“Campfire night,” Jeff repeated, the corners of his mouth turning up. “What, I don’t look like I can build my own?” He wasn’t offended; he wasn’t exactly a hulking guy. He’d never quite made it to five ten, and his T-shirt was too loose to show off his arms.
“Nah, that’s not it.” Her brown skin flushed just perceptibly, and she shook her head. “It’s more… campfire safety, an introduction to park wildlife, and then s’mores and camp songs.” The flush deepened. “It’s very popular with kids and people who are attracted to men.”
Translation—the ranger who ran it was a hotass. Jeff smiled. “Well, who doesn’t like s’mores.”
She grinned back. “I’m off duty at six, so I won’t be there, but tell me about it later if you decide to go. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you if you’re here all summer.”
“I’m sure I’ll get into some kind of trouble,” Jeff agreed. “Nice meeting you.”
She gave him a lazy salute and then climbed into the truck. Jeff watched it rumble away.
Then, absent anything else to do, he unloaded his stuff.
He didn’t have much. Most of his things were in his condo in Toronto; he didn’t need ten guitars out here. He’d brought two—his favorite electric Gibson Les Paul, a solid blue body he’d fallen in love with in a music store in Salzburg, and a battered old Seagull acoustic, his first love.
The cabin would be cramped enough with the three of them.
On top of that, he had a bag of clothes and toiletries, his laptop, and a heavy spiral-coiled notebook and three packs of pens. Pens were tricky; the moment you turned your back, they did some kind of battle royale until two days later you were down to one solitary ballpoint, and the cap was missing. He probably hadn’t brought enough.
Hedefinitelyhadn’t brought enough food. Or, you know, any.
And he should rectify that. One, because as confident as he was in his daytime navigation skills, all bets were off once the sun went down, and two, because if he wanted to check out Ranger Hot Stuff’s sing-along, he needed to get going.
Any minute now. His stomach was grumbling. The clock was ticking. Jeff’s feet were not moving him any closer to the truck. Instead they deposited him at the kitchen table, where he set his elbows against the scarred surface and dropped his head in his hands.
It had been almost fifteen years since he’d set foot in Willow Sound, but he wasn’t afraid to find out it had changed. The conversation with Kara had put paid to that.
No, Jeff was more concerned that it would be exactly the same, Tim Hortons or no, that he’d walk down the street and be able to tell where he was by the cracked sidewalk under his feet or how strong the smell of hot oil from Shinny’s was. He was afraid to go downtown and have people recognize him as Jeff Pine, frontman of Howl, and equally afraid they’d see Jeff Pine, the gawky fifteen-year-old who’d fled and never come back. He was afraid he’d recognize someone and equally afraid he’d meet no one but strangers.
And if he ran into Carter—
No, that’s stupid.Willow Sound was small, but not so small Jeff had to have an anxiety attack about the possibility of running into his former best friend in the grocery. At least not on the first day. He didn’t even know if Carter still lived here. He’d probably left for college. Lots of people never came back.
Jeff hadn’t, until now.
Finally his stomach growled, deciding for him. He needed dinner and provisions for tomorrow morning at the very least. After those needs were met, he could schedule time for self-pity.
So resolved, he picked his new keys up off the counter and headed for the door.
WILLOW SOUNDmight’ve had a coat of paint or two, but the landmarks were still there. Jeff pulled into the criminally tiny parking lot shared by the grocery and LCBO and found a spot. It felt strange to drive here; he hadn’t had a license before they moved. Now he knew why his dad always complained about that stoplight. In fifteen years, they hadn’t fixed the timing?
He didn’t realize he was sitting in his car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, until someone laughed outside and he jerked himself out of it. Too many memories of waiting in this parking lot for Carter to finish his shift at the grocery so they could swim or fish or hang out in Carter’s basement and watch MTV. Jeff hadn’t considered this complication. It wasn’t like he could avoid the grocery store.
He hoped Carter didn’t still work here.Thatwould be awkward.
As he picked up a tiny cart near the entrance, he cataloged the differences—unlike the exterior, the inside of the store had had a facelift, and it was bright and pleasant. Jeff picked up as much fresh food as he thought he could cram into the cabin’s minifridge and a great deal more shelf-stable stuff for those inevitable days when he sank headfirst into his guitar and didn’t come up until midnight. He wished the cabin had a freezer, but mac and cheese in a box would have to do.
Small-town shopping had one thing going for it—expediency. The whole took Jeff twenty minutes through the aisles, without a single person asking for his autograph. He was just thinking he might escape unnoticed when he caught the cover ofHello, which the cashier had propped open against her till while she waited between customers. Jeff’s own face happened to grace this issue, a particularly unflattering shot of him leaving the label’s downtown office, freckles standing out too dark against pale cheeks and his dark curly hair mussed from the number of times he’d pulled at it in frustration. He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, for which Jeff credited caffeine, because it had been closer to a week.
He was debating whether to abandon his cart and make a run for it when a familiar voice said, “Georgia White! Is this the work ethic I inspired?” and the cashier scrambled upright, fumbling with the magazine. Her eyes caught on the speaker and she blanched.
“Ohmygosh, Mrs. Halloran. You scared me.” Georgia (apparently) glanced at Jeff, then back at Mrs. Halloran, then doubled back to Jeff.
Awkwardly, Jeff turned to Mrs. Halloran as well—only to find he recognized the face as well as the voice. Mind you, last time he’d seen her he’d been looking from a different angle.
He smiled. “Hey, Mrs. H.” Never would he have guessed his geriatric fourth grade teacher would be the first familiar face he saw in town.
“That’s ‘hello,’ Jeffrey. I know I taught you proper manners.” But her brown eyes danced; she had always loved gently giving her students a hard time. “Georgia, dear, those groceries aren’t going to ring themselves up.”
