Chapter 1

Aaliyah

The bus door hisses open with a mechanical wheeze, and I step down onto the cracked pavement of Magnolia Springs' modest terminal. The December air hits me like a slap of reality, sharp and unforgiving against my cheeks. I pull my wool coat tighter, the cashmere blend doing little to ward off the chill that seems to seep straight through to my bones.

"Welcome back to paradise," I mutter under my breath, watching my words form little puffs of vapor that dissipate as quickly as my confidence did three weeks ago.

The terminal hasn't changed much in the five years since I last set foot here. Same chipped concrete, same hand-painted sign that looks like it survived a tornado or two. The only difference is the weight I'm carrying now, not in my luggage, but in the way my shoulders hunch forward like I'm bracing for another blow.

Career scandal. The words taste bitter even in my own mind. Patricia's voice echoes in my head, all fake concern and calculated corporate speak: "Aaliyah, darling, perhaps a little holiday leave would do you some good. Time to... recoup yourself."

Recoup myself. As if I'm some kind of investment gone bad.

The familiar scent of pine and wood smoke drifts past, carrying with it a flood of memories I wasn't prepared for. Suddenly I'm eight years old again, racing through these same streets on my bike, pigtails flying behind me as I tried to outrun Jackson Sullivan and his stupid smirk. The taste of Mrs. Rodriguez's hot chocolate from the corner café. The sound of my grandmother's laughter echoing from the front porch on Christmas morning.

My chest tightens with something that might be homesickness or might just be the altitude change. Hard to tell the difference these days.

I shoulder my duffel bag and start walking toward Main Street, my heels clicking against the sidewalk in a rhythm that feels foreign after weeks of padding around my Atlanta apartment in slippers and self-pity. The town spreads out before me like a postcard someone forgot to update, all charming storefronts and tree-lined streets that probably haven't seen a traffic jam since the Carter administration.

The first thing that catches my eye is the explosion of Christmas decorations adorning every lamppost and storefront window. Garland twisted with twinkling lights winds around the old-fashioned street lamps, while wreaths hang from every door like green sentries standing guard over the holiday spirit. The hardware store has a massive inflatable Santa that waves mechanically at passersby, and even the pharmacy sports a window display featuring dancing reindeer that would make Macy's jealous.

It's aggressively festive. Obnoxiously cheerful. Exactly the kind of in-your-face holiday cheer that makes you want to either burst into song or burst into tears.

I'm leaning toward the latter.

"Get it together, Carter," I whisper, adjusting my grip on the duffel bag. "You're here to heal and reconnect, not to have a mental breakdown in front of the town Christmas tree."

But even as I say it, that familiar voice in my head—the one that's been my constant companion for the past month—starts its relentless commentary. Look at you, running home with your tail between your legs. Thirty years old and moving back in with family because you couldn't handle the big city. What would your colleagues think if they could see you now?

I shake my head, physically trying to dislodge the thoughts. That's exactly the kind of thinking that got me into this mess in the first place. The constant need to prove myself, to be better, faster, more successful than everyone else. The inability to see that sometimes the ladder you're climbing is leaning against the wrong damn wall.

A couple walks past me, bundled up in matching scarves and laughing at some private joke. The woman catches my eye and offers a warm smile, the kind that small towns are famous for. I manage to smile back, though it feels rusty from disuse.

This is what I need. Not the cutthroat world of Atlanta marketing agencies where your best friend will steal your clients and your boss will throw you under the bus faster than you can say "quarterly projections." Just... this. Simple human kindness without ulterior motives.

The wind picks up, sending a cascade of red and gold leaves skittering across my path. I watch them dance for a moment, remembering how I used to jump in leaf piles right here on Main Street, back when my biggest worry was whether I'd finished my math homework or if Jackson would pull my hair during recess.

Simpler times. Before I learned that success comes with a price tag and that sometimes the cost is higher than you're willing to pay.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and for a moment my heart rate spikes. Work emergency. Crisis that needs my immediate attention. Another fire to put out.

But when I check the screen, it's just a text from my mom: "Can't wait to see you, baby girl. Your room is ready and I made your favorite cookies."

The knot in my chest loosens just a fraction. This is why I'm here. Not because I'm running away, but because I'm running toward something. Toward the people who knew me before I became a corporate shark in designer heels. Toward the place where my worth isn't measured in billable hours and client retention rates.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and take a deep breath of the crisp December air. The self-doubt is still there, lurking like a shadow I can't quite shake. But for the first time in weeks, it's not the only thing I feel.

Maybe Patricia was right about one thing. Maybe I do need to recoup myself. Not because I'm broken, but because I forgot who I was underneath all those power suits and late-night strategy sessions.

And maybe, just maybe, Magnolia Springs is exactly where I need to be to remember.

I turn left on Maple Avenue, my feet finding the familiar path toward home without conscious thought. The muscle memory of this route runs deeper than any GPS could navigate, carved into my bones by countless childhood bike rides and teenage walks of shame after missing curfew.

The first landmark that stops me cold is George’s Ice Cream Parlor, its cheerful pink and white striped awning fluttering in the December breeze. Through the frosted windows, I can see the same checkered floor, the same red vinyl booths that probably haven't been reupholstered since the Reagan era. My stomach does a little flip as I remember summer afternoons spent in the corner booth, sharing a chocolate milkshake with Jackson while we argued about everything from baseball statistics to whether aliens existed.

