Page 11 of Hometown Touchdown
I drop into the corner booth by the window and bury my face in the pastry, hoping it holds wisdom. Levi joins me without being asked, his usual smirk giving way to something softer as he leans in, elbows on the table.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
It’s the way he says it—low, kind, no judgment—that makes my throat ache.
“I forgot how loud this town is,” I admit. “Everyone either knows everything or thinks they do.”
He nods slowly. “And Knox?”
I stare out the window. A leaf tumbles across the sidewalk in the breeze.
“He called me Bunny.”
Levi blinks like I just confessed to joining a pyramid scheme. “Oh. Damn.”
“Yeah.” I poke the crumb cake with my fork. “Said it like he still had the right to.”
“Did you hate it?”
I pause. “I hate that I didn’t.”
His expression shifts, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just sips his coffee and stays with me. The way he used to when we’d skip class and pretend heartbreak didn’t taste like cafeteria pizza and tears.
Past the high school, the town stretches out into space. Newer houses line the quiet streets—neat, symmetrical, tidy. The kind of place realtors callup-and-comingand my mom callssoulless, but I don’t mind it.
The last few rentals were disasters. One smelled like pickles and despair. Another was so slanted I got dizzy in the bathroom. This one? Actually has potential.
I park and step out, taking in the fresh siding and clean white trim. Not too big. Not too sad. No strange odors. So far, so good.
The front door swings open before I can knock, and a woman in crisp jeans and practical shoes greets me with a clipboard and a bright smile.
“You must be Brynn.”
“That’s me,” I say, shaking her hand. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“I’m Sophie. Come on in.”
Inside smells like lemon cleaner and possibility. That sterile-clean that makes you want to leave your mark just so the place feels real.
“Two bedrooms, two baths, brand-new appliances,” she says as we walk through. “Owner lives next door.”
I raise a brow. “Is that a perk or a warning?”
She smirks. “He’s quiet, hands-off, and fixes things without being weird. Around here? That’s a unicorn.”
The layout is open and bright. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood floors. It’s simple, sure—but it feels safe. Like somewhere I could start fresh.
Upstairs, I peek into each room. Clean walls, big closets. I picture a bed by the window. A little desk. Maybe a plant I’ll forget to water. A life I’m rebuilding, brick by uncertain brick.
“This is the first place that doesn’t make me want to bolt,” I say.
She grins. “So that’s a yes?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Let’s do it.”
The tear of packing tape cuts through my old bedroom, slicing the silence in half. I seal another box and set it down beside the others. My muscles are sore, but in that satisfying way that means progress.
The front door opens downstairs.
