Chapter 1

Zuri

The "Welcome to Ivy Falls" sign appears in my headlights, its faded paint and cheerful font unchanged after all these years. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I cross the town line, my heart picking up speed with each familiar landmark that passes by my window.

Main Street stretches before me, the string lights between lamp posts casting a warm glow over the brick buildings. Memories flood back - stolen kisses in doorways, hands intertwined as we window shopped, dreams shared over coffee at Bernie's Diner.

"Get it together, Zuri," I mutter, forcing my eyes to stay focused on the road ahead.

But it's impossible not to see him everywhere. The basketball court where Carter first noticed me practicing my sketches. The wooden bench where we'd share a mint chocolate chip cone from Sally's Ice Cream Parlor, his shoulders shaking with laughter when I got some on my nose.

I slow down as I pass Memorial Park, the old oak trees standing tall and proud over the place where everything began. Carter had been practicing shots at the hockey rink, and I'd been setting up my easel to capture the sunset. He'd skated over, all confidence and charm, asking what I was painting.

The streetlights catch the condensation on my windshield, creating a hazy glow that mirrors the way my memories have softened around the edges. Ten years is a long time, but these streets remember. They remember the way he'd wrap his varsity jacket around my shoulders on cool summer nights. The way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled. The way he made me believe anything was possible.

A car horn snaps me back to reality. I've been idling at a stop sign for too long, lost in the ghost of what used to be. With a shake of my head, I press down on the gas pedal. The familiar storefronts continue their parade - the hardware store where Mr. Johnson still sweeps his sidewalk every morning, the bookshop where I'd spend hours sketching in the window seat, the diner where Carter and I shared our first real date.

Each landmark is a snapshot, a moment frozen in time, when love felt as simple as summer air and promises whispered under starlight.

The familiar winding road leads me past iron gates that guard the Steele family mansion. Even in the darkness, its imposing silhouette stands stark against the night sky, windows gleaming like watchful eyes. My foot eases off the gas pedal, memories washing over me unbidden.

"Young and stupid," I whisper to myself, but the words lack conviction.

The last time I stood in that circular driveway, I was eighteen and clutching a letter - my acceptance to art school in New York. Carter had smiled, told me to chase my dreams. Neither of us knew that smile would be our goodbye.

The mansion shrinks in my rearview mirror. Ten years. A decade of building myself up, of gallery shows and community projects, of trying to prove I made the right choice. And here I am, back where it all began, my bank account as empty as my art studio.

Carter's different now too. I've seen him in magazines, on sports channels - the golden boy of hockey, living up to the Steele legacy that his father built from the ground up. His jawline's sharper, his shoulders broader. But it's his eyes that have changed the most. That playful spark I used to love has been replaced by something harder, more guarded.

My hands grip the steering wheel tighter. What would eighteen-year-old Zuri think of us now? Of the boy who promised forever, then let me walk away? Of the girl who chose her art over first love?

"Stop it," I scold myself, pressing the accelerator. The mansion disappears around the bend, but the questions linger. Did he ever regret not fighting harder? Does he remember how we'd sneak onto the mansion's roof, planning our future under the stars? Does he still hate mushrooms on his pizza, or dance like a complete dork when he thinks no one's watching? Does he even dance anymore?

The ache in my chest deepens. We were supposed to conquer the world together - the hockey star and his artist. Instead, we became strangers with memories.

Tomorrow I start my new job of cleaning houses with Miranda - my best friend from high school who never left Ivy Falls. The same girl who held me when I cried over Carter, who shipped care packages to my tiny New York apartment, who now owns her own cleaning business. My pride stings at needing the work, but my bank account doesn't leave room for ego.

"You can rebuild here," I whisper to myself, echoing the words that convinced me to come back. The New York art scene had chewed me up and spit me out - too many artists, not enough buyers, and rent that kept climbing while my savings dwindled.

I turn onto Maple Drive, where the streetlights flicker just like they used to. My mother's house - my house now - waits at the end of the street. Dark windows stare back at me as I pull into the driveway, the garage door's peeling paint visible even in the dim light.

