Grandma’s three pugs tore through the grass like chaos incarnate, snorting and wheezing and absolutely convinced they were winning some invisible race. Someone laughed when one of them skidded sideways near the picnic table, and the sound forced me into the present and out of my head.
The Darlington Weenie Roast was in full swing—cozy and comforting, the way it always was, even with the cold biting at our noses. String lights crisscrossed the yard from the barn to the back porch. A flannel blanket was tossed over the picnic table like an afterthought. A pot of cider simmered near the back door, steam curling up into the night air.
I paused just inside the yard, hands tucked into my coat sleeves, letting it all wash over me. This place. These people. I’d spent so many years convincing myself I was the extra piece—the one who didn’t quite fit in. And yet here I was, heart aching, because this was where I’d always wanted to be.
Graham had made me feel like I was a burden. Like needing people was a weakness. Like my feelings were something to manage quietly, so they didn’t inconvenience him. But I knew it had started with my parents—it’s why I let him get away with it.
Standing there now, watching my sisters laugh, watching my grandparents laughing at the grill, I felt the lie of that settling uneasily in my gut.
I didn’t need to disappear to be strong. I didn’t need to carry this alone to prove anything.
Cara found me first, like she always did. She didn’t announce herself, just slipped in beside me near the cider pot and handed me a mug.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
I nodded out of habit. Then shook my head. “No. But I’m here.”
“That counts,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Also—I need you to know something before you hear it from someone else.” She took a breath. “I talked to Graham.”
My stomach dipped. “I know. He told me.”
“Okay. Yeah, so I confronted him,” she said, calm and unapologetic. “Not publicly. Not dramatically.” She met my eyes. “I didn’t like the way he was circling you. I didn’t like the way he spoke about you. And I especially didn’t like the way he assumed he still got to have opinions about your life.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said. “I wanted to. Honestly, I needed to.”
Relief washed through me first—warm and unexpected—followed by something sharper that stung behind my eyes. Gratitude, maybe. And the strange, disorienting feeling of being defended without having to ask. I’d spent so long bracing for impact that I’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone step between me and the blow, no questions, no hesitation. I took a careful sip of cider, letting the heat settle, and wondered when I’d started believing I had to handle everything alone.
Piper and Lucy came out of the back door, hands wrapped around her mug. “Okay, yeah. We were listening to you two.” Piper said, letting out a guilty laugh. “He reminds me of Dad,”she said bluntly. “Not the obvious stuff. The quieter parts. Something about him rubbed me the wrong way whenever I’d see him around town. I knew I didn’t like him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until the restaurant opening. He’s arrogant. Everything is about him with no regard for anyone else. He doesn’t care how what he says and does effects anyone. As long as he gets something out of it, who cares? Right? Just like Dad.”
Piper’s words sat heavy between us for a moment. The comparison stung, but it made sense in a way that was hard to admit. I watched the steam curl from my mug, searching for words. “He always expected gratitude for the bare minimum,” I said finally, my voice small. “And any boundary I had was an insult to him.”
Cara nodded, her expression darkening as she listened, while Piper squeezed my hand in silent support and Lucy smiled softly.
Speaking the truth hit harder than I expected. “But it wasn’t just him,” I said slowly. “You’re right about dad. But, for me, it really started with my mom,” I admitted. “I learned really early that my feelings were something to keep tidy. I didn’t want to be a burden. I barely even saw Dad at all.”
“You’ll never be a burden to us,” Piper declared. “Never. I want to cry just thinking you feel this way.”
“I don’t even know what he wants from me now,” I admitted, the words spilling out faster once they started. “That’s the part that messes with my head. If he wanted me back, he’d say it. If he wanted me gone, he’d stay away. But instead it’s this—hovering. Watching. Like he’s waiting for me to mess up.”
Lucy shifted closer, her voice softer than usual. “Men like that don’t always wantyou, Eliza. Sometimes they want control. Or to know they still have access.”
I swallowed. “Access to what, though? I don’t work for him. I don’t belong to him. I barely even talk to him.”
Cara exhaled slowly. “You moved on. You’re happy. You’re visible again. That alone can feel like a threat to someone who’s used to deciding the narrative.”
Piper nodded. “Especially if he thought coming back to town would make him the hero—the success story. And instead, people are paying attention toyou. Everybody loves the Coffee Cabin. I mean, the crowd it draws every morning proves it.”
“And Nate took over the Pennywhistle,” Lucy added. “It was already loved in this town, but now it has Hot Diner Dad running it. Graham probably hates that. Especially now that the two of you are in the Taste-Off together.”
The idea settled uncomfortably in my chest. “So what—this is about his ego?”
“With guys like him?” Lucy’s mouth curved into a sardonic grin. “It usually is.”
“This would explain his issues with Nate.” I rubbed my arms against the cold, suddenly tired. “I hate that I still try to figure him out. Like if I can understand his angle, I could protect myself.”
Cara reached for my hand. “You don’t have to figure him out. You just have to live your life and let us take care of you.”
