Page 61 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Remy meets his mom's eyes with the kind of expression that saysDo not encourage her, but I just grin and lean on the rake I’m holding.
“Sounds like you need a night off, son. Go have some fun.” Donna says to Remy.
“Please, I have so much to do here,” Remy mutters, handing over Junie’s overnight bag.
Donna plants a kiss on his cheek. “You boys don’t forget to have fun.”
And just like that, they’re gone, driving off toward the edge of town in Donna’s Subaru, Junie talking animatedly to her.
Remy exhales as if he has just survived a natural disaster. “I don’t know how she did it, having two of us.”
“Magic,” I say. “Clearly runs in the family.”
He huffs a laugh, surprising both of us.
For a minute, we stand there, watching the wind blow through the trees and listening to the distant sound of a bell chime from the barn. The tree farm is quiet again. Peaceful.
“I’m glad I’m here,” I say finally, voice low.
Remy looks at me. “Yeah?”
I nod. “You’re building something real here. That’s rare. You need the help. And I needed the reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That there’s still good stuff left,” I say. “Even after all the shit. Especially after.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods once, then jerks his head toward the prep shed. “Come on. Let’s fire up the baler. Got a shipment of wreaths going out tomorrow.”
And just like that, we’re back to work. But something’s shifted.
Out here, among the trees and the frost and the scent of cedar, it feels like I’ve walked into a new chapter. One where the past isn’t the only thing that defines me. One where maybe, just maybe, I can build something of my own.
By the time I leave the tree farm, my shoulders ache in a way that feels earned. My flannel’s damp with sweat, and my hands smell like sap and sawdust, the scent working its way into my skin like it wants to stay, and I want it to.
It’s quieter out here in Wisteria Cove than I remembered. The road curves like old memories, and part of me wants to keepdriving past the harbor, then the bookstore and past the weight of everything waiting for me.
But I promised myself I’d stop running.So I turn toward home.Or…what used to be home.
The house sits as it always has, on Main Street and back a bit, half-hidden behind overgrown hedges and a rusted iron fence that leans a little more each year. The house is a grand old thing if you squint. Victorian bones with peeling paint and too many windows that creak in the wind.
It was home for a long time.Until she showed back up with new kids, a new husband, and a real estate agent on speed dial. I park on the street and sit in the truck for a beat too long, letting the engine tick and cool while my hands stay on the wheel. My jaw’s tight. My stomach’s tighter. I don't want to go in there.I haven’t talked to her since she yelled at me in the town square. I was shocked when Lilith and Willa stood up for me. But I wasn’t surprised. With my mom, there's nothing I can ever seem to do to make things right with her.
The porch light’s already on even though the sun hasn’t finished setting, casting long shadows across the cracked steps. I told myself I’d just crash at the bookstore until I figure things out. One night. Maybe two.But stepping through the door is like stepping back into a version of my life I never want to remember.
The house smells like potpourri and lemon polish, like someone’s trying too hard to erase the ghosts. There are open suitcases spilling out by the hall table, shoes scattered like landmines, and voices upstairs, high-pitched and loud.
I head for the back staircase with a plan to avoid the noise andthem.
My old room is at the top, small, tucked under the eaves, still painted that god-awful navy blue I picked out in middle school when I thought I was cool. The walls are bare now, but the closet still holds the same busted door, and the window still overlooksthe backyard where Willa used to throw pinecones at me when she wanted to get my attention to go do something fun.
I open the closet, searching for the flannel-lined sleeping bag I think I left behind years ago. And that’s when I see it. A shoebox on the top shelf.I pull it down without thinking; the cardboard is soft with age, its edges frayed. Inside: photographs. Notes. Ticket stubs from the county fair. A dried daisy tied with string.And near the bottom is apicture of us.
Me, Willa, Ivy, and Rowan, crammed together on the beach during one of those rare perfect fall days. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Willa’s nose is sunburned. My arm’s around her shoulders, and she’s holding my hand like it’s nothing. But it waseverything.My throat tightens.This is what I’m fighting for.Not the house. Not the boat.Her.I want to make her proud of me.
Before I can spiral any further, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
And then…her voice.“Really, Tate, what are you doing here?”
