Page 53 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I don’t answer Pete right away, except to nod in agreement. I know he’s right.
Instead, I take a sip of coffee, watch the sun finally break through the fog, and think about the Maren house and how it wasn’t like that there.
It wasn’t quiet like someone was holding their breath. It was warm, cluttered, full of half-finished projects and the smell of whatever Lilith was cooking in the oven and laughter coming from the next room. Even when Willa and her sisters bickered, it never felt like the world was cracking apart. It felt like…life. Normal. Messy, but good.
Sitting at their kitchen table while Willa scribbled in a notebook and Rowan braided her own hair and Ivy sang off-key in the other room…I just breathed easier there. I remember their dad inviting me out to the garage with him while he worked on their cars. He’d sneak me ice cream cups from the freezer out there before dinner and say in his thick New England accent, “Don’t tell your mother.”
“Guess I thought that was normal,” I say finally, voice low. “The yelling and tension. Thought that’s just what family looked like.”
Pete shakes his head slowly. “Kid, that wasn’t normal.”
He’s right. It was survival. And I think I was living in survival mode for so long that I didn’t even recognize it for what it was. I just knew I didn’t want to live like that.
He lets it settle and doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Pete. He’ll call you out, sure, but he won’t push it.
“You ever think about what you want now?” he asks after a beat.
I glance over.
He’s not talking about boats. Or work. He’s talking aboutlife.About home. I think about Willa. About the way she sat in that armchair yesterday, blanket over her lap, hair a little damp, eyes soft as she watched the shop come alive with me and her sisters helping her. The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.
I think about the bookstore. And how it already feels more like home than the place I grew up in ever did.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m starting to.”
Pete grunts. “Good. ‘Bout time.”
We sit there a while longer, sipping coffee, watching the boats rock gently in their slips.
The fog burns off and everything turns slow and golden. Somewhere down the wharf, I hear someone playing a harmonica out of tune.
The town’s waking up. And for once, I’m not just watching it like an outsider. I’m part of it.
The bell over the bookstore door jingles, soft and familiar. Feels a little like walking into a dream I didn’t know I wanted until I was living it. I’m avoiding going back to the house as much as possible. My mom has been sitting at the kitchen table overthere poring over lists and things to sell. It looks like she’s selling anything not nailed down. She even asked me if I wanted to keep my bed or not.
Willa’s at the front table, sorting through a box of new books, hair pulled back, face a little flushed, but brighter. Healthier. There’s color in her cheeks again. Her eyes lift the second the door closes behind me and she grins. “There you are. I was thinking about putting your face on a milk carton.”
I hold up the paper bag. “Brought you a breakfast sandwich. Pete made me stop at Driftwood. Pretty sure I’m part of the official old man morning coffee crew now.”
She walks toward me, arms still wrapped around herself, until she’s close enough to reach, and then she wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek to my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I blink and pull her in close, breathing in her shampoo or soap scent that smells really good.
“Thanks,” she murmurs. “For yesterday and…everything.”
“Of course,” I say into her hair. “Always.”
She pulls back but doesn’t go far. Just enough to meet my eyes. “You sleep okay?” she asks.
“Better than I would’ve at the house. Thanks for letting me crash here.”
Her brow furrows. “How’s it going with…them?”
I shrug. “As good as it’s gonna get.”
There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken things.
“Can I crash here again tonight?” I ask.
