One
Ford
Nothing here was the same, but it sure as hell wasn’t much different.
I stood on Main Street and scanned the storefronts, the afternoon sun shielded by my Oakleys. New names, new paint, but same old town. The diner hadn’t changed, and the bar down the street was still here, but otherwise, Whittier Falls looked like a barely new version of the same damn place.
I hadn’t been back here in years. Almost twenty, to be exact. Part of me felt like that was twenty too many, but another part felt like coming back was a mistake. Staying away had been good for me. At least I thought it had. Lately I’d been questioning everything.
I hit the lock button on my key fob and walked to the door of the bakery I’d parked my new truck in front of. It had been a bakery back then too, but nowhere near as fancy as this one. Wood planks artfully covered the lime-washed brick facade. Matte black metal letters spelled out CAMPFIRE BAKERY. It was all meant to look rustic, but the boards were clearly brand new, and I’d bet the bricks were too. Stylish rustic. Hipster rustic.
I walked up the short set of steps and pulled open the glass door, the air inside hitting me in the face like a fresh-baked brick. Cinnamon, sugar, and a little yeast tang, thick enough to taste. For a second, I just stood there, one hand on the door, blinking through the steam and wondering if I had the guts to see all this through. Seemed stupid, standing in the doorway of a bakery like it was the edge of a cliff, but there it was.
I walked forward and felt the air shift. All the conversations dipped to a hush. Not stopped—nothing ever stopped in Whittier Falls—but just low enough so they could listen while pretending not to. I ignored them with all the practiced indifference of a man who was used to having a thousand pairs of eyes on him. My boots squeaked as I crossed the hardwood floor, every step a little too loud, every muscle in my back braced for someone to throw a punchline or a punch.
Most of the tables were full. Ranch hands in fleeces, an elderly couple sharing a cinnamon roll, a pair of high school girls with faces tilted over their phones. All of them looked at me. Or past me, but mostly at me. I was the story today, I guess. I really thought I could come to town unnoticed. Or, at least unrecognized.
I looked different. Broader shoulders, longer hair that curled around my ears, whiskers on my face growing out just a bit too long. I sure as hell had a few wrinkles around my eyes. But judging by the way most of these folks looked at me, none of that mattered. It was as if to them, I was still nineteen years old, wrangling horses at Red Downs or sneaking into the Dusty Barrel for a pint of beer.
I nodded at no one in particular and continued inside, relieved there wasn’t a line so I could get to ordering right away.
The counter was scrubbed to a shine. A young woman was behind it, wiping down the glass case with slow, methodicalmovements. I didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t mean much. She looked to be a good ten years younger than me.
She was petite and thin, but that wasn’t what made her look small. It was the way she held herself . . . compact, like she was holding herself together out of habit. Her brown hair was pulled back into one of those big clip things, a black one, that spanned the whole back of her head. Her eyes, though. They got me looking twice, and I had no business looking at all. Big and brown with long lashes that gave her an almost startled look, even though she was just focused on her task.
I caught her looking up. She saw me, and something flickered behind her lashes. Not fear, not recognition, but more like the alertness of a deer who isn't sure if the shadow in the woods is a hunter or just another animal.
"Morning," she said, sliding the towel behind her and forcing a small smile. There was a deliberate blandness in her tone, like she didn't want to give away her hand too soon. "What can I get for you?"
I tried to swallow the tension down. "Just coffee. Black. And whatever’s fresh out of the oven."
She started pouring, slow and careful, eyes on the stream. The mug clinked against the counter. "Everything’s fresh," she said. "It’s bakery law."
She was funny, or maybe just practiced at trivial banter. I drummed my fingers once on the edge of the counter, then caught myself and stuffed both hands in my jacket pockets.
"Okay, you got me," I said. "Surprise me." I could feel the attention at my back, not even trying to be subtle anymore. "I’m not picky."
She pulled a golden pastry out of the case—something flaky, dusted with sugar. "Try this. We call it a breakfast bomb, but it’s just phyllo dough with cinnamon-butter and pecans."
I accepted the plate, then the coffee, and took a long sip just to give my hands something to do. She watched me over the rim of the mug.
“Well if it isn’t the one and only Ford Brooks. I was wondering when you’d show your face around here again.”
Sutton Turner. Younger sister to one of my former best friends. Cousin to my other former best friends. And the biggest shit talker Whittier Falls High had ever seen. She’d chased us around as kids, always wanting to hang with the boys. We’d given her plenty of shit for it and always managed to lose her, which in hindsight, made my chest sink with shame.
She emerged from behind the counter and stood in front of me for one brief moment before wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a warm hug. It was unexpected, and not at all unwanted. I let myself lean into it for a moment before breaking away and stepping back.
“Sutton. You look good. Whatcha’ doin’ here?”
“This is my place.” She looked around, arms out. “Bought the old Benson Family Bakery and made it my own.”
“Really? It’s nice, Sutt. Coffee’s good.”
“It sure is. But you gonna talk about coffee after all this time, or are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?”
I glanced at the doe-eyed girl who’d helped me, unsure why. It’s not like it mattered if she heard my story, she didn’t know me and I didn’t know her. But she’d moved down the counter to help an older man with a walker. I watched the way she ducked her head, how a piece of her hair slipped from the clip and brushed her cheek.
“Ford?” Sutton caught me staring, but beside a slight smirk, she gave me a pass. She studied my face a little longer than necessary, her brow creasing, like she was searching for damage that matched whatever stories had filtered through town since I left. "You look different," she said.
