Just minutes later, still flustered from my exchange with Deputy Tanner, I’m back to window shopping, slowing my stroll since I’ve nearly made it to the final block of town. I almost forgot just how small this place is.

None of the shops are familiar, but an empty storefront with an aged, crooked For Sale sign and a green metal park bench out front catches my eye. Beside it is Creek Canvas, a cute shop I recognize from a flyer I saw back at the tourist center. There’s an easel painted on the window, the words “May Classes Sold Out” scrawled on in a rainbow of colors.

Heart beating fast, I press my face against the glass to find three rows of easels, a long cabinet along the back wall, and a metal desk in the front corner of the room. The lights are off, and I can’t help but imagine what the studio looks like during the day when it’s filled with people, colors, and laughter. A wave of nostalgia passes over me, pushing my thoughts back, deep in time, to one of my first interactions with Jaxon Mills.

 

 

 

I was lost, the woods of a new town still a world of excitement and terror all at once. My parents had warned me to stay close to the cottage, but the further I traveled down the river that passed by my house, the more my curiosity grew.

It was a spotted deer grazing on the tall weeds that caught my eye and had me inching my way deeper into the woods. By the time I realized how far I’d traveled, it was too late. I was lost. Fear filled my lungs as I spun in a circle, kicking up the leaves at my soles as the wind whipped my sleeveless arms. A sob began building in the back of my throat.

There was no way of knowing which direction I was walking, so I’d start in one direction, decide it was wrong, and then turn in another.

After what seemed like hours, I spotted a cottage twice the size of my parents’ place, its front door wide open and rock music streaming from within. Hope bloomed in my chest.

The chaotic guitar riff drowned the sounds of my approach. I prayed there was someone in that cottage. Someone who would be nice enough to help me find my way home or call my parents.

It never occurred to me to be afraid of whatever—whoever—I’d find within those walls, but the moment I crossed the threshold, I knew I shouldn’t be there. Everything about it felt wrong. Losing my way. Wandering into a stranger’s home—uninvited, no less. But I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. Not after I saw him.

The boy was facing a long wall when I spotted him, his arm strokes long and wide. His entire body moved in time to the music like he was the conductor of the grandest orchestra. And just like that his symphony began to spring to life before my eyes.

I must have stood there for a good hour undetected. I wasn’t trying to hide. The boy simply never took his eyes off that wall. Colors masked the space before him, greens and blues, shaded to form the landscape just outside the cottage door.

There was a wide, winding river that seemed to stretch into infinity beneath the trees and wildlife that came to life on the wall. The mural managed to take up the entire space, and I stared in awe at his creation.

The boy with the wild curls didn’t need to face me for me to recognize him. I’d met him and his parents one week before when my family arrived in Balsam Grove. Jaxon Mills was his name. The moment his eyes met mine I understood what it meant to get butterflies. I got them everywhere. In my tummy, in my chest, in my throat, even in my arms and legs.

He wore a beanie on his head, which was odd, considering how sticky hot the air was at the start of summer. The rest of him fit the season. He wore black board shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. We stood a few feet apart, him clueless to the light he’d lit inside me, and me, wide eyes on him, feeling like at any moment I’d begin to fly.

There was only one problem. Jaxon was older. Four years older, to be exact.

Our parents chatted for what seemed like hours. They encouraged him to show me around, so we walked to the French Broad River at the bottom of the hill in our back yard. He skipped rocks. I tried, but because I couldn’t swim and was terrified of drowning, I stayed too far back from the edge of the stream to be successful. There were awkward stares and a string of mumbles in return for the only questions I could think to ask—none of them significant. He never once offered a smile, and words were clearly not his favorite.

Standing in front of his masterpiece one week later, I started to understand him a little bit more. Jaxon didn’t need words to communicate. He only needed art.

The music stopped abruptly, ripping me from my daydream. My eyes turned from the wall, landing on Jaxon’s hard stare and heaving chest. He looked like he’d just run a marathon.

“What are you doing here?” His question boomed, the empty room echoing his words.

“I got lost.” I gestured to the door. “It was open. Is there a phone? I need to call my parents.”

“Your parents told you not to go far from the cottage. How long have you been lost?

“I-I don’t know. A few hours maybe.” My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“You should have stayed close to the stream,” he grumbled.

I nodded and swallowed, hating that this cute boy was lecturing me on how to stay safe. “I didn’t think I went far, but I guess I did.”

“You’re about a mile out.” He sighed heavily. “I can take you home.”

I nodded, thankful despite my humiliation. I watched as he started to clean up his paints and blankets, tossing brushes onto pans. My eyes locked back on the mural. “This is incredible, Jaxon.”

