“Fuck.”
I hit my palm against the steering wheel, and my hand practically splinters from the frostbite I’ve probably gotten after all of ten minutes in Barnwich.
Fuck the cold. Fuck this stupid article. Fuck… well.
Me.
For thinking Caroline would want to help me with anything at all. For thinking there was a slight possibility of rekindling our friendship after all these years.
Sighing, I turn up the heat to full blast before looking into my rearview mirror. My gaze lands on Caroline on the other side of the diner window, sipping from a white mug while she talks to a girl with hot-pink hair.
Are they… dating? I can’t see the two of them together. But maybe I’m so focused on the plan that I don’t want to. I never considered that that could be a possibility, that she might not even be able to fake date me if she’s dating someone else for real.
I watch her for a long moment before throwing the car into reverse and heading out of the parking lot toward the opposite side of town, where Grams lives. Her house is a small bungalow between the Christmas tree farm and Cemetery Hill, where everyone goes sledding in the winter. Or did four years ago, at least.
I peer out the window as I drive, at the lights strung up on every storefront and the wreaths hung on black lampposts, perfectly spaced along Main Street like a Christmas postcard. People mill about, and a few heads turn as I go by because of course Lillian rented me a fire-engine-red Corvette instead of something norm— Shit!
I try to hit the brakes at the stoplight, but there’s no traction, and I end up sliding halfway into the intersection before the car comes to a stop.
“You’re not in LA anymore, Arden,” I mutter to myself as I give an embarrassed wave of thanks to the mom in the minivan who dodges me like a true professional.
I look over to see if any more cars are coming, but instead I catch sight of a new sign, swaying gently in the breeze. BECKETT BROTHERS BAR.
No way.
My fingers tap excitedly on the steering wheel. Levi and Miles. They actually did it?
Someone honks from behind me, and I pull my gaze away to see that the light is green. I throw up another hand of apology before hitting the gas gently this time.
It feels so…
Strange to be back here. Back home.
In so many ways, it’s like someone pressed a pause button while I was gone and everything stayed frozen, suspended in time. But like the Beckett Brothers sign, when I look closer I see that that isn’t the truth. Edie’s new pink-haired employee. The gray in Tom’s sideburns. The blacked-out empty storefronts.
The way Caroline looks at me, like I’m the last person she wants to see instead of the first.
And now, my Grams’s house. Dark except for the kitchen light peeking out through the blinds. Not a single string of lights. Not a garland or wreath. Not her gigantic inflatable snowman or Santa Claus bouncing around in the front yard. And worst of all, not even a tree, decorated with fifty years’ worth of ornaments, glowing in the living room window.
I swallow hard as I get out of the car and take it all in from the driveway, dropping my bags at my feet and feeling my chest get heavy with guilt. Of course she hasn’t done any of that. How would she manage it by herself? I left her here all alone. Me and my parents, gone all at once. And none of us came back. We didn’t even let her visit me in LA either, because they didn’t want her to see they were never there, and when things got messy, I couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing that part of my life, which now is just… my whole life.
Will she even want me here after I’ve stayed away for so long? I shouldn’t have just assumed she’d let me stay here, like I assumed Caroline would want to see me.
But there’s only one way to find out now. I stoop to pick my stuff up and slowly walk to the front door. I knock, and my heart hammers at the sound of her shuffling around inside.
“Just a minute,” she calls out, and hearing her thick Southern drawl in person sends tears I didn’t expect springing into my eyes. I don’t even have time to blink them back before the door swings open and there she is.
Grams.
Salt-and-pepper hair. More salt than pepper now. Crow’s feet around dark brown eyes. A thick cardigan because she never did get fully used to the Barnwich cold.
We stare at each other, for the first time in four whole years, for what feels like an eternity.
I look down at my feet, eyebrows furrowing as I struggle to find words, but she finds them first.
“Oh, Arden.”
And then she’s there, wrapping me in a hug without me having to say anything at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut and feel her breath hitch just once underneath my palms. My Grams who never cries, fighting to keep it that way.
Finally, she pulls back and pats me on the face. “Come on, I’ll make you that meat loaf you like.” She peeks past me at the Corvette in the driveway, smirking as we head inside. “Well, if you’ll still eat it. Look at you, Miss Fancy Pants.”
I laugh and drop my bags in the entryway, then hold up the keys. “I was going to see if you wanted to drive it for the next two weeks, but if you don’t—”
She swipes the keys out of my hands so fast my hair blows in the breeze. “Oh, well now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
We walk into the kitchen, and I can’t help but smile at the familiar white cabinets, the wooden breakfast nook in the corner, the refrigerator covered in Christmas cards and photos and newspaper clippings.
I watch as she dumps, pours, and sprinkles all the ingredients into a metal bowl, measuring everything by eye just like I remember.
“Well, come on,” she says, turning around to face me. “This meat loaf isn’t going to mix itself.”
