Page 23 of The Backup

Asher: Alright. Cool. Have fun! I just want to be clear that I really like you and, ideally, that wasn’t just a one-time thing for me. But if it was a one-time thing for you, I understand. You just got out of a long relationship. Take the time you need.

Damn it. Why does Asher have to be so emotionally mature about all of this? Can’t he at least be an asshole so I have an excuse to brush him off?

Stupid sexy game of King’s Cup. What was I thinking with that dare, anyway?

I call my grandmother, leaving a voicemail to let her know I’m on my way. The service is patchy, but she calls back with her usual enthusiasm, promising to make pea soup—her special recipe, the only kind I actually like.

The train pulls into Belleville, a town where time seems to have paused, leaving everything cloaked in nostalgia. The air carries the scents of fresh-cut grass and woodsmoke, even in spring. It’s the kind of place where strangers wave like old friends.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the short walk to Grandma’s house. The crunch of gravel under my shoes and the chorus of birds above feels like a balm to my frayed nerves. Mystic Falls has its charm, sure, but its constant buzz can feel suffocating when your heart is tender.

By the time I reach Grandma’s small white clapboard house with its cheerful blue shutters and flower boxes brimming with petunias, I’m smiling despite myself. The front door opens before I can even knock.

“Sloane, sweetheart!” Grandma beams, arms wide open. Her floral apron has a tiny smear of flour on the hem, and her gray hair is pinned up in a loose bun. With her glasses perched low on her nose, she looks like she’s stepped out of an old family portrait.

“Hi, Grandma,” I say, letting her pull me into a warm, slightly squishy hug. She smells like lavender and fresh bread, and suddenly, I feel like everything might be okay.

“Come in, come in! I just took the soup off the stove. Sit, and I’ll get you a bowl.”

Inside, her cozy kitchen is exactly as I remember: mismatched china, an embroidered tablecloth, and the comforting noise of the kettle on the stove. The scent of peas, ham, and something herbal fills the air, wrapping around me like a hug.

“You look like you could use a good meal,” she says, setting a steaming bowl in front of me.

“I probably could,” I admit, taking a spoonful. As always, the first taste melts away every bad thought I’ve been holding onto.

Grandma sits across from me with her own bowl, her eyes twinkling as she studies me. “What brings you to Belleville this weekend? You sounded a little…off in your message.”

I sigh, stirring my soup. “I had a breakup,” I admit finally.

She tilts her head, her expression soft and understanding. “Oh, honey. Was it that young man I met last Christmas? The one with the very shiny hair?”

“Joe,” I say, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, it was Joe.”

Grandma makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, shiny hair isn’t everything. What happened?”

I hesitate, but this is Grandma. She makes it easy to speak without fear of judgment. “He said I was too…independent. That I didn’t make enough time for him.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Too independent? That’s a new one. Next thing, they’ll be complaining that you’re too smart or too kind. Ridiculous.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Grandma. But maybe he had a point. I mean, I did decide not to stay in Mystic Falls this summer because of that internship in San Francisco. And…I don’t know, maybe I wasn’t as present as I should’ve been.”

“Honey,” she says, leaning forward, “there’s nothing wrong with being dedicated to your goals. The right person will understand that. They won’t try to make you choose between them and your dreams—they’ll want to be part of your dreams.”

Her words land harder than I expect. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she says firmly. “You’ve got a big heart, Sloane. And someday, someone is going to see that and think it’s the best thing in the world. Until then, focus on you.”

The warmth of her words wraps around me like a quilt. “Thanks, Grandma. Really.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” She pats my hand, then grins mischievously. “Now, tell me, was he at least a good kisser? Or are we putting ‘better taste in men’ on the to-do list?”

I burst out laughing, nearly choking on my soup. “Grandma!”

“What? I’m old, not dead.”

Later, we sit on the porch, sipping tea and watching the fireflies dance in the yard. The air smells of damp earth and wildflowers, and the horizon glows with purples and pinks.

“Speaking of clearing your head,” Grandma says, her voice gentle, “do you want to talk about it? The reason you’re here?”

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