“Dottie just posted a slow-mo clip of you standing up,” Lani says helpfully.
My eyes widen. “Already?”
“Caption says, ‘Mysterious Woman Defends Controversial Bar Owners.’ There are sparkles.”
I drop my head to the table.
Sloane reaches over and pats my hair. “Congratulations. You’re the main character.”
“This is not the genre I ordered,” I mutter into the wood.
Olivia laughs softly. “Trust me. Small towns cycle through villains fast. Last year, it was the bakery because they used almond milk.”
“Almond milk is polarizing,” Delaney says solemnly.
I lift my head slowly.
“This feels different,” I say. And this time, I don’t stop there. “It feels targeted. Like this isn’t just about paperwork.”
They go quiet in that attentive way again.
“He implied trouble would follow Ryder,” I continue. “Like it’s inevitable. Like he knows something.”
Sloane’s expression sharpens. “Implied how?”
“Subtle,” I say. “Predictive. Like he’s waiting for something to happen.”
I stare into my coffee.
“And it’s not just the meeting,” I say quietly.
They wait.
“I came here to scatter my grandmother’s ashes,” I continue. “That was the plan: stay for a couple of weeks. Get closure. Leave.”
Olivia’s eyes soften immediately.
“I wasn’t supposed to stay,” I say, a little breathless now that it’s coming out. “I wasn’t supposed to get involved. I definitely wasn’t supposed to start working at a bar owned by three men with… history.”
Sloane’s mouth curves. “And yet.”
“And yet,” I echo.
“I keep telling myself it’s temporary,” I admit. “That I’m just helping with events. That I’m just… filling time. But I’ve painted walls. I’ve planned fundraisers. I’ve moved above The Hollow for the time being…”
“That’s a sign,” Ivy says gravely. “Trust me, I wasn’t supposed to stay either. I was just visiting my brother.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
She grins.
“I don’t know who I am here,” I say, the words spilling faster now. “Am I the girl passing through? Am I the girl who scattered ashes and left? Or am I the girl who stood up in a gym and defended a bar that technically isn’t hers?”
Delaney leans forward slightly. “What do you want to be?”
That’s the worst question.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