With a huff, he stomped the few feet to his iPod stereo and snatched it from its base. “Yeah, well, take a good look because it won’t be here long.”

“What? Why?” I didn’t understand, but panic stretched through me. His art belonged there. In that space, on that wall.

He tossed a brush onto the drop cloth and swiped at the sweat on his forehead. “Eggshell white. That’s the color I’m supposed to paint it. I was just messing around.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re going to paint over it? No, you can’t.” I was horrified. How could he destroy his own work? It was beautiful. Unique. Any guest would be lucky to have it as part of their stay.

His next glance cut straight through me, so sharp and so cold, I felt it like a swift blade. “I can and I will. Look, I’ll walk you home, and your parents will never need to know you disobeyed them. But you need to promise me two things.”

I waited for his terms, knowing I’d already agreed to them, whatever they were.

“Not a word about my painting. And do what your parents say. You can’t wander off into the woods, Aurora. It’s not safe out here. Even hikers travel in pairs or groups.”

I forced a nod in agreement, grateful for the deal but still not understanding why he had to destroy his creation. If only there was another way he could keep his art. “Of course,” I mumbled in a voice that sounded meek to his boldness. “I promise.”

His expression softened almost immediately, and then he stuffed some things into a bag while storing the rest under the sink in the kitchen. When he was finished, he stood and walked toward the door. “All right, let’s go.”

 

I’m still peering around the studio, trying to make out a piece of unfinished art on an easel at the front of the room, when the ding of a bell followed by the scent of freshly brewed coffee draws my focus to the café next door. Even with the glare of the sun on the window, I can make out a bench seat overlooking the intersection and a long bookshelf beside it.

Yes. Coffee. I’m not sure if a cup will settle my nerves after my run-in with Deputy Dickhead, but it’s sure worth a shot.

The bell dings again as I cross the threshold of Creek Café, a homey coffee shop with a long counter and a glass case filled with mouthwatering baked goods. The café is empty except for a pixie-sized woman with short, bright red hair styled in an angled bob who’s facing the back counter. She swivels at my approach, revealing a large, rounded belly, sparkling blue eyes, and flawless skin. Wow. She’s stunning, and while there’s something about her that sticks out like a sore thumb in this town, she also looks like she’s right where she belongs.

She wipes a spot off the back counter before her big eyes lock on mine. Her entire face lights up. She tosses the rag to the side and clasps her hands in front of her, resting them on her belly. “Well, well. You must be staying awhile.” Her voice is syrupy sweet but strong.

“Um.” I look around to confirm that we’re the only two in the café. We are, so I let out an awkward laugh at her greeting. “Excuse me?”

She nods toward the front window of the café. “I saw you down the street, eyeing the shops, taking your time like you were memorizing everything. We mostly get passersby around here. No one cares to really take in the town, not unless they’re planning to stay awhile.”

She must notice the way my wary eyes examine her as she continues to assess my intentions.

“Out of towners,” she clarifies. “Hikers, campers—they stop for coffee, sometimes stay for a night, then head for the camp sites and hiking trails. No offense, but you don’t look like you’re going hiking anytime soon.” Out of my periphery I see her check out my sandals, khaki shorts, and white blouse. “You just look like you’re planning to stay awhile.”

I press my hands on the counter, considering her words while searching the menu written in chalk above her head. “And you sound like you’ve lived here awhile.”

“You could say that. Five years, in fact. What’s your story?”

“Just moved here.” My eyes flicker to hers, almost expecting her to know who I am. “Not sure how long I’ll be staying, though. Guess it depends how good the coffee is.”

Her laugh is soft and airy, her fair-skinned cheeks now a pinch of pink like she was worried she’d assumed wrong. I return her smile.

“The pressure is on. Pick your poison. Just don’t make me blend anything.” Her face twists. “That shit’s premade and weak. You look like you’re here for the strong stuff, anyway.”

That I am. “Americano. Let me see what you got.”

The barista smiles as she focuses on the metal contraption behind the counter. I know nothing about making coffee, but the tap-tapping of old coffee grounds falling into the trash mesmerizes me. I watch in fascination as she presses a button to grind the beans, simultaneously catching steaming water in a cup. Then she starts the espresso drip.

“Would you like something to eat? There’s a full breakfast menu.” She nods to a container of trifold papers on the counter. “And fresh pastries.” She gestures to the glass container at the other end of the counter.

The woman continues talking, letting me have time to think as she turns a lever and slowly pours the espresso over the hot water.

“You may have seen the bakery across the street,” she explains. “Meg and I have an arrangement. I give her fresh coffee grounds, and she gives me some goodies from her shop every morning. Since you’ll be here for a while, you should stop by and meet her. You’ll probably leave a few pounds heavier, but trust me when I say, it’s worth it.”

