival is exactly as overwhelming as I feared.
Ben barely gets the truck into park before Mom, Dad and Papa are out, drawn like magnets toward their respective friend groups. Mom spots a cluster of friends near Maeve Bennett's bakery booth and practically floats over, while Papa and Dad make a beeline for the hot cider stand where half the town's alphas have congregated around steaming cups and terrible dad jokes.
"You coming?" Ben asks, already eyeing someone near the hardware display.
"In a minute. I need to... acclimate."
"You mean hide?"
"I prefer 'strategically observe.'"
He snorts but doesn't push, disappearing into the crowd with a promise to find me later. I watch him go, then survey the chaos that is Honeyridge Falls in full Thanksgiving celebration mode.
The main square has been transformed into a Thanksgiving wonderland—corn stalks and wheat sheaves arranged in artfuldisplays, hay bales stacked for photo ops, and enough burgundy and gold bunting to supply every holiday dinner in Montana.
Strings of warm white lights drape between lampposts already glowing in the late afternoon gloom, and corn stalks tied with plaid ribbon frame the vendor booths. The air smells like cinnamon, fried turkey, and that distinctive November mix of wood smoke and spiced cider.
Kids shriek with sugar-fueled joy while their parents chase them between booths, bundled in winter coats against the bite of approaching winter.
I make a beeline for the edge of the square, hoping to blend in with the crowd until I get my bearings. Maybe find a quieter corner where I can breathe for a minute.
And that's when I see him.
Terrance. Standing near the kettle corn booth, scanning the crowd like he's looking for someone.
Looking for me.
What the hell is he doing here? We broke up a month ago. He lives four hours away. This is my town, my safe space, and he just showed up like?—
My heart kicks into overdrive. I turn away quickly, trying to blend into the crowd and put some distance between us.
This cannot be happening.
"Bea! There you are!"
I barely suppress a groan. Mrs. Peterson bustles over from a nearby craft booth, her eyes bright with curiosity that has nothing to do with my interest in Thanksgiving decorations.
"How are you settling back in, dear?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "I was just telling Margie Winslow that you're looking much better than when I saw you at the mailbox. Less... rumpled." Her eyes gleam with that particular look that means she's about to suggest something. "You know, my nephew's son just got his accounting certification, and he's been asking?—"
"That's wonderful for him! I should really—" I gesture vaguely toward nowhere in particular.
"He's very responsible. Stable job, nice apartment?—"
"I'm sure he's great, Mrs. Peterson. Thanks!" I escape before she can finish her matchmaking pitch, weaving through the crowd with practiced desperation.
