Archive of Our Own

The bus hummed around them like a big, tired refrigerator on wheels.

Honey-Lou had taken the window, of course. Her forehead rested against the glass, breath fogging a soft oval there every few seconds. Brooklyn sat beside her with her backpack hugged to her knees, one sneaker planted on the floor, the other heel hooked on the metal bar of the seat in front. The two of them were a little island of chatter in a sea of quiet grown-ups and engine noise.

Outside, north Georgia slid past in long strips: pines and billboards, gas stations slumped at exits, those low brick churches with plastic letters on the signs. It was the kind of scenery most people let blur into nothing. For Honey-Lou and Brooklyn, it might as well have been a brand-new country.

“If this bus was a planet,” Honey-Lou said, not bothering with any warm-up, “what kind of weather would it have?”

Brooklyn blinked, because that was how Honey-Lou started half her sentences. Then she tipped her head, considering. “Loud,” she decided. “Windy. And it would always smell like coffee and French fries.”

“And diesel,” Honey-Lou added. She scrunched her nose. “And, like…that air-conditioner smell? Where it’s cold but still kinda sticky?”

“Humid,” Brooklyn supplied.

“Yeah. Planet Humid.” Honey-Lou grinned at the window. “Population: us.”

A woman across the aisle, one of the ones who’d barely looked up from her paperback since Macon, shifted in her seat and glanced over. The girls dropped their voices for a few beats, not whispering exactly, just letting their words tuck closer between them.

It felt a little like being in the back seat again.

On the trips to Knoxville with Mama driving, they’d always ended up just like this: shoulder to shoulder, trading the window back and forth, filling four hours of road with pointless-but-not-pointless conversations. When it was Daddy at the wheel instead—his steady hands at ten and two, country station low on the radio—they did the same thing, only with his quiet laugh drifting back sometimes when he caught a piece of whatever yarn they were spinning.

Now, the driver was a stranger in a navy shirt and a cap that said GREYHOUND in peeling letters. Missy was somewhere many miles behind them, in a kitchen instead of a driver’s seat. Pat was a whole other state away.

But the conversation—that part stayed the same.

Honey-Lou lifted her hand and traced an invisible line along the window with the edge of her pinky, following the guardrail curving away from the road. “This is, like, the neck,” she said.

Brooklyn squinted at her. “The neck of what?”

“The map.” Honey-Lou's voice warmed; she sounded like she did standing in front of their wall at home, explaining a new cluster of pins to Missy. “Georgia’s the shoulder, remember? Ohio’s up here—” she tapped higher on the glass, where only sky showed—“and Texas is way out by the elbow, like it’s waving. This is the neck part that connects us to everything else.”

Brooklyn considered that. The bus rattled gently, a little shimmy whenever they hit a seam in the road. “I thought the neck was the bit above Atlanta,” she said. “’Cause that’s where all the traffic gets choked.”

Honey-Lou let out a soft giggle, eyes still fixed on the trees. “Okay, yeah, that’s good. This is, like…pre-neck. The chin line.”

“The jaw,” Brooklyn smiled at herself. “We’re riding the jaw. Welcome aboard the Jaw Line Express. Please keep your arms and legs inside at all times.”

The older man in the seat in front of them twitched, glanced back once, then went right back to staring out at the shoulder of the road like he’d been born unimpressed.

Holly faced the little café counter elbows on the tiny table, both hands wrapped around a cardboard cup that had long since stopped steaming. Behind her, the indoor world hummed—fountain, footsteps, distant squeals from the toy store—but she’d picked this seat because it gave her something to do: watch the espresso machine, read and reread the chalkboard menu, pretend she wasn’t waiting as hard as she was.

Two girls, both slight and travel-creased, moving through the mall with that mix of excitement and overwhelm that made them look like they were walking on a moving sidewalk nobody else could see. One with a dark red ponytail that had mostly given up and frayed into curls around her face; the other with lighter hair that was trying to be neat and failing under the weight of a long day.

They were looking everywhere at once.

The Huntsville mall wasn’t much, if you’d grown up in it. Holly had gone to this very café a hundred times. She knew every tile on the floor, every plastic fern, every neon sign that buzzed a little too loudly.

But watching these two, she saw it differently for a moment: skylights, fountain, the echoing murmur of voices, the smell of pretzels and coffee blending into something almost…festive. Like a little airport that never went anywhere.

Her cardboard sign was draped over the back of her chair, pen-sketched block letters facing the concourse:

BROOKLYN
HONEY-LOU

She’d refused to stand in the middle of the walkway holding it up like a limo driver, no matter how funny Florence thought that would be. “I’ll put it on the chair,” she’d said. “They’ll spot it.”

And now they had.

The darker-haired girl—slowed first, hand landing on her cousin’s sleeve. Honey-Lou almost walked past, then wheeled back, eyes going huge at the sight of their names.

“Oh my gosh,” Holly heard through the café’s low hum, “Brook, look, that’s us, we’re on furniture.”

Holly had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. On furniture. Well. Close enough.

They both leaned in, reading it as if it might say more if they stared harder. Then, together, they lifted their heads and looked around in the same direction, like a pair of homing pigeons finally finding their mark.
She stood, one hand resting on the top of the chair so the sign didn’t slide off. Up close, the girls looked even younger than Holly had imagined. Fourteen and fifteen had sounded almost grown on the phone; in person, with bus hair and mismatched bracelets and too-big sneakers, they were still very much kids.

“Brooklyn?” Holly called, stepping out from the table.

Both heads whipped toward her.

Brooklyn’s face lit up first. Honey-Lou’s followed a half-second later, just as bright, like someone turning on twin lamps.

“Holly?” Brooklyn ventured, already half-smiling.

“That’s me.” Holly took a step closer, suddenly aware of her own outfit—jeans, pale blue t-shirt, light cardigan—hoping she looked more like a responsible cousin.

Honey-Lou inhaled like she’d just seen a celebrity. “Oh! My gosh,” she gushed, rounding the table in three quick steps. “You do look like her.”

Holly blinked. “Like who?”

“Belinda Carlisle,” Brooklyn said, almost on top of her friend’s words, as if they’d rehearsed this. “We said if you looked like Belinda Carlisle we’d know it was you.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou chimed in. “Mama said you were real pretty but she didn’t say you were, like, actually Heaven.”

The compliment landed with a weird, warm thud in Holly’s chest.

Belinda Carlisle. Holly had worn out her tape of Heaven on Earth, lying on her bedroom carpet with well worn headphones digging into her ears.

“Wow,” Holly said, laughing, because the alternative was blushing too hard to speak. “I am absolutely taking that. Highest possible praise. C’mere.”

She opened her arms and that was all the invitation they needed.

They crashed into her—first Honey-Lou, springy and warm and smelling faintly of bus air and cherry lip gloss, then Brooklyn, more hesitant but hugging tighter once she committed. For a moment, Holly was all arms and backpacks and tangled hair and the odd shape of three people trying to fit into one hug.

“You made it,” she heard herself say into Honey-Lou’s hair. “God, I’m so glad you made it.”

“Twice,” Honey-Lou declared when they pulled back, breathless. “We made it here and we made it not dying.”

Brooklyn snorted. “It was just one sharp turn, Honey-Lou. The luggage didn’t even fall.”

“It wobbled,” Honey-Lou insisted, eyes wide. “It was very near-deaf experience.”

“Hi.” She refocused on Holly again, as if seeing her anew. “You’re even prettier in…human.”