She winks as she places a steaming, pale yellow coffee mug on a saucer and slides it to me. She rests her elbows on the counter, leans in to hold her face in her palms, and waits. I stare at the coffee, drinking in the smell before I even taste it. She continues to smile expectantly, confident in her skills. I examine the cup in my hands, enjoying the anticipation on her face before tilting my head. “What is your name?”

She stands, pulling her shoulders back, eyes shining. “Claire. And you are?”

I’ve just put the cup to my lips, but I pull it away to respond. “Aurora.” And then it’s back to my lips, and I’m sipping my first taste of Claire’s Americano. “This is incredible.”

She shrugs, but it’s the joy she’s trying to hide with pinched lips and sparkling eyes that says the most. Claire is every bit as endearing as her café.

“And I’d love a pastry. A chocolate croissant, if you have one.”

Her laughter comes out light and bubbly. “We have one left. It’s all yours.”

“Why the laugh?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. My friend is the only one around here who orders those. Meg makes them special for him. It’s love. What can I say?”

I hold up my hands. “Please, let him have it. I can order something else.”

But Claire’s already moving behind the glass case and reaching inside it for the lonely chocolate croissant. “Nonsense. First come, first served.” My mouth waters as she heats it for a few seconds, then places it on a square dish and slides it in front of me. Moving her hands to her hips, she shrugs. “Besides, there’s more where that came from at Meg’s bakery.”

I unzip my phone wallet. “What’s the damage?”

Claire rings me up, and as she does, I let my eyes wander around the room. The interior walls are alternating white brick and grayish blue sheetrock, the vintage chandeliers a matching blue with crystals dangling on short strings. There’s a living room set up on the other side of the room with plush, blue plaid couches and oversized chairs surrounding a fireplace, and there’s a reading nook beside a bookshelf filled with books and magazines near the front window.

The café is cute and cozy, but it’s not until I look around and see the silver-framed art on the walls that I fall completely in love. A striking painting near me depicts an odd-shaped tree casting shade in the woods. The sunshine peeks through the clouds above a rolling, luscious green landscape. An uphill dirt road rests between a narrow section of tall trees.

This place has captivated the very essence of Balsam Grove. Its rugged coziness, its natural appeal, its earth-soaked tones. But the oil paintings on canvas displayed around the room are where the real stories are told. There’s history here, and I want to immerse myself in all of it.

I don’t even realize I’ve walked a few feet to the nearest wall to examine one of the paintings until my nose is only inches from its intricate lines and vibrant colors. Everything about the art comes to life as my eyes roam over it.

Only one person could have painted this.

“Incredible,” I breathe as a feeling of pride swells in my throat.

“If you stare at that painting any harder, I might make you buy it.”

Claire’s voice makes me jump, transporting me back to the present, back to Balsam Grove and back to Creek Café, which officially has me under its spell.

I’m about to gush to Claire about the painting and ask her who painted the series—not because I don’t know, but because I need to hear it—when her eyes fall to my chest.

“Aurora, oh my God.”

I look down, and it’s only then that I feel the sting of hot coffee seeping through my thin, white cotton blouse and onto my chest. “Oh!” I exclaim. “I didn’t realize…” Looking into the nearly empty cup, I frown. “I’m so sorry. I’ll buy another.”

Claire waves a hand in front of her face. “Absolutely not.” She takes the cup and saucer from my hands and moves back around the counter. “There’s a bathroom over there if you want to clean up.” Her head nods to the other side of the room, near the living room setup. “I’ll have a to-go cup ready when you’re done.” She winks. “Can’t do much damage with those.”

I know better than to argue with kindness. With an apologetic look, I step into the bathroom and flip on the light. I shut the door behind me, then look back at myself in the sink mirror.

For the first time in years, I left the house without a full sheet of makeup on my face. Without eyeliner circling my light blue eyes, without exaggerating my natural pout with my favorite deep rose-colored lipstick, without painting on my eyebrows and layering three thick coats of mascara before curling my long lashes. It’s like I’m staring back at a stranger.

Scott is all about keeping up appearances. Since we often traveled into Raleigh where he works, he expected me to fit in with his crowd. Suited to perfection, makeup a requirement, shiny jewels to complement every look. There was always someone to impress, so there was no such thing as a casual night out.

At first I didn’t mind. It was nice to dress up and enjoy an expensive glass of wine, but when monthly events became weekly events and eventually started slipping into our weekday evenings, I feared this lifestyle was becoming the new norm. I’d already lost so much leaving Balsam Grove. My father getting placed in the institution was the final nail in the coffin. Except I still existed within the tight spaces of that coffin, a thin stream of air tethering me to my old life as I slowly slipped from one world to another.

