“I love your hair,” I tell her. “It’s gorgeous.”
She grins, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Thanks. There’s a little place off Main called Wild Mane Salon. They’ve been keeping me blue for years.”
I bob my head, already loving her energy. “Great, thanks. Now that I’m back home, I need a new salon.”
“I highly recommend anyone there.” She smiles warmly. “What sounds good this morning?”
I scan the menu again. “I know you have to say yes because you work here, but is your matcha good?”
She chuckles. “I do have to say it’s good because I not only work here, but I own the place.”
My eyes widen, heat flooding my cheeks.
“But it’s the best in the county. City life taught me well before I traded in the traffic for lake life.”
Something in my chest loosens. A transplant. Someone who chose this town, instead of being trapped by it.
“I’ll take one,” I say. “Iced. With honey and cinnamon.”
Her smile widens. “That’s the way I make mine. Cinnamon is the secret ingredient.”
She taps the screen before twisting it in my direction for me to pay. I graciously give her a twenty-five percent tip. Her smile and personality are infectious.
I step aside, busying myself by checking out the variety of baked goods. I don’t dare look around the room, too anxious to catch any stares. Julie moves around her station effortlessly. Whisking, pouring, layering milk over green.
“Are you visiting?” she asks, glancing at me as she seals the cup with a lid.
“Not exactly.” I hesitate, fingers tracing the strap of my bag. “I’m from here. I’ve…been gone for a while.”
Nodding, she slides the drink across the counter. “Well, welcome back. And if you don’t like the matcha, I’ll make you something else, but I have a feeling you’ll love it.”
Her words are simple, but they land heavier than I expect. No edge. No loaded silence. Only pleasantries.
I take a sip. It’s good. Like, really good. Smooth, earthy, and sweetened perfectly. Real matcha, like the kind I used to grab in LA.
“Thanks,” I murmur, then add, “For…this. And the welcome.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Small towns don’t have to mean small minds.”
For the first time in a while, I believe her.
Cup nearly to my mouth, I pause, realizing that I never introduced myself. “I’m Wren Drummond, by the way.”
“I know.” She smiles, chuckling. “I own a coffee shop in a small town…I know everything that goes on in Silo Bay. Unlike everyone else, I don’t judge people on our first meeting. It was nice meeting you, Wren. I hope to see you again.”
With my drink in hand, I turn to leave the quaint shop. With matcha this good and a barista this sweet, Shoreline Sips will definitely be my go-to.
I step back outside where the street greets me with sunshine, bright and high now, the shadows of early morning gone. I smooth the hem of my dress as it sways against my thighs, the fabric light enough to breathe but heavy enough to remind me I’m here, not somewhere else.
I can feel eyes on me as I travel deeper downtown. A part of me wants to shrink. Another part of me—the one who survived LA, the one who leaned into every spotlight even when it burned—forces me to square my shoulders. If they're going to watch, I’ll give them something worth seeing.
Reality TV taught me how to fake it in Hollywood. Paparazzi and strangers looking to cash in a photograph were everywhere. My life was on display twenty-four-seven. Going to the grocery store, visiting the beach, working out—it didn’t matter how mundane the task; there was always someone out there with a camera. But even with cameras everywhere, no one captured the monster.
Taking another sip of the cool matcha, I keep walking. Cars idle past as I stroll across the sidewalk, leaving the smell of exhaust in their wake. I stop in front of a shop window. It’s lined with pottery, mugs glazed in earthy neutrals and greens that look like lush trees on a summer day. Candles flicker on display tables, their script-written labels promising scents of bergamot, juniper, and marine, “like stepping outside early in the morning when the air still feels untouched.” Another says, “layers of tobacco leaf, leather, and cognac.” Reading about layers of tobacco leaf and leather, my pulse quickens with the first person who comes to mind when I think of those scents. But it’s the one described as “smells like nostalgia, and openskies.” The candle with the amber, jasmine, and woods notes causes my breath to stutter as I’m transported to simpler times.
“C’mon, guys, are you sure we should be doing this?” I whisper-shout from my place next to Jett.
It’s nearly two in the morning, and darkness cascades around us. The only light comes from the soft glow of the scattered streetlamps and the looming moon. We’re in the neighboring town, home of our rivals. Everything is completely dead, with businesses closing hours ago.