Holly clapped a hand over her mouth, then dropped it, laughing at the earnestness in that slightly wrong word. “Thank you,” she said. “You two are…wow. Look at you. Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn ducked her head, cheeks pinking. “Yeah. Hi.”

“And Honey-Lou,” Holly added, making sure to hit the hyphen the way Florence had. “All one big name, no spaces, right?”

“Yes!” Honey-Lou beamed, delighted she’d got it right. “Most people think it’s a first name and a middle name but it’s, like, joined.

Can we sit here? Is this our…landing strip?”

“Yeah, this is your gate,” Holly said, playing along. “Arrivals and departures. Park yourselves.”

She scooped the sign off the chair and folded it in half, smoothing the crease with her palm before tucking it under her tote. They dumped their backpacks in a heap by the spare seat, the contents clinking and rustling: water bottles, snack wrappers, a distant rattle of something that might be loose coins or illicit Skittles.

Honey-Lou flopped into the chair opposite Holly, then immediately bounced back up a couple of inches and tried to sit up straighter, like she’d remembered halfway through that she was trying to make a good impression. Brooklyn sat more carefully, palms flat on her knees, eyes flicking around the café.

“It’s so fancy,” she said quietly.

Holly looked around. The café had plastic chairs with fake-wood seats, a screaming espresso machine, and a chalkboard advertising NEW! MOCHA BLAST! in a handwriting style that could charitably be called enthusiastic.

“Yeah,” Holly said. “Very high-end.”

“It’s got a fountain,” Honey-Lou said, pointing out toward the mall’s main atrium, where the tiled pool burbled under a skylight. “That’s, like…European.”

“World travelers,” Holly agreed. “That’s us.”

She caught herself. Had to remember not to say us like they’d always been a trio. To them, she was brand-new.

Don’t give them a script, Mama had said last night, resting her cheek on her knuckles at the kitchen table. Let them make up their own minds about you. I’ve already made up mine.

“What did your Mama tell you?” Brooklyn asked suddenly, as if reading Holly’s thoughts. “About us. Was it…good stuff?”

Honey-Lou leaned forward, eyes bright and intent. “Yeah, did she say we were a handful? ‘Cause that’s a compliment where we’re from.”

The question warmed Holly in a different way—something softer, more careful. Emotional radar, Florence had called it once. Those girls have it like you wouldn’t believe, Hol. They’ll know if you’re faking anything.

“She said,” Holly began, fiddling with the paper sleeve on her coffee cup, “that you’re the sweetest kids in three states. And that you know more about interstates than anyone she’s ever met.”

“In three states is a lot of states,” Brooklyn said. “That’s, like, a third of the South.”

Holly considered correcting that, then didn’t. “She also said,” she added, “that you make the best maps she’s ever seen. And that your mama loves you more than anything on the planet, even her casserole dishes.”

Both girls immediately went soft around the edges at that, their post-bus bravado melting into something fragile and proud.

“She didn’t want me to tell you everything, though,” Holly said, hearing Florence’s voice again. Let me not steal their thunder; let them talk. “She wanted me to introduce myself like a normal person and not, quote, ‘frontload the narrative.’”

Brooklyn squinted. “Frontload the what now?”

“It means talking too much at the start,” Honey-Lou said confidently. “Like when Pastor Joe does his whole life story before the sermon and you forget what the sermon was.”

“That is…exactly it,” Holly said, impressed. “So I’m trying not to Pastor Joe you.”

“You’re doing good,” Honey-Lou assured her.

A server drifted past, refilling coffee cups. Holly nodded toward the counter. “You two want anything? There’s sandwiches, muffins, scary neon pastries…”

“Oooh,” Honey-Lou said, half-rising from her chair to see the display case. “Can we share a muffin? Brook, we should share, that’s economical. It’s…eco-cheaper.”

Holly covered her mouth again, but the smile still escaped into her eyes. “Muffin it is,” she said. “And something to drink. You must be thirsty.”

“We’re very hydrationed,” Brooklyn agreed.

Holly got in line at the counter, leaving them briefly alone at the table. She could hear them behind her, voices overlapping in that rolling cousin rhythm, marvelling at the mall’s ceiling (“It’s like if a greenhouse and a spaceship had a baby”) and the way the fountain sparkled under the skylight (“That water looks rich”).

As she waited for the muffin and two lemonades, her own nerves finally started to unspool. Florence had adored these girls sight unseen, just from Missy’s letters and calls. Holly had worried, secretly, about not matching that level of instant, bone-deep affection.

But watching them press closer together to make room for her when she came back, seeing the way they automatically divided the muffin into three instead of two, she felt something settle inside her.

They were a little dizzy, a little tangled with their words, a little overwhelmed by the small bigness of a Huntsville mall.
They were also watching her with soft, clear eyes that missed absolutely nothing.

“Okay,” Holly said, sitting back down and pushing a lemonade toward each of them. “Welcome to Huntsville. After this, I’m supposed to give you the grand tour.”

“Of the whole city?” Honey-Lou asked, awestruck.

Brooklyn grinned. “We’re gonna need a bigger map.”

“We’ll start and then see how much map you want to fill in.”

Honey-Lou picked up her lemonade and raised it like a champagne glass. “To Belinda Carlisle,” she declared.

Brooklyn lifted hers too.

Holly clinked her paper cup against theirs, feeling Mama’s invisible hand in the gesture.

They laughed, bright and easy, the sound rising up toward the skylight and mingling with the fountain’s steady rush—three new points on the map, finally meeting where all their lines had been trying to lead.

Christina showed up the way she always did—like the room had just quietly improved.

Holly saw her through the gap between two fake ferns: coming off the escalator in her work clothes, tote bag on one shoulder, ID badge swinging against her chest. Hair pinned back for the day, a little frizz at her temples from the Alabama humidity, eyes already searching the café.

Holly lifted her hand.

Christina spotted her, smiled that soft, lopsided smile that always went straight through Holly, and wove her way past the fountain and the pretzel stand toward their table.

“Okay,” Holly murmured to the girls, suddenly aware of how close they were pressed around the table. “Incoming wife on lunch break.”

Both cousins looked up at once.

Honey-Lou straightened so fast she nearly knocked her lemonade over. Brooklyn sat even more still, attention sharpening in a way Holly had already started to recognize—quiet, focused, like she was collecting everything and tucking it somewhere safe.

“Holly,” Christina called lightly as she reached them, “your security detail at the door is very impressive.”

She leaned down, brushed her fingers over Holly’s shoulder in greeting, then rested her hand there, warm and easy. No kiss, not here, not with the lunch crowd and the Huntsville gossip machine always somewhere in the background—but the touch was enough. It said everything it needed to say.

Holly felt her own shoulders drop half an inch.

“Hey, you,” she said, looking up at her. “You found us.”

“Well, it helps when someone’s hung a giant sign,” Christina said, eyeing the folded cardboard on the table. Then she turned her attention properly to the girls. “You must be my famous travelers.”

Honey-Lou made a tiny squeaking sound, then blurted, “You’re so nice-looking,” like it had escaped by accident.

Brooklyn, to Holly’s surprise, nodded earnestly. “You look like you’re in charge of stuff,” she added. “But in a good way. Like a favourite teacher who lets you redo your homework.”

Christina’s eyes crinkled. “That might be the best introduction I’ve ever gotten.” She shifted her tote higher on her shoulder. “Can I sit?”

“Yeah! Yes.” Holly scooted automatically toward the middle of the bench, and Honey-Lou slid without being asked, plastering herself right up against Holly’s side as if proximity might help her hear every syllable better.