I appreciated Scott for adopting me into his world without question, for showing me the ropes in a high-class society that embraced me right back. To them, I wasn’t my father’s daughter. I was Scott Turner’s best friend-turned girlfriend. The legal assistant with the sharp style, the beautiful smile, and the stilettos that made me appear five foot four instead of my natural five foot one.

Living with a mask made it easier to be accepted but harder to breathe. No matter how many dresses I tried on, no matter how many smiles I wore, none of it ever felt right.

Is that why I’m here? To feel free from the masks? From the charade? Things with Scott aren’t that bad. He loves me. He takes care of me. For heaven’s sake, we’ve been friends practically our entire lives. That’s got to count for something.

And if I’m being totally honest, part of me misses him, even after only one night of being away. But it’s the him before all the romantic complications that I miss. The friendship. And there’s no going back. He’s already admitted to waiting a decade to make any sort of move with me, which tells me it was never about friendship with him at all. The friendship part was the façade to keep me around in hopes that one day I would feel the same way for him that he feels for me.

Maybe that’s harsh. Everyone wants to be able to fall in love with their best friend. He just wasn’t the one.

Shaking my head, I grab a paper towel and wet it, then pat down my coffee-scented skin. I take my time, thinking and dabbing, quickly giving up on trying to remove the stain from my shirt. Maybe it’s time I shed more than my makeup.

With quick contemplation as I chew on the corner of my bottom lip, I give in. I unbutton my top, peel the stained shirt from my skin, and toss it in the trash, leaving me wearing only my cream camisole that was luckily left unharmed. It’s like I’ve shed a layer of skin, and I’m just now realizing how heavy it was.

For the first time in years, I really breathe—a full inhale that fills my lungs to capacity. Then I exhale.

Away from Durham, I’m finally on my own. No expectations. No responsibilities. I have enough money saved up to take a break and figure my shit out before I’ll need to get a job. I’m going to remember who I was before my future was destroyed and replaced with investigations and courtrooms and conspiracy theories and psychologists.

I’ve come to the right place.

I’m finally ready to exit the bathroom, grab my coffee, and head to the general store when a telephone starts ringing from the front of the café. Claire’s tiny but powerful voice greets the caller. She sees me and waves, looking apologetic and mouthing “I’m sorry” before she slips into the back room.

We could be friends, Claire and me. She’s nice and chatty, but not annoyingly so. Curious, but unobtrusive, and that alone is refreshing.

Suffering from brain trauma came with an extensive care plan I wasn’t prepared for. Years of hospital visits, rehabilitation, and psychiatric evaluations took their toll on me.

So the fewer questions people ask, the better, and I’ll pay them the same respect.

As I wander around the living area of the café, I take in more of the art displayed on the walls: an old, lonely mill with its front door ajar; a red house on a hill with a silhouette in one of the windows; an odd flower after a rain shower; a capsized rowboat wedged between a log and a creek rock.

Each piece captures a simple but unique moment in time, and there’s something breathtaking about that. An untold story with a single focal point, bright and alive, as if it’s proving a history that once existed. It’s proof of life. Of something real.

But out of all the beautiful paintings, it’s the largest one that holds my gaze captive. Just the sight of it framed above the fireplace takes the wind from my lungs.

A familiar bridge sits over a deep and quick-moving river, releasing into the falls below.

Hollow Falls.

I pull in a sharp breath, awakening from my daydream to find myself still immersed in the incredible detail of the art on the wall. I take in every imperfection in the wood, every trace of wear telling the age of the structure. I drown in the smooth water that runs over rock and land beneath the arc that brings movement and thrill to the art.

Hollow Falls is by far the most beautiful waterfall I’ve ever seen—both in real life and on canvas. It’s as if it’s living and breathing right before me. The rapids slamming into rock and running over the lip of the falls. The freefall down into the plunge pool below, creating an explosion of mist and undertow in a powerful collision. It’s as dangerous as it is beautiful. Feared as it is admired.

I’ve never been so afraid of a still object in my life.

And that’s when I realize I’m shaking. But why? The image isn’t a new one. Hollow Falls is where I learned to swim. I spent countless days frolicking in its waters, climbing and jumping from its rocks. But staring back at the canvas now, it’s like I’ve been struck and injured.

I’m still staring at the image when the familiar chime of the door sounds, so muted in the background of my thoughts that I don’t react right away.

My heart recognizes him first and it beats firmly to his approach. With every step, I’m awakened by his presence, just as I was that night I jumped into Hollow Falls and found him drifting there alone.

My chest squeezes as I remember how my world flipped upside down the summer of my fifteenth year, all set to that same backdrop.