I breathe a sigh of relief at the ease in her voice and roll up my sleeves to help. I wash my hands and then sink them into the bowl of meat and eggs and milk and whatever else she puts in there that makes it so delicious, to start mixing away.
“How’s, uh… how’s the diner treating you?” I ask as we fall into a familiar rhythm.
She snorts. “Same old, same old. Tom is a pain in my ass. Numbers are down even further this season, but the tourists who do come are showing up with odd demands now, asking for ‘oat milk’ and kale. Do you know they make a burger without the meat now? If there isn’t any meat, what the hell is it?”
“They’re actually pretty…”
I shut my mouth before the look she gives me turns me into a burger.
“Other than that, things are peachy keen. Always something that needs fixing, always a bill to be paid, but that diner has been open for thirty-five years, and it’ll be open for another thirty-five to come.” She slides the meat loaf into the oven and moves on to peeling potatoes.
“You know I can—”
She holds up her hand, stopping me. I’ve sent her a check every month since I left, and not one of them has been cashed.
“Why?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I try again. “Why won’t you take my help?”
She lets out a sigh, shaking her head.
“That’s why,” she says without looking at me. Her famous line from my childhood. The conversation ender. I wish she would take the money, but no one, and I mean no one, is prouder than Grams. She has to do everything herself.
We’re both quiet while she puts the potatoes on to boil.
When she speaks again, she changes the subject. “I saw that new movie you were in. The one with the time loop,” she says.
My mouth drops open in surprise. “You saw Operation Sparrow?”
“I watch everything you’re in, Arden,” she says, stabbing a potato with a fork.
“What… uh… what did you think?”
She shrugs. “Eh.”
“I agree,” I say, leaning forward conspiratorially, and the two of us grin at one another. “I mean, the ending?”
“Oh Lord. When you fell in love with that asshole? Just ridiculous.” She taps me on the side. “Get me the milk for the mashed potatoes.”
I head over to the refrigerator to grab the 2 percent, but my hand freezes on the handle as I look at not just Christmas cards from loyal regulars, but articles about me, even reviews of some of my movies and TV shows. Thankfully, none of my tabloid photos have made the cut. But then I reach out to touch the corner of a different photo. Of me and Caroline, sitting on the barstools at the diner, black-and-white cookies in hand, barely a single front tooth between the two of us, her cheeks rosy from the cold. I lift it up to reveal the newspaper article behind it, but this one isn’t about me. It’s a piece about Edie’s Eatery, and below the title it reads by Caroline Beckett.
“You seen her yet?” Grams calls out to me, shooting me a side-eye as she strains the potatoes.
“Yeah, I… well…”
I huff and let go of the corner of the picture so I can bring the milk over to her. I hop up on the counter to tell her everything that happened at my audition with Bianchi and Lillian while she mashes.
“So I asked Caroline, and she—”
“Read you the riot act?”
“Well, yeah. Pretty much. Told me I had some nerve showing up here after four years and asking that of her.” I swing my legs, calves hitting lightly against the cabinets.
The timer dings, and I slide off the counter to get the meat loaf out of the oven and bring it over to the table.
“So, what now?” Grams asks as we sit down, and I take a bite of my favorite meal on the entire planet, the flavors melting in my mouth, sweet and juicy and tangy.
It’s even better than I remembered it, when I would lie awake at night in my empty mansion in Malibu, convincing myself that I didn’t miss this meat loaf or all these small moments sitting across from Grams in her cozy kitchen.
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “She didn’t say yes.”
“Did you really expect her to?”
“I mean… yeah?”
“Arden.” She lowers her brow and looks straight into my soul.
“I don’t know, Grams,” I reply, setting my fork down.
“Well, I can’t speak for Caroline, but I can speak for myself.” She looks down, like she can’t bring herself to look at me, which makes me feel sick. “You’ve been gone for four years, and finally, finally, you come back to visit us… and it’s all just a show for some magazine? How do you think that makes Caroline feel? How do you think it makes me feel?” She looks up at me at last, her eyes shiny.
“I—I don’t know,” I reply, my throat aching too much to say anything else. Shame I’ve tried so hard not to feel washes over me.
“Well.” Just when I think she might ask me to leave, she reaches across the table to place her hand over the back of mine. “Maybe you should spend some time thinking about it.”
I place my other hand on top of hers so they’re sandwiched together, and as hard as it is for me right now, I look her straight in the eyes.
“I’m sorry, Grams,” I tell her, even though I know it’s not enough. Even though I should have said it the second I walked in.
“I know you are.” She slips her hand out of mine and puts another slab of meat loaf onto my plate. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
I pick up my fork, and she eases the tension by telling me about the new menu options at the diner, but I can’t stop thinking about Caroline and what it must have looked like from her point of view today. Me busting in like she’d just go along with my schemes again, as if she owes me anything.
That’s when I realize there’s one thing I owe her. One thing I’ve owed her for a very long time now.
An apology.