Brooklyn, seeing where Christina was going to land, tugged a spare chair around so it ended up closest to Christina’s elbow. When Christina sat, Brooklyn’s knee almost brushed against hers—close enough that, once everyone settled, Holly saw Brooklyn inch just that fraction nearer, like she’d found a little patch of warm sunlight and meant to keep it.

“Christina,” Holly said, trying to do this properly, “this is Honey-Lou and Brooklyn. Missy’s girl and Pat’s. Honey-Lou, Brooklyn—my wife, Christina.”

“We know,” Honey-Lou said, eyes wide with delighted disbelief. “You’re the wife-wife.”

“The famous wife,” Brooklyn clarified helpfully. “We heard about you on the telephone a bunch of times. Mama said you’re a—” She stopped, brow scrunching, fishing for the word. “An anchor person.”

Holly narrowed her eyes, amused. “Anchor?”

“Like on the news,” Honey-Lou whispered to her, as if explaining. “The one who keeps everyone in their chairs.”

“Oh,” Christina said, catching on. “You mean anchor as in…holding things steady?”

“Yes! That.” Brooklyn snapped her fingers softly. “Stability person.”

“I will accept ‘stability person,’” Christina said gravely, then laughed. “For the record, I’m very boring. I just do my job and make sure your cousin remembers to eat dinner like a human being.”

“She does not,” Holly muttered.

Christina patted her shoulder. “See? Needs supervision.”

The girls dissolved into giggles, quick and high and completely unselfconscious. It hit Holly all at once how natural it looked: Honey-Lou leaning so closely into her that their arms were sharing warmth, Brooklyn turned half-sideways toward Christina, shoes hooked around the chair legs, watching the two women with that keen, gentle interest.

If you didn’t know better, Holly thought, if you just walked by this table, you’d think: teacher and her wife having lunch with two students who adore them.

“So,” Christina said, folding her hands on the table, “how was the journey? Any disasters?”

“Oh, we almost died,” Honey-Lou announced cheerfully. “But not, like, actually literally.”

“There was a wobble,” Brooklyn confirmed. “The bus did a yo-yo.”

“A…yo-yo,” Christina repeated, mouth twitching.

“Like, it went whoop,” Honey-Lou demonstrated, tipping her hand in a sudden lurching motion, “and we went, ‘This is it, tell Mama we love her,’ but then it didn’t crash and we just laughed instead.”

Christina’s eyebrows climbed, but her eyes were warm. “Well, I’m glad you survived the whoop.”

“We had a muffin,” Brooklyn added seriously, as if this explained the whole thing. “It was very economized.”

Holly bit back a smile.

“Economical,” Christina said gently.

“Yeah,” Brooklyn nodded, unbothered. “That one. Very that.”

Christina shot Holly a quick look that said God, they’re adorable without actually saying it. Holly felt something swell in her chest—pride, affection, relief. This was what Florence had meant; there was no adjustment period, no awkwardness. The girls had folded Christina into their sense of safety in the time it took for her to sit down.

“You two okay on time?” Christina asked. “I don’t want to hijack your whole afternoon.”

“We’re fine,” Holly said. “You’ve got—what, forty minutes?”

“Thirty, now,” Christina said, glancing at her watch. “But I wanted to say hi before your grandma steals all your attention tonight.”

“She’s not our grandma,” Honey-Lou said automatically, then paused. “She’s our Flo.”

“Grand-Flo,” Brooklyn suggested, delighted with herself. “Like a superhero name.”

Christina laughed outright. “I am absolutely telling her that.”

“Is she excited?” Honey-Lou asked, eyes suddenly serious, the way they got when she was asking something that mattered more than it sounded. “Mama said she was excited but Mama says that about everything, even new brooms.”

“She’s really excited,” Christina said, and Holly could hear the truth in her tone. “She’s been making lists. And extra lists for her lists. There are charts on our fridge.”

“Charts?” Brooklyn repeated, awed. “Like the weather?”

“Meal charts,” Holly said. “Sleeping charts. ‘Which Cousin Likes Which Breakfast’ charts.”

“We like all breakfast,” Honey-Lou said instantly. “You can just put ‘yes’.”

Christina smiled at that and reached for her tote bag. “Actually, I brought something for you two, before I forgot.”

She pulled out a small spiral notebook and a pack of coloured pens still in their crinkly plastic. The notebook had a simple cover—a world map pattern, slightly faded.

“I saw this at the office supply store and thought of you,” she said, sliding it onto the table. “Figured you might want a travel log. For this trip. Or…for all of them.”

Honey-Lou made a noise Holly had only ever heard previously in the presence of baby animals. She scooped the notebook up like it was made of spun sugar.

“It’s a globe book,” she breathed. “Brook, look, it’s got the whole…earth on it.”

“The whole earth,” Brooklyn echoed reverently, fingertips brushing the edge. “We can write down all the jaws.”

Christina blinked. “Jaws?”

“Roads,” Holly said quickly. “Long story. I’ll explain later.”

“Oh,” Christina said, like that made perfect sense. “Of course. The jaws.”

“We can put stickers,” Honey-Lou was saying, already halfway into planning mode. “And draw arrows. And write…what’s it called when you write about journeys? A travelogue? Or is that French?”

“It’s probably French,” Brooklyn said. “Most fancy words are.”

“You can call it whatever you want,” Christina told them. “It’s yours.”

Brooklyn looked up at her then, really looked, eyes wide and searching, as if she were trying to line up the outline of this woman with all the stories she’d heard over the phone lines and in kitchen retellings.

“You feel like Ms. LaGrange,” she said finally.

Christina tilted her head. “Should I be flattered?”

“She’s our favourite teacher,” Honey-Lou explained. “She does English and lets us read grown-up books as long as we don’t tell the other teachers. One time she brought us donuts ’cause the whole class was ‘academically stressed.’”

“She says that’s a real condition,” Brooklyn added.

“It kind of is,” Christina mused. “I think I like Ms. LaGrange.”

“But you also feel like…” Brooklyn’s hand floated up, then down again as she searched for the right thing. “…like if we had a big sister that was already invented.”

Holly felt that one land somewhere deep, a little ache and a little warmth entangled.

Christina’s face softened. “I can work with that,” she said quietly. “Favourite teacher, already-invented big sister. That’s a pretty good job description.”

The girls both smiled, and just like that, the air around the table shifted—lighter, closer. Holly could almost see the moment their internal map redrew itself: this is Holly, this is Christina; these are safe people; this is home-adjacent.

A cluster of office workers drifted past, chattering, the fountain splashed on. Christina checked her watch again and sighed. “I should head back in a minute,” she said. “Before my boss decides I eloped with the food court.”

“We’re sorry you have to go work,” Honey-Lou said sincerely. “Jobs seem very…time-consumptive.”

“They are,” Christina agreed dryly. “But they also pay for muffins.”

Brooklyn brightened. “Oh, then they’re good. We like muffins.”

Christina pushed her chair back and stood, slinging the tote over her shoulder again. For a heartbeat she rested her hand on the back of Holly’s neck in that absent, familiar way she had when they passed each other in the kitchen.

“Don’t let her drag you all over creation today,” she told the girls, mock-stern. “If you get tired, you can say so. She forgets sometimes that not everyone runs on endless coffee.”

“We run on sugar,” Honey-Lou assured her.

“And maps,” Brooklyn added.

