“You should check out the town today, grab what you need. It’s changed a lot,” Henry says, leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, like it’s permanently attached to him. He looks the same, broader through the shoulders, a little more weathered around the eyes.
I let out a quiet laugh. “You say that like three new shops are a personality shift.”
“Five,” he says. “And a café beside the diner. You remember the diner, right?”
“Hard to forget Mrs. Donnelly slipping us pie we didn’t pay for and soda-pop by the glass.”
Henry smirks. “We stopped there every day after school on the way home for a snack. I miss those days.”
We fall into an easy silence, the kind that only exists between brothers who learned how to exist side by side without constantly talking. The kitchen window lets in the morning sun. Same table, same scuffed floor.
Now it just feels familiar.
Henry watches me over the rim of his mug. “Dad is happy you’re here,” he says.
“I hope so.”
Another silence settles. He doesn’t push. He knows it’s a touchy subject. He’s never pushed me to talk about anything, always waiting for me to bring it up first. Henry was always the one who absorbed tension instead of feeding it.
He sets his mug down and crosses his arms. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know. Especially right away.”
I let out a breath. “Good, because I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s a first, you always have a plan,” he says.
“Yeah, but look how that turned out.”
Henry studies me for a minute. He’s not judging, just measuring where I’m at. “You look tired,” he says finally.
“I drove all night.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says. I glance at him as he pushes away from the counter, giving me an out like he’s always done. “The cabin is finished. If you need space or quiet—”
“You offering, or warning?”
“Both,” he says. He bumps my shoulder as he passes. “The town will still be there when you’re ready, but you should go see it sooner rather than later. Might remind you what you came from and give you clarity on what to do next.”
So that’s what I do.
I hop into my rusty truck and head down the driveway, dust kicking up behind me, windows down, with some country music coming from the speakers. I don’t rush. I don’t need to, I have time now, something I didn’t have for years. Living in LA, everyone was late for something or in a rush to go somewhere.
Here, in Lavender Creek, everything slows down, and everyone lives a slow, intentional life.
Once the theater officially changes ownership, my free days will disappear fast.
The General Store still smells the same, clean but dusty, with a touch of coffee that’s been sitting too long on a burner. To my surprise, they have most of what I need. Toiletries, snacks, and a few staples. Anything else, I can grab in the city nearby.
By the time I step back outside, it’s close to noon. My stomach growls, and I realize I have not had enough caffeine to get me through the day. Rookie mistake.
The cashier mentioned a café in town.
I follow her directions and spot it almost right away.
The Flower Pot Café.
It looks busy, which is a good sign. Windows are fogged from the spring air mixed with the warmth inside. People are sitting together around tables, and laughter escapes every time the doors open. I park and walk a few steps, hands in my pockets.
The second I step inside, I know I’ve made the right call. I know my coffee shops.
