You hanging in there? Abby’s text comes through at seven a.m., which normally wouldn’t be a problem but which, after last night, seems ungodly early. Everything hurts. My temples throb with a low-grade headache and even my fingers seem stiff and swollen.

Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck? I write. No way the single cranberry vodka I had last night could have wreaked this much havoc on my nerve endings.

You wanted a stiff drink, she replies, and I can picture a wry grin on her face.

She’s wrong, though. There’s not nearly enough alcohol in my bloodstream to make me feel this pressure behind my eyes. It’s probably the weight of all these memories making my head pound, the unexpected consequences of seeing Jackson Wirth.

It was stupid of me to think I wouldn’t run into him now that I’m back in Swan’s Hollow. To my knowledge he returned home after his dad died. It was me who skipped town and never looked back. I just hadn’t expected to see Jackson my first night emerging from my self-imposed exile.

Oh god. The memory of last night swims back to me in full, painful detail—Jackson’s familiar eyes, the way he looked older and sexier in all the right ways. Running away was the best defense I had, because before that, the last time I saw Jackson I had kissed him. It’s been four years but the feeling of being unwanted hasn’t faded yet. I’d shown him everything and he’d turned me down. I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel embarrassed and awkward, even now.

It’s completely Jackson’s style, after all, to show up when I’m trying my hardest to fly under the radar. It’s part of what’s so infuriating about him. The first time I saw him was the week before tenth grade started, the tail end of a long summer marked by my parents’ slow, messy divorce. My summer was filled with frosty silences and passive-aggressive notes my parents left each other on the fridge—in which they negotiated stupid things like who got to keep the Edith Crosta painting (Dad), and who needed to clear shit out of the house (Mom)—but occasionally the tension boiled over into bigger fights.

On those nights I’d sneak out to my old tree house and hide with a book and a flashlight and a thermos of hot chocolate, getting lost in the tart, bright smell of the crabapple tree’s leaves. The night I met Jackson I was so distracted by the noises inside my house that I didn’t notice him until I was practically on top of him.

“Holy fuck,” I yelped, brandishing my flashlight and thermos. I’m not sure what I planned to do to the stranger in front of me if he was dangerous. Maybe blind him and pour hot liquid on his skin?

“Hey, sorry,” he said, and then the beam of my flashlight actually hit his face and I could see him better. Strong cheekbones and rumpled hair. Even with the harsh shadows cast by the flashlight, I could tell he was cute. Still.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed. I kept my feet on the ladder in case I needed to run.

“I’m your neighbor. Fresh in from Los Angeles, California.” It still didn’t explain why he was on private property in the middle of the night, uninvited.

“You scared the shit out of me. Jesus.”

He grinned. “Actually, you can call me Jackson. Jesus is a little formal for me.”

He reached out his hand and I stood there for a minute, debating. Finally I set down my flashlight so when I shook his hand I didn’t blind him, after all. His skin felt warm and rough against my palm.

Behind me, something crashed and I cringed. Jackson didn’t comment. He leaned back against the boards of the little house, making himself at home. “Well, are you coming in?”

“I guess so,” I said, and hauled myself all the way in. It seemed like the right place to be.

We stayed there most of the night, together, me with my eyes straying over the edges of my copy of Watership Down to drink him in, Jackson listening to his headphones, tapping the floor every now and then so the vibrations ran through me. He stayed with me until the shouting inside my house stopped, and then a little longer.

That’s how it was with him, right from the start. It was like he already knew my secret spaces, like he was already written under my skin. Even now I can’t run away from the fact of him, the twenty-three-year-old Jackson who looked sexy and dangerous as always, the feeling that I’m always going to be sixteen around him.

I groan and sink back into my mattress. I’m never leaving the house again, I text. It’s not a real-life option, but I could certainly call it a pipe dream.

You’ll be fine, Abby replies. Just get up.

I glare at the phone but she’s right, and now that I’m awake, I’m awake. The only option besides hiding in Gayle’s guesthouse till my hair goes gray is getting the hell out of Swan’s Hollow. Seeing Jackson last night was just a reminder of why I hadn’t wanted to come home in the first place. Coming back here was a mistake—a necessary mistake—but it was still a mistake. My heart wants to be in Boston, even if I’m on my own. If I’m going to go back to my life in the city, I’m going to need a game plan. And I’m going to need some money.

While Abigail’s right that I don’t need a prince to rescue me, the funds for my single-lady return to Boston are running dry. I hate to admit it, but having a boyfriend with deep pockets had its perks, including a low rent check. I’ve got enough money saved for a deposit on a cheap apartment, but my checking account is low enough to make me regret blowing my last paycheck on Matthew’s birthday extravaganza.

So, a job it is.

I park in the lot that McCafferty’s Books—the bookstore that Abigail manages—shares with Holy Grounds Coffee. The little café gave me both my first taste of coffee and my first taste of financial freedom, funding everything from my prom dress to the Twizzlers I used to buy at the deli for late-night snacks. I spent the last year of high school brewing espresso for Mr. Spence, the shop owner, and learning exactly how to recognize the signs of caffeine deprivation on people’s faces.

The tiny coffee shop runs a booming business, given that Starbucks has not yet made its way to Swan’s Hollow, and it looks exactly the same as when I left it. The coffee is hot and strong but the shop itself is a throwback to more puritan times, the walls covered with proverbs about sustenance and coffee. “So that you may not be sluggish…” Hebrews 6:12, and “Be the aroma of Christ.” 2 Corinthians 2:15.