“And hugs,” Honey-Lou said, then colored a little, but didn’t take it back.

“That’s an excellent fuel mix,” Christina said. “We’ve got plenty of that at the house.”

She hesitated a second, then opened her arms. “Can I…?”

She didn’t have to finish. They were up like they’d been spring-loaded, one on each side of her, tucking themselves into the hug without a trace of shyness. Holly watched Christina’s expression go briefly astonished, then soft as she wrapped them both up, one hand cradling the back of Honey-Lou’s head, the other resting lightly between Brooklyn’s shoulders.

“Welcome to Alabama,” Christina murmured into their hair. “We’re really glad you’re here.”

When she let them go, Brooklyn looked steadier somehow, like the inside of her had settled. Honey-Lou immediately scooted back to reclaim her place mashed against Holly’s side, as if confirming loyalties: this cousin, this wife, these people, this team.

Christina gave Holly one last look, the kind that carried whole conversations. You okay? / I’m okay. / They’re wonderful. / I know.

“See you tonight,” she said.

“Drive safe,” Holly replied automatically, even though Christina was just crossing the mall back to work.

They watched her go—Brooklyn leaning forward slightly in her chair, eyes tracking Christina until she disappeared into the crowd; Honey-Lou half-waving with her fingers.

“She does feel like Ms. LaGrange,” Honey-Lou said at last. “But with less staplers.”

“And more hugs,” Brooklyn said.

Holly smiled into her coffee cup. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s her.”

Honey-Lou pressed closer, clutching the globe-covered notebook to her chest. Brooklyn laid her palm flat on the table where Christina’s had been a minute before, like she could still feel the residual warmth.

Around them, the mall kept doing what malls did—fountain, footsteps, distant announcements—but Holly’s world had narrowed, pleasantly, to this small square of table. Two bright-eyed adventurers, one folded map of a notebook, and the faint echo of Christina’s laugh still hanging in the air like a promise.

Target smelled like popcorn, laundry detergent, and possibility.

The anchor store opened right off the mall concourse, all bright white floors and red signs. As the doors whooshed shut behind them, Honey-Lou inhaled deeply, like the air itself had changed.

“It’s like…America inside America,” she whispered, eyes wide, turning in a slow circle.

Brooklyn nudged her shoulder, just as awed, fingers curled around the handle of a red shopping cart. “It’s like if a grocery store and a toy box had a baby,” she murmured.

Holly smiled, the tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying easing a little more. This was familiar territory: the big red bullseye, the aisles she could navigate half-asleep. Out there was hosting and new relatives and emotions. In here, it was shampoo aisle left, cereal aisle right, and the freezer section always too cold.

“Okay, explorers,” she said, taking hold of the cart beside Brooklyn. “You wanna help me get groceries for tonight?”

Both girls snapped to attention, like someone had just called roll.

“Yes, ma’am,” Brooklyn said earnestly. “We’re good at it. Mama let us do more kitchen stuff now.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou added quickly. “We been learning. We do chopping and stirring and…heat management.” She nodded, very serious. “We can cook good. We promise.”

Holly felt a sudden, fierce pang of fondness for Missy—imagining her in their kitchen back home, handing over knives and wooden spoons and warning them about fingers near hot pans.

“I believe you,” Holly said. And she did. Even just the way they talked about it, careful and proud, made it sound real. “How about you cook for us tonight, actually?”

Two pairs of eyes went round.

“You mean like…” Brooklyn’s hand tightened on the cart handle. “Cook-cook? For everyone?”

“If you want to,” Holly said. “You don’t have to. But I’d love it.”

Honey-Lou clapped both hands over her mouth, muffling a squeak. “We can make Mama food,” she said from behind her fingers. “So it’s like…she’s here.”

“That’s the idea,” Holly said softly. “You can show us what she’s been teaching you.”

Brooklyn looked at Honey-Lou, and the look they traded—sparkly, nervous, thrilled—made the decision for them.

“Okay,” Brooklyn said, shoulders settling like she’d just accepted an assignment. “We wanna. What do we make?”

Holly thought for a second, scanning mental recipe cards. Something simple enough not to stress them, fun enough to feel like a “real” dish, solid enough to feed Florence and Christina too.

“How do you feel about pasta carbonara?” she asked. “Eggs, bacon, cheese, black pepper. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Carba…nara,” Honey-Lou repeated carefully, tasting the word. “That sounds fancy.”

“It’s really not,” Holly said. “It just sounds like it went to college.”

Brooklyn’s eyes lit up. “We did eggs and noodles once,” she said. “Mama called it ‘cheater pasta’ ’cause we put the eggs in wrong, but it still tasted good.”

“So you’re halfway there,” Holly said. “We’ll do the grown-up version. I’ll be your assistant.”

“We get an assistant?” Honey-Lou whispered, delighted. “We’re like restaurant people.”

“Exactly,” Holly said. “Okay, chefs. If we’re making carbonara, what’s the first thing we need?”

“Pasta,” Brooklyn said instantly.

“Eggs,” Honey-Lou said at the same time.

Holly laughed under her breath. “Good news—you’re both right. Where do you think we’d find the pasta?”

They all looked down the main aisle. Signs hung from the ceiling, each with little words and tiny pictures.

Brooklyn squinted. “Umm…snacks, soup, condiments…that one says ‘pasta & sauce.’ There.” She pointed slightly too far to the left, then adjusted. “No, that one. Near the…can things.”

“See?” Holly said. “You’re naturals.”

They started toward the aisle, Holly letting the girls push the cart together. Honey-Lou held the side, Brooklyn the front, and somehow they made it go in a mostly straight line, weaving around other carts and a couple arguing gently about which cereal counted as healthy.

When they turned into the pasta row, Honey-Lou actually stopped walking for a second.

“It’s a noodle library,” she breathed.

Boxes and bags lined the shelves in tidy rows: spaghetti, penne, rigatoni, spirals, elbows. The girls stepped closer like they’d walked into a cathedral.

“Which one does the…carbon thing?” Brooklyn asked, frowning at a box of fettuccine.

“Carbonara,” Holly said. “Usually spaghetti. Long noodles.”

“Like at home,” Honey-Lou said quickly, reaching for the familiar. “Mama says long noodles make the dinner feel more serious.”

“Serious how?” Holly asked, curious.

“Like…a ceremony,” Brooklyn said slowly. “’Cause you gotta twirl it. It takes longer. So you got more talking time.”

That…actually made sense.

“Spaghetti it is, then,” Holly said. “Pick one.”

They took the responsibility seriously, scanning brands and prices. Holly watched them consult in low, urgent whispers.

“This one’s ninety-nine,” Honey-Lou murmured. “But this one has a little picture of an Italy flag. That seems official.”

“Official is good,” Brooklyn said firmly. “Let’s get Italy.”

They placed a box of spaghetti reverently in the cart, like they were putting down treasure.

“Okay,” Holly said. “What else do we need?”

“Eggs,” Honey-Lou said again. “The sauce is eggy, right? Not…saucy sauce.”

“Right,” Holly said. “Eggs next. Where do we find those?”

Both girls pointed in the same direction this time, toward the glowing back wall where refrigerated doors shone under bright lights.

“Cold stuff,” Brooklyn said.

“Arctic aisle,” Honey-Lou added with a shiver. “We always go there last ’cause Mama says eggs don’t like the hot car.”

“You’re smart to listen to her,” Holly said. “Let’s go make the eggs happy.”

They rolled the cart back out and toward the coolers. On the way, they passed cereal.

