“But this is important! Love is important!”
Hazel drops her head into her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
But the tension has broken. Everyone’s laughing, and Jo is refilling wine glasses, and Amber is threatening to eat all the chocolate cookies before Ellen can get down here.
“She’s not wrong, though,” Caroline says quietly, just to me. “I saw him at the coffee shop this morning. Before you came in. He was watching the door like he was hoping someone specific would walk through it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Upstairs, Ellen is negotiating loudly for an early cookie release. Kira’s voice joins the fray, defending her sister’s right to snacks with the passion of a girl who also wants a cookie.
And I sit in the middle of this beautiful, chaotic,nosy group of women, feeling more seen than I have in years.
It’s terrifying.
It’s also kind of wonderful.
The evening winds down slowly, the way all good book clubs do—more wine than discussion, more laughter than literary analysis.
Ellen finally made it downstairs for her cookie, then somehow talked her way into staying for the whole dessert course. She’s currently curled up on the couch between Grandma Hensley and Jo, fighting sleep with stubborn determination.
I help Hazel carry dishes to the kitchen while the others gather their things.
“Thank you for hosting,” I say, rinsing a wine glass. “And I’m sorry I made it weird with all the...baggage.”
“You didn’t make it weird.” Hazel takes the glass and dries it. “You made it real. That’s what book club is for. We read about messy love stories, and then we talk about our own messy love stories, and somehow it makes all of us feel less alone.”
“Is that in the official book club bylaws?”
“It should be.” She smiles. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re going to run this time.”
“What makesyou say that?”
“Because you’ve spent six months putting down roots. The shop. The friendships. This town.” She sets the glass in the cabinet. “People who plan to run don’t do that. They keep one foot out the door. You’ve got both feet planted.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Just think about it,” Hazel says. “And maybe, if you’re feeling brave, think about giving that songwriter another chance. From what I hear, he could use a muse.”
In the living room, Ellen has lost her battle with sleep. She’s slumped against Grandma Hensley’s shoulder, one hand still clutching half a cookie.
“Should I carry her up?” Jack appears in the doorway, looking like a man who’s been hiding in his study until the estrogen levels decreased.
“Please.” Hazel kisses his cheek. “Thank you for making yourself scarce.”
“Anytime. Though I did hear something about a rock star and coffee? Should I be concerned?”
“Only about my dignity,” I say.
He grins—the easy grin of a man who’s heard worse—and scoops Ellen up without waking her. She mumbles something about decimals and songs and settles against his shoulder.
I say my goodbyes, hugging each woman in turn. Grandma Hensley holds on longest.
“Second chances are rare,” she says quietly. “Don’t waste yours being afraid.”
And then I’m walking to my car in the dark, the ocean crashing somewhere beyond the dunes, the stars scattered across the sky like someone spilled glitter.