Massachusetts is such a mix of innovation and tradition—we’ve got MIT and Harvard and were the first state to allow same-sex marriage, but it’s illegal for a restaurant or bar to have happy hour. The quotes on the wall at Holy Grounds are so typical of my home state, and I want to roll my eyes every time I see them.

“May the master pour on the love so it fills our lives and splashes over on everyone around you.” 1 Thessalonians 3:12.

I don’t know about anyone else, but if coffee is supposed to stand for love, I don’t want it splashed on everyone. What a fucking mess.

In high school I used to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing when I read those words. Now, as I peer through the front window of the shop, all I see is the chipped paint in the hand-stenciled letters and a hundred memories of me and Jackson and Abigail and everyone else who used to be part of my world.

I stop just inside the doorway to take a deep, appreciative breath. The smell of butter is so thick in the air that I almost swoon. I look longingly at the little pastries lined up in the display case, croissants with glistening tops, muffins studded with cinnamon chips and crumbling brown sugar streusel. The taste of coffee sits on my tongue. But that’s not what I came for.

“Hey,” I call to the barista behind the counter, her eyes glued to her cell phone. She looks young, with her hair scraped into a bouncy blond ponytail and wide eyes rimmed with mascara. I feel a million years old.

The girl looks up from her phone, irritated at the interruption. “Can I help you?” It’s more of a challenge than a question.

“Is Mr. Spence in?”

She heaves a put-upon sigh and walks to the back room. She doesn’t return, but a minute later Spence appears behind the counter, the standard grimace plastered on his face. His low, heavy eyebrows make him look perpetually grumpy. And he usually is.

“Hi Mr. Spence.” I make myself sound as cheerful as I can muster, and I take care to avoid touching the bakery case. If I leave fingerprints it’ll drive him crazy once I’m gone.

“Miss Bloom.” Spence is always sort of formal and crotchety at the same time, a strange amalgam of good manners and silent judgement. “What can I get for you?”

I shift, suddenly nervous. God, is everything in this town going to reduce me to a version of myself that I thought I’d left behind?

“I was actually wondering if you need any help at the shop. I’m back in town for a bit and would love to pick up some hours.”

He eyes me over the counter. “What have you been doing with yourself?” I swear he’s digging for dirt. If he knew the truth that I’m a scandalous girl, living in sin, who got my ass cheated on, he’d probably say it serves me right for being so sacrilegious. Ugh.

“I’m working my way through school,” I lie. When a leave of absence turns into three years, they don’t keep your seat warm anymore.

The truth is, that summer after I kissed Jackson, I ran back to Boston in a hurry. I spent the whole first semester of my sophomore year unraveling, my world splintering apart. At the heart of it was everything left unsaid with Jackson, the fact that when I left him behind I was also leaving one of my best friends, my safety net. But it was more than that, too. Everything in my life felt so unsettled and I felt adrift at school.

When you’re lonely, Boston is a yawning place, full of inky, unforgiving nights that last forever. I wore through two pairs of sneakers in as many months, pacing the streets at night because I couldn’t breathe when I sat inside my cramped dorm room. It wasn’t like I had a chance of sleeping and I didn’t want to look at myself anymore, didn’t want to admit there were tendrils of bitterness strangling out all the familiar parts of me.

By Thanksgiving I had met Matthew and I ran to him with open arms, afraid of what was behind me. Matthew was older and he liked my quirks and the way I chewed the side of my thumb when I was thinking. He liked the way I looked, curled naked in his sheets at night. When he asked me to move in with him, the decision was easy. Rent was cheaper than the dorm room I shared with two other girls, and the sprawling apartment he’d selected made me feel like I was staying in a penthouse in some ritzy hotel. Life with Matthew was an escape from the hole I had started to fall into.

Suddenly my fancy art school seemed so stupid and paralyzing, this endless cycle of pleasing everyone else—waiting for their approval, waiting for good grades—before I could graduate and move on with my life. I realized I didn’t need the degree to start living my life. Here I was with a boyfriend, holding down a job at a coffee shop. I wanted to be a writer, anyway, to do something impossible and too big to hold in my hands. Maybe if I was actually writing a book instead of papers, I’d get somewhere. When I added it all up, another two and a half years of school seemed so unnecessary. I quit and never went back.

Unfortunately, my long-term thinking with that move may not have been so great, because almost every job listing I’ve come across has asked for a college degree. In Swan’s Hollow, I’m probably qualified for about three jobs—cashier at the bookstore, which Abigail has told me is a no-go since they’re fully staffed; bartender at Hooligans, which is out thanks to the staggeringly high odds of seeing Jackson again; and a stint back at my high school employer, Holy Grounds.

Luckily, I can make coffee really, really well. And Spence knows it, too.

“I hired this high school girl and she’s been all over the place with attendance.” Spence cuts his eyes toward the back room. “Are you going to show up on time or are you going to give me trouble?”

If he’s talking behind his barista’s back now—hell, practically in front of her face—what’s he going to say about me? I grit my teeth. “I’ll have perfect attendance, as always. And I’ve been working at a coffee shop in Boston for the past few years so I’m in good practice. I fixed drinks and also ran their online shop.”

“Hmmpfh.” Spence disappears into the back room, emerging a minute later carrying a T-shirt and a key. “You remember how to open the shop?”

I nod. “I do.”

He hands over the shirt and key. “Good. I need you here to open tomorrow.”

I need this job but it feels like failing all the same. A dull sense of dread settles over me, the feeling that I’ve just set something in motion. The feeling that I know what my life will look like not just ten days from now, but also ten years from now, and it’s nothing like what I’ve ever pictured for myself.

“Thanks,” I say, but my shoulders drop. I don’t feel thankful at all.