“Ohh,” Honey-Lou whispered. “They have the marshmallow kind.”

“Focus,” Brooklyn reminded her gently, but her own gaze lingered on a bright blue box for a beat too long.

Holly made a mental note. Cereals tomorrow. No reason they couldn’t have a fun breakfast while they were here.

At the refrigerated case, cool air spilled out when Holly opened the door. Rows of egg cartons waited inside, with different labels and sizes.

“Okay,” Holly said, crouching a little so she was closer to eyelevel. “What kind does Mama buy?”

“Large,” Brooklyn said, scanning. “She says medium eggs are, like, lying. They’re just small eggs that got PR.”

Holly laughed, then caught herself. “Large it is, then.” She nodded at the lower shelf. “You wanna check them?”

“We know this,” Honey-Lou said proudly.

She picked up a carton with both hands, cradling it like something fragile. Brooklyn opened it carefully. Together they inspected the eggs, turning the carton slightly to see every row.

“No crackies,” Honey-Lou reported. “They’re all…intact.”

“Good job,” Holly said. “Into the cart they go.”

Brooklyn settled them gently on top of the pasta, adjusting a bag of chips out of the way to make a little nest.

“What’s next?” she asked, looking to Holly.

“Bacon,” Holly said. “Or pancetta, if we wanna get fancy. It’s like bacon’s Italian cousin.”

“We like cousins,” Honey-Lou said warmly. “Lead us to the cousin meat.”

They headed for the chilled meat section. Holly steered this time, letting them walk on either side, hands drifting along the shelves as they passed. Their heads turned constantly, soaking in everything—labels, colors, the way people moved around each other.

“Bacon,” Brooklyn said softly when they reached it, as if greeting an old friend.

There were a dozen varieties. Thick-cut, hickory-smoked, maple, low-sodium, turkey.

“Which kind do you use?” Honey-Lou asked.

“Usually just regular,” Holly said. “Not too sweet. Not too salty. Goldilocks bacon.”

Brooklyn considered the options, then picked up a package in the middle row. “This one says applewood,” she read carefully. “That sounds…friendly.”

“It is pretty friendly,” Holly agreed. “And it’ll taste good in the pasta.”

They added it to the cart like another puzzle piece.

“Cheese,” Holly prompted gently. “Carbonara needs cheese.”

“Parma…san,” Honey-Lou said, pronouncing each syllable like a spell. “Mama buys the kind in the green shaker.”

“We’ll get some of that,” Holly said. “And a block, if they have it. Fresh grated is nice.”

“Grated,” Brooklyn echoed. “That’s the one where you rub it on the sharp thing.”

“Exactly.”

They found the cheese aisle—slices, shreds, plastic tubs—and a small refrigerated case with blocks of parmesan, hard and pale and slightly mysterious.

Honey-Lou reached for one, then hesitated. “Is this expensive?” she asked, glancing at the price tag.

“A little,” Holly admitted. “But it’s okay. This is a special dinner.”

The girls exchanged a look that said they did not take “special dinner” lightly.

“We’ll use it real good,” Brooklyn said seriously. “We won’t waste it.”

“I know you won’t,” Holly said.

They added a shaker can too, placed side by side like cousins.

“Anything else?” Brooklyn asked, mentally ticking off items on invisible fingers. “We got noodles, eggs, cousin meat, cheeses…”

“Black pepper,” Holly said. “And we’ll grab some garlic, even though real carbonara usually doesn’t. I like rubbing a clove in the pan, for flavor.”

Honey-Lou’s eyes went dreamy. “Garlic smells like…everything’s okay.”

They made their way to the spice aisle. Glass and plastic jars lined the shelves, a miniature city of labels and colors.

“Okay.” Holly scanned quickly until she found the pepper. “We need this one.”

Brooklyn lifted the small grinder bottle, turning it in her hand. “Freshly grounded,” she read aloud, then frowned faintly. “Is it…grounded like when you get in trouble?”

“Kind of,” Holly said, smiling. “It means they’ve crushed the peppercorns up. But this one lets you do it yourself when you cook.”

“So we do the trouble,” Honey-Lou said. “We’re the grounders.”

“Exactly,” Holly said.

They picked up a head of garlic in produce—Honey-Lou cradling it like a tiny moon—and a bunch of parsley, just because it looked bright and fresh and Holly liked having something green to sprinkle on top of rich food.

By the time they looped back toward the front of the store, the cart held their carbonara ingredients nestled among a few other things Holly had grabbed while they wandered: milk, bread, a bag of salad, Florence’s favorite tea.

The more practical additions didn’t dim the shine in the girls’ faces.

“We got everything for the carba…” Brooklyn began.

“Carb-a-nora,” Honey-Lou supplied confidently.

“Yeah,” Brooklyn said, accepting it without question. “The pasta thing. We’re gonna make dinner.”

“In another state,” Honey-Lou added, the idea clearly huge in her mind. “With grocery food we bought ourselves. That’s so…”

She trailed off, casting around.

“…real,” Brooklyn finished softly.

Holly felt her throat tighten.

“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”

She slowed the cart a little, letting them walk half a step ahead down the last stretch toward the registers. Honey-Lou’s hand brushed the side of the cart; Brooklyn’s fingers tapped absently against the box of spaghetti, like she was already hearing the sound of it hitting boiling water.

“Thank you for letting us cook,” Brooklyn said suddenly over her shoulder. “Some grownups don’t like…kids in the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “They think we’re gonna burn the house or the stove or ourselves. But we’re careful. Mama made us…responsibility…pledges.” She nodded, at peace with her wording. “We’re gonna do you proud.”

Holly reached out and lightly touched the back of the cart, as if that could steady all of them at once.

“I already am,” she said.

They reached the checkout lane, the red light above it beeping as the cashier finished with the customer ahead. Their groceries moved down the belt in a little parade—pasta, eggs, bacon, cheese, garlic, parsley.

Holly watched the girls watch their future ingredients roll forward, two bright faces full of hope and intent.

Back at the house, there would be chopping and stirring and maybe a small flour disaster. There would be Florence hovering in the doorway pretending not to, Christina leaning on the counter offering to grate cheese, Missy’s recipes coming alive in someone else’s kitchen.

But for now, here under the flat white Target lights, it was enough: three women at a checkout, one cart of groceries, and the quiet, solid promise of a dinner they’d make together.

The sun was doing that late-afternoon thing it did in Alabama—turning everything honey-colored and soft around the edges.

Holly pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. The quiet that followed rang for a second in her ears, the way it always did after a long drive with the radio low and two teenagers chattering in the back.

“Welcome to Alphaville,” she said lightly, hand still on the keys.

Honey-Lou’s face was already pressed to the window. “It’s so cute,” she breathed. “It looks like a picture of a house. Like a catalogue house.”

Brooklyn leaned over to see past her. Red brick, neat lawn, a big magnolia by the porch, the white trim catching the last of the light. Holly’s car sat in the driveway, and Florence’s old sedan waited at the curb.

“It’s like someone said, ‘Draw Home,’” Brooklyn said softly. “And this popped out.”
The girls tumbled out first, their sneakers hitting the driveway in small, eager thumps. The air outside was warm and smelled faintly of cut grass and someone grilling a few houses down. Holly came around the side of the car, keys jingling in her hand, just in time to see both cousins freeze mid-step.

They were staring across the street.

