"I hated the Junior League."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is that you're hiding." Cynthia squeezes my hand. "You're scared about starting over after your mother's death, so you're hiding in this little town where no one knows you and no one expects anything from you. And we understand that. We do. But you can't hide forever."
I look at her—at my best friend since college, at the woman I've shared a thousand lunches and shopping trips and gossip sessions with—and I realize I don't know what to say to her anymore.
Because she's not wrong. I was hiding, at first. I was terrified and lost and desperate to escape.
But somewhere along the way, hiding turned into something else.
"I'm not hiding," I say slowly. "I'm... figuring things out."
"Figuring what out? How to pour beer?" Archie laughs. "Come on, Eleanor. Let me make some calls. We can have you out of this by the end of the month. You can come back to Atlanta, start over properly, maybe open your own studio?—"
"No."
The word comes out sharper than I intended.
They both stare at me.
"No," I say again, softer this time. "I'm not leaving. I'm staying the six months. I'm honoring Mavis's wishes."
"But why?" Cynthia's face is genuinely confused. "What's here for you? What could you possibly want from this place?"
I think about Dolly's fried chicken and Ruthie's banana pudding. About Meredith's garden and Presley's songs. About the regulars who know my name now, who wave when they see me in town, who've started treating me like I belong.
About Wyatt, with his blue eyes and his quiet steadiness and the way he looks at me like I'm worth knowing.
"Everything," I say. "Everything is here."
Archie stands, brushing invisible dust from his blazer. "Fine. Stay. Play cowgirl for a few more months. But when you come to your senses, call me. I'll still be able to get you out."
"I won't be calling."
He shakes his head, that condescending half-smile on his face. "You know what your problem is, Eleanor? You've always been too sentimental. Your mother saw it. She spent years trying to train it out of you." He buttons his blazer. "Clearly it didn't take."
Six months ago, that would have gutted me. The invocation of my mother, the implication that I was somehow failing to live up to her standards. But now I just look at him—really look at him—and wonder what I ever saw there.
"Goodbye, Archie."
He walks out without another word.
Cynthia lingers. She's looking around the bar again, but this time her expression is less horrified and more... searching. Like she's trying to understand something that doesn't fit into any category she knows.
"I really don't get it," she says finally. "This place. These people. What could they possibly offer you that Atlanta couldn't?"
I think about the question. Really think about it.
"They don't expect me to be perfect," I say. "They just expect me to show up."
"That's not—" She stops, presses her lips together. "You could show up in Atlanta. You could show up at Miranda's engagement party. You could show up to brunch."
"That's not showing up. That's performing." I shake my head. "I've spent my whole life performing, Cynthia. Saying the right things, wearing the right clothes, knowing which fork to use and how to make small talk with people I don't care about. And I was good at it. I was so good at it that I forgot there was any other way to live."
"There's nothing wrong with manners and presentation?—"
