“Morning,” she chimes, focused on the flowers in front of her.
When I was younger, my parents were surprised by my engrossment in the arts—painting, specifically. They claimed they didn’t know where it came from, but I think they’re artists too. I use a brush and a canvas, but my mom uses the earth and my dad the ocean. We’re all artists in our own way.
“Allie is back for the summer and had her first shift at the bakery today, so I’m going to see her and we might go out on the water afterward.”
Mom pauses, raising her eyes to study me curiously. “Okay. Have fun. Be safe.”
“I will.” I smile, hoping it reaches my eyes the way I intend.
I spin, stepping toward the front of the house as I grab my purse off the hook behind the door before my mom calls out, “Willow?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve only got a few weeks until the registration deadline for the fall semester, so... we should sit down and talk about that here soon.”
I sigh, reaching for the door handle. “Yep. Got it. We can talk this weekend.”
I don’t wait for her response before slipping out of the house. I know there was a deeper message behind her casual observation, but my parents have been trying not to push me on it. I’ve been home just over a month now, and I’ve yet to disclose the details of my abrupt breakup with Parker, or my plans for returning to Berkeley—mostly because I don’t know them myself.
When I admitted that he’d hurt me, my parents immediately jumped to the conclusion that I’d meant that in a physical way, and even now... I’m not sure how I meant it myself. I still don’t know how to make sense of what happened, or why it made me feel the way it did. Why it activated my fight-or-flight, or why I ran away. When I rationalize it, I realize I must sound incredibly silly, but when I think about returning to that apartment and back into his arms, bile rises in my throat and my entire body trembles.
The messages he began sending me when he discovered I’d left didn’t help the anguish swirling in my bones. At first they were concerned and confused, asking me where I was and when I’d be back, but slowly they turned demanding and harsh when he must’ve realized I’d packed enough things to signal my intention of never returning. They escalated into phone calls andvoicemails where his tone was so curt and cold my spine went rigid with fear.
That’s when I knew my instincts had been correct, and I couldn’t go back to him. So I sent him one text saying I was moving out and ending things, then promptly blocked his number and all his social accounts. I wanted to cut off all his access to me.
Though, that didn’t stop him from finding Allie on social media and reaching out to her too. I hadn’t gotten around to explaining the situation to her yet, I’d only told her that I returned home for the summer. Parker was much kinder to her than he was to me, lacing his words with worry and softness—though it was just fake enough to raise Allie’s red flags.
I had her and the twins block him too.
I told my parents I wasn’t happy, that I thought he might be cheating on me, and I needed time to sort through my feelings and figure out what to do next. I dropped the summer classes I was supposed to take and quit the job I had lined up at a children’s art camp in Orinda. My summer courses would’ve put me on track to graduate a semester early, now that’s down the drain. I’m not even sure I want to continue attending Berkeley, and I don’t know how to explain to my family that I may be throwing away my entire fucking future over one small instance with my boyfriend that made me feel... uncomfortable? Violated? Truthfully, it made me fucking sick, but I can’t make sense of my own response to the situation, or whether I’m overreacting.
Sure, Parker’s reaction to my leaving was all the confirmation I needed that our relationship should end for good, but I don’t think he’dphysicallyhurt me. Eventually, he’ll get over it, and I’m sure I’d be safe to return to Berkeley, yet some deep unease in the pits of my body surges at the thought of that—the thought of ever being near him again.
Pushing those thoughts and inevitable family conversations to the back of my mind—they’re Future Willow’s issue—I take a right toward downtown. It’s about a ten-minute walk from my parents’ house to the boardwalk—which they also own. Five businesses make up the Pacific Shores boardwalk, and each one is operated by a member of our family.
It’s become somewhat famous over the years, from the surf shop run by my dad and uncle that’s been featured in everything from articles and travel guides to movies and television shows. My aunt’s bakery has been highlighted by the Food Network numerous times, her specialized pastry and coffee pairings becoming a Southern California staple. My mom is the most sought-after florist in the region and currently has a wedding waitlist of two years.
My dad’s sister, Elena, is better known as an author than a bookshop owner. She’s an international bestseller so the store is more of a passion project. Her partner, August, owns the tattoo shop at the end of the boardwalk. He’s an award-winning artist and runs a prestigious apprenticeship program for up-and-comers in the industry.
Ultraviolet Tattoo was where I spent most of my boardwalk time in high school. It felt edgy and different from the rest of the businesses. It made me feel cool. August would let me come in after school and mock up digital drawings on his iPad, some of which he’s even added to his premade design collection. He still pays me a commission when they get used. Since he’s an artist too, when I was young and tumultuous and always mad at my parents over something, Ultraviolet felt like a safe place to escape.
Though, now I prefer Honeysuckle, the flower shop, most of all. It’s always bright and colorful. Fragrant in a way that smells like my mom. Since moving to Berkeley for college three yearsago, it’s Honeysuckle that always brings me back to the peaceful feeling of home when I return.
Now that I plan on staying in Pacific Shores for the remainder of my summer, I’m probably going to need to pick up a few shifts around the boardwalk to pass the time. I make a mental note to ask my mom if she needs any help, because I’d rather work there than Heathen’s, my dad’s surf shop, and I think my aunt Elena is now fully staffed in the bookstore.
I’m not allowed to work at the bakery after my cousin Zander and I started one accidental, very small kitchen fire when we were seventeen.
When I make it to the intersection of Oceanside and Pacific, I cross the street before making another right turn, which places me directly in front of the boardwalk.
It’s a lively, sunny morning. The pier is littered with fishermen, the whitecaps below them dotted with surfers. The Pacific stretches on forever past the carnival rides at the end of the pier, the entire scene nestled picturesquely behind our family’s shops.
My mom maintains the rosebushes planted between each of the doors, with baskets of various spring flowers beneath all the windowsills. There are surfboards lined up in front of Heathen’s, and buckets of fresh blooms line the sidewalk outside Honeysuckle. Beside it is The Wicked Wildflower, my aunt’s cafe and bakery.
Six tables sit to the right of its front door, each one occupied. The sounds of conversation and laughter mingle with the seagulls overhead and the crashing waves in the distance. A few of the cafe’s local patrons sitting out front greet me as I pass by, welcoming me home.
“I’ll be right with you!” Allie’s familiar sing-song voice chimes when I enter.
Her back is turned, facing the espresso maker, so she must not realize it’s me. Inside the bakery is much more vacant than outside, but it appears she’s running the coffee bar by herself, so I’m sure she’s busy. Allie thrives in this, though.