On the wide porch opposite Holly’s house, a husky sat perfectly still, paws neatly placed, head lifted. Gray-and-white fur glowed pale in the slanting light. Her blue eyes were fixed on them—calm, assessing. She didn’t bark. She didn’t so much as tilt her head. She just was, like a carved guardian animal placed on a temple step.

“Oh,” Honey-Lou whispered, hands flying to her mouth. “Brook. Brook, look. Look, dog.”

“I see her,” Brooklyn breathed, taking a half-step closer to the curb. “She’s like a wolf statue.”

“Like a guard wolf,” Honey-Lou said, reverent. “She’s guarding the porch from, from…bad vibes.”

Holly stayed by the open trunk, one hand resting on the edge, watching.

The girls didn’t take a single step toward the grocery bags. Their worlds had narrowed to one quiet dog across the street.

“Hi, pretty dog,” Brooklyn called, voice soft but clear. “Hi there.”

The husky’s ears flicked once. Otherwise, she remained statuesque.

“She’s being very professional,” Honey-Lou whispered, delighted. “She’s on her perimeter duity.”

For a heartbeat, it was just the three of them and the watchful husky. Then something small and golden moved in the corner of Holly’s eye.

From the side yard, a much smaller dog burst into view—a golden Labrador mix with a compact body and a tail that wagged like it had its own motor. She bounded onto the porch, skidded slightly on the boards, then spotted the new arrivals like she’d found treasure.

“Oh my gosh,” Honey-Lou said. “There’s a bonus dog.”

The little lab’s head cocked, ears perked, and then she launched himself off the porch steps and across the narrow street at a joyful, uneven gallop.

She barked once, bright and high and excited, then again, as if announcing hersself: I am here! New friends! I am here!

Brooklyn instinctively stepped back, then forward again, grin spreading. Honey-Lou made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a gasp and dropped into a crouch on the edge of the driveway, palms held out.

“Hi! Hi, hi, hi, hello, puppy!” she babbled. “You’re so small-big!”

The little golden dog overshot slightly, circled them in a loose, wiggling loop, then came straight in, bracing her paws on Honey-Lou’s knees and stretching her head toward her hands. Her fur was warm and a little dusty from the yard; her tongue lolled happily as he panted.

Brooklyn laughed outright, the sound bright and free. She crouched too, hand tentatively joining Honey-Lou’s, fingers sinking into the thick fur around her neck.

“You’re golden. Like…extra golden. Like if sunshine had a dog.”

The lab barked again, as if accepting this as her official title, and flopped her backside down in the gravel to lean harder into their touch. Her tail thumped a cheerful rhythm against the driveway, dust puffing up with each hit.

Across the street, the husky remained exactly where she was. Only her eyes moved, following the scene with mild interest. A queen observing her court.

“Oh, she’s so soft,” Honey-Lou breathed. “Brook, feel his ears. They’re like…toast. Soft toast.”

“They’re like the inside of toast,” Brooklyn agreed, carefully rubbing the velvety ear between her thumb and forefinger. “Just before it turns crunchy.”

The dog turned her head to lick her wrist, tongue hot and rough. Brooklyn giggled, shoulders scrunching instinctively.

“She’s doing kisses,” she announced. “She’s a kiss dog.”

She wriggled between them, shifting her weight so she could nose at Honey-Lou’s shoulder and then nudge Brooklyn’s chin, tail still beating its wild metronome. Their hands moved all over her—ribs, back, chest—never rough, just eager, like they couldn’t decide which part to admire first.

“Hi, baby,” Honey-Lou crooned. “Hi, little…what are you? A Labo…door?”

“He’s like the small model.” Brooklyn said.

“He’s the pocket edition,” Honey-Lou said, delighted with the thought. “Pocket Labra-door.”

Holly, standing by the trunk with a reusable grocery bag on each hip, just smiled.

The little lab rolled onto her side suddenly, sprawling half-across Honey-Lou’s sneakers.

“Look at her belly,” Honey-Lou gasped. “Look at this belly, Brook. It’s a whole…bellyverse.”

Brooklyn’s laugh turned into a soft ooh as she obliged, splaying her fingers across the warm, pale fur. JT’s back leg kicked reflexively, a quick, delighted thump-thump-thump against the driveway.

“She’s doing the motorcycle,” Brooklyn said in wonder. “Like when Daddy revs the bike. Vrrrrrm.”

“Vrrrrrrm,” Honey-Lou echoed, giving her belly a gentle rub in little circles. “You’re a motor girl, huh?”

She barked again, a short, sharp sound of pure joy, then twisted in place and sprang back up, doing a little half-jump that almost toppled Honey-Lou backwards. She caught herself on one hand, laughing breathlessly, and she licked her cheek in apology.

“Okay,” she said, wiping at the damp spot with the heel of her palm, still grinning. “That’s okay. We share DNA now.”

“We’re officially locals. We got greeted by the dog committee.”Brooklyn said, eyes soft.
For a few minutes, the world shrank to the radius of that wiggling body. The girls told him everything and nothing in the same breath:

“We just got here—”

“We’re from Georgia—”

“We rode a bus and didn’t die—”

“We bought noodles—”

“Mama says we’re good with animals—”

She listened the way dogs do, with her whole body: leaning, nudging, nudging again when the petting slowed even a fraction.

Honey-Lou kept one hand buried deep in his fur, the other brushing against Brooklyn’s shoulder now and then, like she had to keep checking: you’re here, I’m here, we’re both seeing this. Brooklyn stayed close enough that their arms made a soft, continuous line from one girl to the other to the dog, like they were all part of one small shape.

“JT!” an older teen girl’s voice called, clear across the quiet street. “JT, c’mon!”

JT’s entire body reacted before her head did. Her tail, already in constant motion, kicked into a higher gear. She barked once, a quick reply—Coming!—and then glanced between the girls and the voice.

“You gotta go?” Brooklyn asked, her hand still resting lightly on his collar.

“It’s okay,” Honey-Lou said immediately, as if the dog had asked permission. “We’re not offended. You got, like, doggy duties.”

JT gave one more nudge to Brooklyn’s knee, a swift swipe of her tongue over Honey-Lou’s fingers, and then she spun in place and bolted back toward the street. Her paws skittered on the asphalt for half a second, then found traction as she bounded across, still all bounce and joy but now directed, purposeful.

“Bye, puppy!” Honey-Lou called, cupping her hands around her mouth like a makeshift megaphone. “Bye, golden girl!”

“Bye, JT!” Brooklyn added, the name easy now that she’d seen it on his little bone-shaped tag. “We love you! In a…not weird way!”

She didn’t look back, not really—she was too busy sprinting toward her home—but her tail kept up its wild helicopter spin, broadcasting his happiness onto the air itself.

On the porch, the husky—Chloe, patient as old marble—rose just enough to step aside as JT hurtled up the steps and disappeared into the shadow of the doorway.

The street went back to its gentle, suburban quiet.

For a moment, no one said anything. Honey-Lou stayed crouched where she was, staring at the now-empty patch of driveway like the air still held the imprint of the dog. Brooklyn slowly straightened, brushing gravel dust off her knees, eyes lingering on the Robinson porch.
Then, at the exact same time, both girls turned to Holly.

“She was perfect,” Honey-Lou said.

“She’s the best first neighbor,” Brooklyn added, voice soft with the kind of certainty she reserved for maps and family.

Holly felt the smile start deep and work its way up. She didn’t say anything; she just nodded, letting her eyes crinkle, letting them see the answer there.

Brooklyn gave the opposite house one last, shy little wave, just in case anyone—or any dog—was still looking through the curtains.