Mom moved to Florida after Dad died, couldn't stand the memories haunting every corner. I get that now, sitting in my car and staring at the porch where Dad used to read the Sunday paper. Where he'd critique my sketches with that proud smile, telling me I'd make it big someday.

"Some artist I turned out to be," I mutter, grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat as I get out of the car. Fishing for the house keys as I make my way over, my mind drifts on how I can make this place better, cozier, warmer than before. The key sticks in the lock - it always has - and the door groans open to reveal shadows and sheet-covered furniture. Mom left everything exactly as it was, like a time capsule of my childhood.

My footsteps echo through the empty house. Even in the dark, I know every creaky floorboard, every corner where my easel used to stand. This house holds a thousand memories of late-night painting sessions, of Dad's encouragement, of dreams that seemed so certain.

Maybe that's what I need - to remember why I fell in love with art in the first place. Before galleries and critics, before New York's concrete jungle swallowed my creativity whole. Before I started painting what would sell instead of what made my soul sing.

I flip the light switch in the sunroom, and yellow light floods the space. A full-length mirror stands in the corner, draped with an old sheet that slides to the floor with a gentle tug. My reflection stares back - hair in its natural curls today, falling past my shoulders in dark waves that catch the light. The same warm brown skin as my father's, the same hazel eyes that change color depending on how the light strikes them. I touch the mirror's surface, tracing the curve of my athletic frame, wondering if New York's fast pace has added an edge to my features that wasn't there before.

The sunroom stretches before me, windows wrapping around three sides. Perfect natural light. The morning sun will stream in from the east, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. This space has always been meant for creating.

I drop my duffel bag on the floor, the zipper scraping against wood as I pull out my travel kit. My fingers brush over familiar tools - worn brushes with bristles that know my touch, half-used tubes of paint that have followed me from gallery to gallery. The colors speak to me even in their dormant state: cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, ultramarine blue.

"You'd make an incredible studio," I whisper to the empty room. The walls could display works in progress. That corner near the window - perfect for an easel. I could set up a small desk under the south-facing window, spread my sketches across it while watching the seasons change in the garden below.

My hands itch to create something right now, to break open these tubes and let color explode across a canvas. But the room needs work first - cleaning, proper lighting, storage solutions. All things that require money I don't have. The irony doesn't escape me - a room full of potential, just like my career, both waiting for resources to bring them to life.

My stomach growls, interrupting my artistic daydreams. I pull out my phone and tap the familiar Ivy Pizza Palace app - some things never change, even their online ordering system looks exactly the same.

"Large pepperoni, extra cheese," I mumble as I type. "And a bottle of Coke." The total makes me wince, but it's better than trying to grocery shop tonight.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimes. I open the door to find a lanky teenager in a red uniform, his face breaking into recognition.

"No way - Zuri Ellis? You're back in town?"

"Beckham?" I squint at his name tag. "Beckham Reed? No way. Last time I saw you, you were barely tall enough to reach the counter at your dad's shop."

"Yeah, well, summer job and all that." He hands over the pizza box and soda with a grin. "Welcome back to Ivy Falls! Dad's gonna flip when I tell him you're here. He still has that painting you did of the shop hanging behind the register."

"That's... that's really sweet." My throat tightens unexpectedly.

"The whole town's been talking about you coming back. Especially since-" He stops himself, shifting his weight.

Since Carter's here for the off-season. The unspoken words hang between us. My hand tightens on the doorframe.

"Thanks for the delivery, Beckham." I force a smile, handing him a tip.

After he leaves, I sink onto the floor with my pizza, the box warm against my crossed legs. The familiar taste of home comfort does little to settle the knot in my stomach. Carter's here, somewhere in this town, probably at that mansion with its manicured lawns and marble fountains. The same mansion that holds so many memories.

The pizza turns to cardboard in my mouth. How long before we run into each other? Before I have to face those blue eyes that used to look at me like I hung the stars?

Ivy Falls isn't big enough for us to avoid each other forever. And I'm afraid a reunion between us is fast approaching over the horizon.