Chapter 1
Fable
“Comeon,” I mutter, yanking on the handle of Gramps’s old Bronco.
Even six months into driving it, I still haven’t mastered opening the door, which has me seriously questioning why Gramps trusted me with his beloved vehicle. Iwatched him open it hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. He’d pull mostly from the left edge, making sure to press his thumb into the top at the same time until he heard the faintpopof success.
When he was teaching me how to drive, I’d never get it on the first try. Or even the second. Gramps would circle the hood with his trademark grin, drop a kiss to my forehead, and position his fingers on the handle, nodding for me to place my hand over his as he worked his magic.
“Be easy on her. Baby Blue’s got her own timeline,” he’d say, casting a tender, reminiscing look toward the sky-blue Bronco. “You’ll get there.”
“When, exactly, will I be getting there?” I grit out, jiggling the handle again and stubbornly ignoring his advice to be easy on her. The urge to kick the tire jolts through me before I can stopmyself, and the tip of my boot hits the dirty rubber with a light thump.
I immediately regret it. Shame curls in my chest. Baby Blue has been quite the diva over the last few months, requiring more attention and repairs than I was prepared for, but she doesn’t deserve to be kicked when she’s down.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, placing my palm on the hood. “I didn’t mean it.” I drag in a deep breath and close my eyes, visualizing his fingers under mine as I try again. Slowly.
This time, I hear thepop, and the handle releases. “Got it,” I announce to a quiet Main Street, pulling open the door to the familiar smell of old leather and the wood shavings caught in every corner and seam of the interior. Itoss my Hawkins Hardware shopping bag onto the cracked leather seat—thank you, employee discount—and shut the door again (very gently to make up for the tire kicking).
The cool, misty evening dampens my cheeks as I walk through downtown Fern River, toward the Branch, where my order of coconut chicken tenders should be waiting by now. Ipass back by the hardware store, then the dark windows of Wildwood Bakery—home of the best chocolate chip scones to ever exist. Iswear Mrs. LaGrande is baking up magic in there.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from my best friend illuminating the screen.
Mia:Have you seen this photo? How have we never noticed she is the spitting image of human Ursula????
Pausing under the awning for the thrift store, I click the link she sent, and a social media post pops up. My already-empty stomach hollows out even more.
The engagement isn’t a surprise. I heard about it last week (and promptly downed an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream). But this photo of Philip and Samantha still leaves me unnerved.
It’s a cruel sort of message from the universe when the man you were sleeping with six months ago is now engaged to your polar opposite. Istare down at her perfect raven waves. And perfect red lips. And the perfect pink nails pressed against her fiancé’s jacket.
Philip Anderson, owner of said jacket, is all movie-star blond hair, sharp jawline, and flawless suit. His teeth are alarmingly white as he beams toward the camera, effortlessly confident, like the world was made to do his bidding. He looks every bit of the future politician his parents have groomed him to be, and now he has the flawless wife to stand by his side.
They’re days away from a wedding in Greece, then a whole new life in Portland. A power couple. They’ll probably drink red wine right on their $100,000 white couch while they talk about crypto and other things I don’t understand.
Maybe high school Fable would’ve been the ideal match for him. Valedictorian, captain of the girls’ soccer team, big dreams of becoming a doctor, voted Most Likely to Succeed.
But now... my gaze dips down my body, to the Hawkins Hardware logo on my shirt, where theHs are designed as hammers and screwdrivers. A layer of dust coats my jeans from where I knelt in aisle three for the last hour, organizing the bins of pipe fittings. Iglance at my bitten-off nails and the callus on my palm from helping Dad clean the horse stalls yesterday.
While Philip and Samantha are picking out evening gowns and tuxedos, going to galas and probably shopping for yachts, I’m living in my grandfather’s old A-frame, sleeping on a mattress I’ve had since I dropped out of college. I’m on my fifth job in thelast two years, and I spend my evenings in an empty living room, hunched over a puzzle, listening to an audiobook or a true crime podcast, cuddling with my six-month-old kitten, and shoveling spoonfuls of that night’s dessert into my mouth.
We’re in completely different worlds, and I’m not sure I could’ve ever made it in theirs.
Shaking my head, I shove the phone back in my pocket without replying and cross the street to the flickering orange sign of the Branch. A cacophony of voices spills out as I open the door, confirming that half the town is here for coconut chicken tenders night.
I’ve just stepped inside when a sudden, rowdywhoopof laughter echoes above the noise, sending a chill up my spine.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, Philip stands in the center of the room with a group of his friends. Irecognize a few of them, but all their faces and names blur together—same guy, different font.
Dammit. Iscan the restaurant and assess my options, searching for a way to avoid him seeing me. Icould duck back out the door and forget dinner. The bowl of cereal waiting for me at home is nothing compared to coconut chicken tenders, but I’ll survive.
Or I can brave the path toward the bar and get my food. I’ll have to skirt around Philip & Co., but he likely doesn’t want to acknowledge that he knows me anyway, so I should make it without an issue.
There’s also the option of begging the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Someone would surely remember to feed Knocks—
The universe intervenes. The door swings open behind me, propelling me forward.
Option two it is, I guess.
