"Night shift at the hospital," she said, a hint of worry in her voice. "She said she'd try to make it, but?—"
"I'm here! I'm here!” My heart squeezed at the familiar voice.
I turned, and Sophia was rushing toward us, still in scrubs, her dark hair escaping from a messy bun. She looked exhausted—shadows under her eyes, the particular weariness of someonewho'd spent all night on her feet—but the moment she saw me, her whole face lit up.
"Stephanie!" She crashed into me with a hug that nearly knocked me off my feet, clinging tight like she was afraid I'd disappear. "Oh my God, you're really here."
“You’rereally here! Did you come straight from work? You must be exhausted.”
“Yeah. Twelve-hour shift in the ER." She stifled a yawn. "But I wasn't missing this. Not for anything. Aunt Lou's been talking about winning the pie contest for weeks. I had to see it for myself."
"You should be sleeping."
"I'll sleep when I'm dead. Or after the fireworks. Whichever comes first." She linked her arm through mine, just like she used to when we were kids. "Come on. I need coffee and one of Mrs. Henderson's funnel cakes."
Louisa watched us go with a soft smile, and I caught her murmuring something to Owen—probably about how nice it was to see Sophia so happy.
The square was even more crowded now, families with strollers navigating around clusters of teenagers, elderly couples sitting on benches, kids running everywhere with sticky faces and boundless energy.
And no one was looking at me.
People glanced and smiled politely, nodding in that small-town way, but no one did a double-take. No one pulled out their phone to snap a photo. No one whispered or pointed or asked for an autograph.
I was invisible. Wonderfully so.
"You okay?" Sophia asked, watching my face.
"Better than okay." I blinked rapidly, grateful for the sunglasses hiding my suddenly wet eyes. "This is... this is really nice."
She squeezed my arm, understanding in her eyes. She knew what my life had become—the constant visibility, the loss of privacy, the exhausting performance of being Stevie Wilson.
"It's good to have you home," she said simply.
Home. That word kept coming up.
We found the others near the game booths, where a heated competition was apparently underway.
"I'm telling you, the ring toss is rigged," Clay insisted, glaring at the booth operator. "Those bottles are weighted."
"Or your aim is just bad," Wyatt suggested mildly.
"My aim is perfect."
"Then why can't you win a stuffed bear?” Wyatt asked between laughs.
"Because. The game. Isrigged,” Clay repeated through a tight jaw.
Liam found me a few minutes later, slipping his hand into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Having fun?"
"I'm having the best time." I leaned into him, letting his solid warmth anchor me. "Your family is..."
"A lot?"
"Wonderful. They're wonderful, Lee."
His smile was soft, private—just for me. "They like you, you know. All of them. You fit."
There it was again. That word. Fit.
