The moving truck rattles down the highway, its rusty hum filling the quiet between Jake and me as we barrel toward our new home—and the rest of our lives—with nothing but caffeine and dreams fueling us forward.
Fall has descended upon Maplewood Springs, transforming the landscape into a canvas of crimson and gold and yellow and brown. My creative soul always thrives during autumn months, something about the dying beauty and crisp air kickstarting inspiration that summer heat somehow suffocates.
Staring out the passenger window, my eyes catch something massive looming ahead on the horizon.
“Look!” I exclaim, nearly bouncing out of my seat as I point toward the towering billboard. “That’s—that’s us!”
There it is, looming in all its larger-than-life glory: our campaign. The exact perfume ad we obsessed over during countless late nights and coffee-fueled brainstorming spirals. The bold, vibrant colors practically scream against the clear bluesky, and our carefully chosen tagline is right there for the world to see: “Étoile Perfumes: The Sweet Scent of Memories.” Framed by the elegant imagery we tweaked and re-tweaked for weeks, it looks flawless.
Jake’s gaze follows my frantic gesturing, his lips curving all the way to his eyes. “Wow,” he says. “Seeing it up there is on another level.”
The knowledge that thousands of drivers will pass by our creation every day sends a thrill through my veins. “I still can’t believe it’s really happening.”
As our billboard shrinks in the rearview mirror, pride blooms in my chest so fast it feels like it might crack my ribs and take flight out the window. Every messy moment, the heartbreak, the sabotage, the soul-sucking uncertainty, somehow funneled us here…to this ridiculous, shining little slice of professional triumph.
And now the moving truck keeps charging toward the next chapter of our lives.
By the time we pull into the driveway of our new home, the sun has begun its lazy descent, bathing our cozy little neighborhood in a golden glow that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in honey. Nestled beneath the sprawling arms of a grand oak tree, our house stands waiting, its windows gleaming softly as if welcoming us home.
The white wooden porch with its two cushioned chairs flanking a small table—Jake’s handiwork from yesterday—already looks lived-in and loved. My mind immediately conjures future mornings wrapped in blankets with steaming coffee warming our hands as the birds chirp around us.
I can already picture us living here. The living room, spacious yet intimate, practically begging for our cream sectional and its collection of throws and textured pillows for movie nights spent tangled together.
But the kitchen—oh, the kitchen is going to be my absolute favorite, its open layout inviting both creativity and connection. White cabinets paired with brushed gold marble countertops surround the showstopping island where we will share Saturday morning pancakes with too much syrup.
Music will definitely fill this space while I cook, soundtrack to creations that will keep Jake happily fed and utterly spoiled. Upstairs, the hallway walls will be lined with photographs and trinkets that will tell our story—vacations captured in sunlit frames, family gatherings, quiet moments between us.
For Jake, it’s the backyard that sealed the deal on this house the moment we first saw it. The wooden deck adorned with already-hung string lights overlooks a fire pit, the entire space wrapped in the privacy of mature trees and flowering bushes—perfect for stargazing with Jake while flames crackle and our dreams take shape in the darkness.
Mom’s enthusiastic waving catches my attention the moment we step out of the truck, her familiar figure bouncing with excitement on our brand-new porch.
“There they are!” Mom calls, her voice carrying across the yard.
Dad, practical as ever, skips the sentiment and goes straight for action.
Clapping a firm hand on Jake’s shoulder, Dad doesn’t waste a second before announcing, “Let’s get these boxes inside before it gets dark.”
While Mom tackles the lighter boxes, the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel yanks my attention back to the driveway. Maisie’s car glides to a stop behind our moving truck, and my smile shows up instantly as she and Logan climb out together.
A split second too late, I realize I completely forgot to warn my mom about our celebrity guest.
Wait until the very last possible moment to drop bombshell information, then enjoy watching the fireworks—that was always her philosophy with surprises.
Mom freezes mid-step, the box of kitchen essentials in her arms suddenly forgotten. Her eyes grow cartoonishly wide, lips parting in silent shock as she leans heavily against the nearest cabinet. The delicate balance between woman and moving box fails spectacularly as her grip loosens, sending measuring cups and whisks tumbling across the floor.
“Holy mother of pearl and all things glittery,” Mom gasps, one hand pressed to her chest, “is that THE Logan Humphries?!”
Logan’s megawatt smile—the one that’s plastered across billboards and makes teenage girls swoon—crinkles at the corners as he extends his hand. “Hi, Mrs. Lake, nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” Mom squeaks, then clears her throat. “I mean, hello. I know who you are. I’ve heard of you—I mean, everyone has heard of you.” Her head bobs up and down like one of those dashboard dogs, enthusiasm cranked to eleven.
Logan seems used to this sort of situation. “Thank you. You’re really sweet, Mrs. Lake.”
Mom’s palm flies to her chest, fingers splayed like she’s about to pledge allegiance. “Me, sweet? No, no—you are sweet, talented, and much taller than you appear on TV.”
Biting my lip fails to keep the laughter from bubbling inside me.
“I’m a big fan,” Mom declares, then suddenly backtracks, “but not in a creepy way.” Her hand shoots out, retreats, then ventures forward again like an uncertain explorer. “Can I shake your hand?”