Those were the good days. Before hormones and expectations and the weight of the future complicated everything.

I can almost see us there, fifteen and invincible, our heads bent together over some ridiculous debate. Jackson always ordered vanilla—safe, predictable vanilla—while I went for whatever flavor sounded most exotic. Butter pecan one day, mint chocolate chip the next. He used to tease me about my inability to stick with one thing.

"You're gonna change your mind about that flavor before we finish the shake," he'd say, that crooked grin spreading across his face.

"Maybe I like having options," I'd shoot back. "Not everyone's content with boring old vanilla their whole life."

The irony isn't lost on me now. He was the one who stayed vanilla, stayed safe, stayed in Magnolia Springs. I was the one who chased exotic flavors all the way to Atlanta, only to discover that sometimes vanilla is exactly what you need.

I force myself to keep walking, but the memories follow me like persistent shadows. The old movie theater on the corner still has its vintage marquee, though instead of the latest blockbusters, it's advertising the town's annual Christmas pageant. Jackson and I had our first real date here, watching some forgettable action movie while I pretended not to notice him stealing glances at me in the flickering light.

He'd been so nervous, his palm sweaty when he finally worked up the courage to hold my hand during the opening credits. I'd thought it was adorable then, this confident boy who could command any room suddenly fumbling over simple gestures.

"You sure you want to hold hands with me?" I'd whispered, leaning close enough to smell his cologne—something woody and completely inappropriate for a sixteen-year-old.

"Been wanting to do this for weeks," he'd whispered back, his fingers tightening around mine.

That was Jackson. Bold enough to take over his father's business at twenty-five, confident enough to close million-dollar deals, but turned into a mess whenever feelings got involved.

The park comes into view next, its playground equipment looking smaller than I remember but otherwise unchanged. The swings where we spent countless hours talking about our dreams, our plans, our absolute certainty that we'd conquer the world together. The old oak tree with our initials still faintly visible in the bark, carved during one of those perfect autumn afternoons when the future felt limitless and love felt permanent.

My chest tightens as I remember the last conversation we had on those swings. Senior year, college acceptance letters in hand, the first real crack in our perfect little world.

"Chicago's not that far," Jackson had said, but his voice lacked its usual conviction. "We can make it work."

"Jackson, be realistic." I'd been seventeen and drunk on my own potential, unable to see past the scholarship offers and internship opportunities dancing in my head. "You're staying here to work for your dad. I'm going to study marketing at Northwestern. We're moving in completely different directions."

"So what, you're just gonna throw away three years because of geography?"

The hurt in his voice had cut deeper than I'd expected, but I'd been too proud, too focused on my grand plans to acknowledge it. "I'm not throwing anything away. I'm choosing my future."

"And I'm not part of that future."

It hadn't been a question, and I hadn't answered it like one. The silence that followed had stretched between us like a chasm neither of us knew how to cross.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory as I pass the old high school. The brick facade looks exactly the same, right down to the faded paint on the gym doors where Jackson had cornered me after our homecoming victory, still in his football uniform, grass stains on his jersey and triumph written across his face.

"We did it," he'd said, lifting me off my feet and spinning me around until I was dizzy with laughter and something that felt suspiciously like love.

"You did it," I'd corrected, but I was grinning too wide to sound serious. "I just cheered from the sidelines."

"Best damn cheerleader in the county," he'd murmured against my ear before kissing me senseless against those same gym doors.

God, we'd been so young. So sure that what we had was unbreakable, that love could conquer logistics and dreams could coexist without compromise. It took me years to understand that maybe Jackson had been the smart one, recognizing that some things are worth staying for while I chased shadows halfway across the country.

I wonder if he ever thinks about those days. If he remembers the way we used to finish each other's sentences and steal each other's fries and plan elaborate pranks on our mutual friends. If he remembers the good parts, or if the bitter end overshadowed everything else.

The last I heard through the small-town gossip network, he'd taken over Sullivan Realty completely when his father retired. Probably married some nice local girl by now, maybe has a couple of kids and a golden retriever and a white picket fence that he never felt the need to jump over.

The thought shouldn't sting, but it does. Not because I want that life for myself—I've never been the white picket fence type—but because I threw away my chance to find out what we could have been. Because I was so convinced that staying meant settling, that love meant limitations.

Maybe it does. Maybe Jackson and I were always destined to want different things, to pull in opposite directions until something snapped. But eighteen-year-old me had been so quick to choose ambition over affection, so certain that success meant sacrifice.

Now, walking these same streets with my career in ruins and my confidence shattered, I can't help but wonder if I chose wrong. If Jackson had been the one variable I should have held constant while everything else shifted and changed around us.

The familiar blue shutters of my childhood home come into view, and I force myself to focus on the present. On the warm light glowing in the kitchen window and the promise of my mother's chocolate chip cookies. On the chance to figure out who I am when I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone.

But as I climb the front porch steps, my traitorous heart whispers one last question: Is Jackson Sullivan still the boy I fell in love with, or has he become someone I wouldn't recognize?

And more importantly… do I want to find out?