Wrapping his arm around me, he offers me a side hug. I squeeze him a little harder than necessary, but I’ve missed him.
Then he bends and kisses Rachel, her hand curling at his jaw. They’ve fought for this happiness—I know enough of their story to see the battle scars beneath their smiles.
And God, I’m glad he has her.
When he leaves, the air around me feels thinner.
But I don’t have long to ponder the change. The kitchen door swings open, broad shoulders appearing, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder. Russ Mueller. His expression is all business at first—stern, focused, the way I remember him on the football field. But the moment his gaze lands on me, his face fractures. Shock, recognition, something unreadable flashing before he schools his features back into neutrality.
Of course, he’s here.
This bar has been in his family since the town was still horse-and-buggy. Him behind the counter fits in a way that makes my chest ache. Like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t rush over. Just grabs a glass and starts pulling a draft beer like I’m no more than a ripple in the water. After placing the freshly poured ale in front of a customer, he moves closer, his eyes locked on mine.
“What’s your poison these days?” His voice is deep, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “Something fancy from LA? Or are you still a whiskey sour girl?”
I don’t hesitate. “Whiskey sour.”
His mouth quirks. “Good. Would’ve hated to waste a good top shelf on you.”
I laugh, the sound foreign. Russ moves smoothly, efficiently, swapping bottles and ice like he was born to do it. And knowing the Mueller family, he probably was.
He reaches for a glass, and I watch him make the drink with precision. A long pour of Jim Beam over ice. A little more than a splash of sweet and sour. Topping it off with four cherries. I smile as he slides the glass toward me.
I pluck one of the red globes from the glass and pop it into my mouth. “You remembered.”
“You’re the only person I know who requests four cherries with their whiskey sour. Not three, not five. Four.”
I blush, taking a sip and letting the burn of the whiskey warm me.
There’s something about this place. The familiarity and comfort. It feels good to be back here.
“Thanks for staying and having a drink with me,” I tell Rachel.
“I figured this was as good of a time as any to catch up.”
Rachel was a year older than me in school. We weren’t super close, but we knew of each other. Since she started dating my brother, the two of us have made it a point to try to get to know each other better, but it’s still a little awkward. Getting to know someone through text messages and the occasional FaceTimes when I’d call my brother wasn’t the easiest. From what I’ve learned over the last few years is that she throws a fantastic seafood boil in the fall. She’s also an amazing mom to a six-year-old son, Corbin, who adores my brother, and she teaches third grade at Silo Bay Elementary. Life hasn’t always dealt her a solid hand, but she’s making the most of it with Nate’s help. Hopefully, there'll be wedding bells soon in their future.
Rachel tilts her head, eyes more searching. I’m terrified she’s going to see through the mask I’m used to wearing.
“How’s it feel being back? Feels like home, or like you’ve pulled aFreaky Friday, and now you’re trapped in someone else’s body?”
Chuckling lightly, I trace a finger along the rim of my glass. “A little of both,” I admit. “Like I’m me, but not the girl who left. That girl’s long gone.”
Rachel’s hand finds mine. “Then maybe this is your chance to find the new one.”
The jukebox crackles again, shifting into Turnpike Troubadour’s “7 and 7.” The beat causes my shoulders to sway as laughter rolls from the pool tables. For one fragile moment, I almost feel…normal.
“I’d like for this to be a fresh start, but who knows. Silo Bay and I have a lot of history, and not all of it’s good.”
“This town has a way of giving you the best memories and the worst, but it’s home.”
I lift my drink to my lips. “That it is.”
We both fall into a comfortable silence, and I take the opportunity to glance around the bar. Near the windows is a group of college-aged guys, most likely attending the college branch on the other side of town. Buckets of beer and empty bottles sit in the center of their table.
Since leaving Silo Bay, I tried to stay in touch with the friends I had growing up, but things were weird between me and the guys. Greer was the other girl in the group, and we stayed in contact the most. Both of us texting and calling each other as if I never left. It stayed like that until I moved to California, then the calls and texts started going unanswered. When we finally caught up every now and then, it was more of a formality rather than a friendship that rivaled a sisterhood, especially since neither one of us had a sister. Sure, the different time zones made it hard, but the truth is, I changed, and not for the better.
