“Can't hide anything from you,” I reply, stuffing my scrubs into the locker and grabbing my duffel bag. My hands work quickly, folding the casual clothes I brought with me this morning—jeans, a couple of T-shirts, and that old sweater Mom knitted for me years ago.
“Make sure you say hi to your folks for me,” Jake says.
“Will do.”
And with that, I leave the sterile white walls behind, my heart thrumming in my chest. The city lights will soon fade in my rearview mirror, and the road ahead will lead me to the quaint streets lined with memories, the rolling hills whispering welcome back.
The hum of the engine is my only companion as the cityscape shrinks in the rearview mirror, giving way to an expanse of open road framed by a watercolor sky. Miles unfurl under the tires like ribbons, guiding me toward Lawson Ridge. Each turn of the wheel peels away layers of tension I’ve accumulated over countless shifts and sleepless nights.
As the outskirts of Lawson Ridge come into view, my pulse slows. Familiar storefronts greet me with their quaint charm, and the golden hue of the setting sun glows over everything, like a fond memory brought to life. Main Street hasn't changed much; Brylee’s bookstore and Leo’s Vet clinic.
“Lincoln Montgomery, as I live and breathe!” Brylee calls out as I park the car.
I stepp out onto the sidewalk. “It's good to see you.”
“Never thought we'd lose you to the big city,” she chuckles, leaning against a broom handle. “What brings you back?”
“Visiting family,” I explain, feeling the corners of my mouth lift effortlessly for the first time in weeks. “And maybe a little bit of that quiet life, just for a few days.”
“Enjoy it while you can. Hope to see you at the reunion.”
Home. I’m finally home.
Pushing open the door to my father's barbershop, I look up to find him standing behind his barber's chair, his hands paused mid-air. His customer, draped in the classic striped cape, smiles at me through the mirror, recognition sparking in his eyes.
“Hey, Dad.”
Bill sets down his scissors with the care of someone who revers his craft, wiping his hands on a clean towel before making his way toward me. His smile is a beacon—warm and unwavering—and I find myself grinning back despite the fatigue that clings to my bones.
“Look at you, still too skinny,” he teases, but his eyes shimmers with pride.
With a few quick strides, he closes the distance between us. His arms open wide, and for a moment, I am a child again, safe and cherished. His strong arms, still robust with the vitality of a man who knows the value of a day's work, holds a tenderness that only a father can offer.
“Welcome home, son.”
Chapter Three
Heather
Not sure why my heart is stammering so much. It’s just a reunion. I’ll eat some food and mingle a bit and then go back home to curl up on the couch. It’s not like I can get away with not showing up especially since everyone knows I’m back in Lawson Ridge now.
Stepping into the gymnasium, the place is decked out in streamers and balloons, echoing the colors of our alma mater. I smooth down the fabric of my dress—not too fancy, not too casual—and take a deep breath, scanning the crowd for any hint of the past.
“Is that Heather Sullivan?” a voice squeals from behind me. I turn to see a group of former cheerleaders, their faces lighting up with recognition.
“Guilty as charged.”
As we reminisce about the absurdities of our teenage years, my gaze keeps drifting to the entrance, searching for... well, searching. That's when I see him.
Lincoln Montgomery hesitates at the threshold. His dark hair is just as unruly as I remember, but it somehow suits the sharp angles of maturity that now defines his face. He iswearing a simple button-down shirt that does nothing to hide the evidence of disciplined physicality underneath.
“Excuse me.”
“Lincoln!” someone calls out, and he turns, offering a half-smile that didn't quite reach those deep, soulful eyes. It is a practiced gesture, one that seems to appease the reuniting alumni while keeping his own emotions safely guarded. But his gaze isn't for them; it roams restlessly until it lands somewhere unexpected—on me.
An old friend claps Lincoln on the shoulder, striking up a conversation. Lincoln gives a polite nod, his responses measured and thoughtful, but there is a tension in his shoulders, an anticipation that suggests he is still looking for something—or someone.
I try to steady the flutter in my chest as I drift further. It is like wading through a living memory book, each face a page from a chapter long closed.