“Hi, neighbors,” she murmured under her breath. “We’re here now.”

Holly lifted the grocery bags out of the trunk one by one, the plastic handles biting familiarly into her fingers. When she turned back toward the front door, the girls were already at her side, reaching for bags without being asked, shoulders bumping lightly as they walked.

Behind them, across the street, Chloe resumed her statue-still post on the porch.

In Holly’s driveway, laughter floated up as the girls replayed the encounter in overlapping bursts—“Did you see his little feet—” “That belly—” “He chose us—”

Holly let it wash over her, the sound of new joy mixing with the old, steady comfort of home.

It didn’t really feel real until they were inside.

The front door shut behind them with a soft, familiar click—Holly knew that sound better than she knew some people’s voices. Cool air breathed out from the hallway, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner, oak, and whatever tea Florence had brewed earlier. The muffled hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the hallway clock wrapped around the three of them like a different kind of welcome.

“Shoes by the mat,” Holly said automatically, nudging her sneakers off with the toe of one foot. “We’re very civilized here.”

Honey-Lou and Brooklyn copied her instantly, hands braced on the wall as they wrestled out of their shoes. Their voices had gone a little hushed, like they’d stepped into a library or a church.

“It’s so cozy,” Brooklyn whispered, looking up the hallway. Framed photos lined the walls—Florence younger, Holly at various stages of awkward bangs, Christina in graduation robes, people the girls didn’t know yet, all mid-laughs and mid-hugs.

“It smells like…tea and furniture,” Honey-Lou said, not quite sure which part she meant as the compliment, but meaning all of it.

Holly smiled and shifted the grocery bags further up her arms. “Living room’s through there,” she said. “We’ll just—”

Something moved at the edge of the doorway’s shadow.

Small, light, deliberate.

Holly felt it before she saw it, the little prickle of awareness you get when a cat decides the energy has changed.

Then Linda appeared.

She stepped into view in classic Linda fashion: quiet, self-possessed, tail up, like she’d been here long before any of them and would be here long after. An older tabby with soft, faded stripes and white socks, she still moved with the grace of a much younger cat. Her green eyes were clear and knowing, whiskers fanning slightly as she took in the new shapes in her house.

She paused in the middle of the hall, weight perfectly balanced, and looked at the girls.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then, without hurry, Linda pivoted and walked into the living room, claws making the tiniest click on the hardwood where the rug didn’t reach. She gave one little spring—still effortless, even now—and landed on the arm of her favorite chair, a battered but lovingly kept armchair by the window. Tail curled neatly around her paws, she settled there like a queen taking her throne.

“Okay,” Holly murmured, more to herself than anyone, heart doing that soft, stupid squeeze it always did when the cat chose to make an entrance. “Showtime.”

Christina’s voice floated in from the kitchen doorway. “Did someone say *tea and furniture*?”

She appeared with a dish towel slung over one shoulder, wiping her hands. Her work blouse was untucked now, shoes off, the day’s edges already softened. She followed Holly’s gaze and saw the cat, then the girls.

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “You’ve met the most important resident.”

She came into the room and perched on the arm of the couch opposite Linda’s chair, close enough that the cat flicked an ear in acknowledgment. Then she nodded toward the tabby, her tone somewhere between formal introduction and fond announcement.

“This is Linda,” Christina said. “She’s been with us since she was tiny.”

The words seemed to land on the girls like confetti.

They both looked at the cat with a kind of careful awe. Not squealing, not rushing—just absorbing her.

“She’s beautiful,” Honey-Lou breathed.

“Really beautiful,” Brooklyn echoed softly, like they were in front of a painting you weren’t supposed to touch.

Instead of charging in, they drifted closer in slow, sideways steps, like they were trying not to startle a wild thing. Honey-Lou ended up lowering herself to the floor first, moving the way you did when you didn’t want to spook a butterfly. She sat cross-legged on the rug about an arm’s length from the chair, hands resting palm-down on her knees.

Brooklyn chose the edge of the couch, close to Christina but angled toward Linda, knees together, fingers woven loosely in her lap. From there, she was almost level with the cat’s eyes.

Holly stayed standing for a moment, setting the grocery bags down quietly in the corner and taking in the triangle they made: cat on the chair, one girl on the floor, one girl on the couch. The space between them wasn’t distance; it was invitation.

“Hello, Linda,” Brooklyn said.

She said it the way she might have greeted Florence, or Missy after a long day—soft, clear, respectfully. Like she was addressing a person who was very much listening.

“Hi, Miss Linda,” Honey-Lou added, just as gently. “We’re just visiting. We’re very friendly.”

Linda blinked slowly, once, twice. Her tail tip twitched, but she didn’t move away.

The girls didn’t reach out. They didn’t pat the air or tap the chair or make kissy noises. They just…waited. Honey-Lou’s shoulders stayed relaxed, even though Holly could see, in the set of her jaw, that every part of her wanted to crawl closer and bury her face in that fur. Brooklyn’s eyes were wide and bright, tracking every tiny shift in the cat’s posture.

“Y’all are naturals,” Christina murmured beside Holly. “Ms. LaGrange would be proud.”

“We know the rules,” Honey-Lou said, without looking away from Linda. “Animals come first.”

“And we come second,” Brooklyn added. “Or third. Or…however many they want.”

“Respectful infinity,” Honey-Lou said, nodding once, satisfied with her own phrase.

Linda’s ears curled forward ever so slightly, picking up the cadence of their voices. She leaned forward a fraction, stretching her neck, nostrils flaring as she tasted the air between them.

“Hi,” Brooklyn said again, even softer this time. “We rode a bus. We’re very safe. We brought groceries.”

Linda’s whiskers twitched at the word “groceries,” as if she recognized the importance.

Holly bit back a smile. Missy had done good work here. You could tell which kids had been taught animal manners and which ones hadn’t; these two radiated the kind of instinct Florence always said you couldn’t fake. They knew that you gave an animal the choice first. You let them decide when and how and if.

“Can I tell her a secret?” Honey-Lou whispered, as if asking permission from the whole room.

“Linda likes secrets,” Christina said. “She’s heard most of ours.”

Encouraged, Honey-Lou leaned forward just enough that her voice would carry clearly.

“We had dogs say hi to us,” she confided to the cat. “Over there.” She flicked her fingers vaguely toward the front yard. “We’re equal-oppor…opertunity…pet people. We love everybody. So if you wanna be friends also, that’s okay.”

The corner of Holly’s mouth curled. Equal-opportunity, she translated silently. Somehow, Honey’s version felt better.

Linda stared at Honey-Lou for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, tail tip making tiny, thoughtful S-shapes.

Then, with the kind of slow grace that made Holly’s chest ache a little, Linda stood.

She stepped from the arm of the chair onto the cushion, arching her back in a long, luxurious stretch that made her spine ripple under her fur. Then she hopped down to the floor without a sound.

Both girls held absolutely still.

Linda walked toward them, neither cautious nor reckless—just…assessing. She made a small, deliberate circle near Honey-Lou first, her side brushing briefly against the girl’s knee. Honey-Lou’s hands stayed on her lap, but Holly saw her fingers curl at the contact, like they were gripping invisible joy.

The cat paused, glanced up, then moved on.

She approached Brooklyn’s feet, sniffed the toes of her socks, then the hem of her jeans. Brooklyn’s breathing had slowed, gently measured, as if she were trying not to exhale too hard and blow the moment away.

“Hi,” she whispered again, barely audible.

