Either way, I stopped cooking. It didn’t feel good anymore. I packed up my knives, trashed my journals full of handwritten recipes, and came here. I hadn’t cooked a real meal since. Not like I used to
The last straw with him hadn’t been big. It hadn’t been dramatic. It had been a dinner party, the kind Graham loved—linen napkins, too-expensive wine, people who laughed easily at his stories. I’d cooked, spending the afternoon on a dish that was warm and familiar, that reminded me of my family—chicken pot pie that my grandma had taught me to make. People complimented it. Asked questions. Someone even said, “You should definitely do this for a living.” I’d felt something bloom in my chest then—small but hopeful. Pride. Possibility.
Graham had smiled and draped an arm around my shoulders. “She keeps things pretty simple,” he’d said easily, like he was translating for the room. “Comfort food. Nothing too ambitious.” A few people nodded, laughing awkwardly. I laughed with them, because that’s what you do when the person you’re with decides the meaning of the moment. Later, when I told him it had hurt, he had sighed and said I was reading toomuch into it. That he’d only been setting expectations, and that was when I understood it wasn’t accidental. He didn’t just hurt my pride—he sanded it down. And standing alone in the kitchen afterward, staring at plates scraped clean of the food I’d made, I realized I’d been shrinking for a long time. Ending it wasn’t dramatic. It was necessary. It was the only way to stop letting someone else decide how much of me was allowed to matter.
And now he was back. Inmytown. About to openhisrestaurant. Only it was his town too, damn it. I knew that. But he swore he hated small-town life and would never leave Portland.
Was he doing this to spite me? Because I left him? Or was I being conceited even thinking this had anything to do with me at all? I’d lost all perspective when I left him.
I pulled into the cracked parking spot behind my townhouse, headlights briefly illuminating the peeling paint on the back steps. The engine sputtered as I turned it off, leaving a silence that felt too loud. For a moment, I sat there, my hands resting on the wheel, watching my breath fog the inside glass while doubts crowded in. When I finally stepped out, the cold bit through my jacket, and the door creaked shut behind me, echoing my mood. I lingered on the stoop, brooding under the weak porch light, thinking about everything I’d left behind and everything that might happen now that Graham was coming to Honeybrook Hollow.
Waiting for me inside were Remy and Linguine, my two cats who managed to fill the townhouse with more personality than most people I knew. Remy, the older of the pair, was a sleek tortoiseshell with a penchant for curling up in the warmest patch of sunlight he could find. Linguine, on the other hand, was an energetic orange tabby whose mischievous green eyes always seemed to be plotting his next playful ambush. Together, they greeted me with impatient meows and winding tails, their companionship a constant comfort at the end of every long day.
I fed them, changed into sweats, and sank into the couch with a fuzzy blanket and the book Cara had brought me. I didn’t open it. I just sat there, trying not to think about anything.
My phone rang on the coffee table.
I expected Cara’s name.
I did not expect to see Graham’s.
I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. Then it lit up again.
When my phone lit up with his name, my heart stuttered like it had missed a step. Not longing—never that—but something older, a reflex I hadn’t managed to unlearn. My stomach tightened, breath going shallow, as if my body remembered him better than my mind wanted to. I stared at the screen, irritated at myself for the way my pulse jumped, for how a single name could still pull me out of the present. A flicker of unease, the quiet shame of realizing some doors don’t close cleanly, no matter how hard you shut them.
It was almost funny how one person could pull me out of my cozy, quiet Coffee Cabin bubble and drag me back into a storm I thought I’d moved on from. I hesitated, thumb wavering, as old arguments and apologies popped up in my head. Part of me wanted to ignore it, let the ring fade into silence, but curiosity—and maybe a stubborn piece of hope—won out. Not hope for getting back with him, becausehell no. Hope that he would recognize how he treated me and feel sorry for it. Maybe I needed some kind of closure.
This time, I answered, wishing I had blocked his number and wondering for a moment why I hadn’t, before realizing it was my stupid sense of optimism hanging on, waiting for the apology that would never come.
“Hello?” I said, already regretting it.
“Eliza,” he said, voice smooth and warm. “Hey. I was hoping we could talk.”
My stomach tightened. “You’re calling me… why?”
“I’m in town. Opening a new place across from the library. I figured you’d hear eventually.” His voice softened like he thought I’d be flattered. “I thought we could catch up.”
“Graham, we haven’t talked in over a year.”
“Exactly. That’s why we should. I’ve changed. Things are different now.”
I stared at the blank TV screen. “You mean you’re charming, ruthless, and ambitious in a new ZIP code?”
He laughed, like I’d just told the best joke. “Still sharp, kiddo. I missed that.”
I didn’t reply. I never lost my sarcastic edge with him. But even though I was mouthy about it, I had always ended up giving in to whatever he wanted. Honestly, I think he kind of liked it. He must have thought of me as a challenge he could defeat over and over.
“I’ll stop by for coffee tomorrow,” he said lightly, like it was a casual idea and not a threat to my peace. “It’ll be good to see you. You look great, by the way—your picture’s up on The Honeybrook Inn’s website. You’re running the Coffee Cabin? That’s so you—cute.”
I hung up without saying goodbye.Cute.Most people would have taken that like a compliment, but after being with him, I knew he was belittling me. Damn it, I should have known better than to answer.
I turned off my ringer, buried my face in the blanket, and tried not to spiral.
Graham was back in Honeybrook Hollow. He was a big deal in Portland with a string of successful restaurants. But his family still lived here, and his mother was constantly asking him to come back. He had been the quarterback of Honeybrook Hollow High School’s football team, student body president, and captain of the debate team. People here loved him. They always had.
His return to town wasn't what I needed; it was just one more reason to feel like an outsider. He’d be the big man in town, and I’d be—whatever the opposite of that was.
I’d never told anyone the full story about why I left Portland. About how I had become an emotional contortionist to stay on his good side. How charming he was in public and how small he made me feel in private. I couldn’t tell anyone about him because I was afraid no one would believe me. And who would believe me now if he came back here to play the hometown hero? My family probably would, but then it would be us against the town, and I didn’t want to put anyone in an awkward situation.