Linda stepped closer and pressed the top of her head very lightly against Brooklyn’s shin.

The sound that came out of Honey-Lou was so small it was almost a squeak. “She bonked you,” she whispered. “That’s a yes.”

Brooklyn’s eyes shone. Very slowly, giving the cat plenty of time to object, she slid one hand off her lap and let it hang, palm down, fingers relaxed. Linda leaned in, whiskers brushing against Brooklyn’s skin, and gave her knuckles a decisive, approving rub with her chin.

Then she pivoted and did the same to Honey-Lou’s hand, which had edged off her knee and hovered tentatively in mid-air.

“She’s doing checks,” Honey-Lou breathed. “Like at the bank. We’re being…approved.”

“Verified,” Brooklyn murmured, as if that were the highest honor.

Holly felt something settle warmly in her chest. She glanced sideways and caught Christina’s eyes; they shared a quiet little look that said the same thing without words: *Okay. Good. They fit.*

Linda finished her small inspection, then made a choice.

She walked straight between the girls and hopped lightly up onto the couch between Brooklyn and the armrest. With a soft flump, she settled herself against Brooklyn’s thigh, tucking her paws in and curling her tail neatly around.

Brooklyn went perfectly still, like someone had paused her.

“Is this…okay?” she whispered, barely moving her lips, eyes flicking to Holly and Christina.

“It’s very okay,” Holly said. “If she didn’t want to be there, she wouldn’t be.”

“You can pet her,” Christina added. “Slowly. She likes behind the ears best.”

“Okay,” Brooklyn breathed.

She lifted one hand and, with the careful reverence of someone handling something breakable and precious, touched the soft fur just behind Linda’s ear. The cat’s eyes drifted closed halfway. A low, steady purr started up, a sound more felt than heard.

Honey-Lou shifted to sit closer to the couch, resting her chin on her folded arms on the cushion edge so she could be part of the circle without crowding.

“You’re so…majesticful,” she told Linda honestly. “Like a queen but also like a pillow.”

Linda continued to purr, presumably accepting this as her due.

Brooklyn’s shoulders loosened, some of the travel tension finally melting away. Her fingers moved in tiny, slow strokes, tracing the curve of Linda’s head, the line of her spine. Her face had gone soft in a way Holly hadn’t seen yet, open and unguarded.

“She feels like she knows stuff,” Brooklyn murmured. “Like…this house’s history.”

“She definitely does,” Christina said. “She’s been here through most of it.”

Linda shifted just enough to lean a little more of her weight into Brooklyn’s hand.

“She says hello back,” Honey-Lou whispered, as if translating. “In cat. I can tell.”

“I thought so,” Brooklyn replied, and smiled.

Holly let herself sink down at last, perching on the other end of the couch, content to watch. The living room felt fuller now—not crowded, just complete. Groceries waiting quietly in the corner, late-afternoon light coming in through the window, clock ticking, cat purring, two cousins breathing in time with her.

Dinner made the house feel even smaller in the best way.

They’d turned the kitchen into an assembly line—pasta boiling, bacon crisping in the pan, eggs and cheese whisked in a big bowl that had belonged to Florence’s mother. There had been a brief, breathless moment where Brooklyn thought they’d scrambled the sauce by accident, and then Holly showed them the trick of tossing fast, fast, fast so the heat coated the noodles without turning the eggs solid.

Now the carbonara sat in a big serving bowl in the middle of the dining table, steam curling up in gentle ghosts. Bits of bacon shone against the slick strands of spaghetti; flecks of parsley glowed green. Extra parmesan waited in a shallow dish; the pepper grinder rested beside it like a little wooden scepter.

Christina sat on Holly’s right, and the girls on her left—Brooklyn first, then Honey-Lou by the wall. Linda slept in an absentminded loaf form on a chair in the corner, one paw hanging over the edge.

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou cooed. “Holly was our…guiding noodle.”

“Guide,” Holly murmured, but it was more out of habit; there was no sting to it.

“Guiding noodle guide,” Honey corrected herself happily.

They ate for a while in that content sort of hush that means people are enjoying their food too much to talk. Every now and then, Christina murmured a quiet “Mm” or Holly reached for the pepper again. The clink of cutlery and the little sighs of satisfaction filled the spaces between.

It was the smell that did it.

The combination of pasta and bacon and cheese and black pepper rose warm and familiar, but underneath it, Holly’s mind added ghost-layers of memory: yeast, sugar, coffee, cinnamon, the faint metallic tang of big ovens heating the air.

Without really deciding to, she said, “This kinda reminds me of Alma’s bakery.”

Brooklyn looked up immediately, fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

“You grew up in a bakery?” Honey-Lou asked, voice already drifting a little, picturing it.

“Not inside the display case,” Holly said, smiling. “But it felt like that sometimes.”

She set her fork down for a moment, wiping her hands lightly on her napkin, letting the old pictures come up clearer in her mind.

“Red letters on a white sign. In Houston, it was in one of those little strip malls, between a laundromat and a barbershop. Later, we had a corner—bigger windows, more light. But it always felt the same.”

“Did you go there every single day?” Brooklyn asked.

“Pretty much,” Holly said. “At least when I was little. My mom worked there with my grandma, so if I wanted to see them, I went where they were.”

She folded her hands loosely in front of her plate, eyes going soft, looking somewhere past the table.

“I remember the mornings most,” she said. “When it was still dark outside, and the air felt…thin, like it was waiting. We’d get there before dawn. Alma had this old ring of keys, and she’d jangle them once before she unlocked the door, like she was warning the building we were coming in.

The ovens made this low, steady roar when they started to warm up,” Holly went on. “Not loud, just…there. You’d hear the click when she turned the knobs, then that soft whoomph when the flame caught. The first time I stood on a milk crate to see inside, I thought if I stared hard enough I’d see where the heat came from.”

“What did it smell like?” Honey-Lou asked, eyes huge, chin propped on her hand, her fork forgotten for a moment.

Holly thought about it. The carbonara smell blurred with the memory, and she picked apart the pieces.

“Yeast,” she said. “Bread rising. It’s a really warm smell, if that makes sense. Like…if comfort had a scent. And sugar. A little vanilla. Sometimes cinnamon, if we were doing cinnamon rolls that day. And coffee—always coffee. There was this old machine that sounded like it was complaining every time you turned it on, but it made the best coffee. None of it ever washed out of my clothes. I smelled like a bakery everywhere I went.”

Brooklyn’s eyebrows lifted. “Did it always smell the same every morning?” she asked.

“Almost,” Holly said. “There’d be little changes. On donut days, you got more fried dough smell. On holidays, we’d bake more pies, so it smelled like apples or pecans or pumpkin. But underneath, it was the same. Like…like a song you recognize even if someone’s playing it on a different instrument.”

“I love that,” Brooklyn murmured. “A smell song.”

Her eyes had that faraway look she got when she was mapping something in her head.

“What about the people?” she asked. “Did people talk a lot while they waited?”

“They talked *constantly,*” Holly said, smiling wider now. “That’s half of what I remember. Regulars would come in before work—construction guys with paint on their boots, nurses still in scrubs from the night shift, teachers, bus drivers. They’d line up at the counter, and Alma knew almost all their names.”

She could see her grandmother now, small and sturdy behind the glass case, apron dusted white, hair pinned up, moving with that efficient rhythm like she was part of the machinery.

“She’d ask them about their kids, their moms, their backs, their cars. ‘How’s your knee, Mr. Gonzalez?’ ‘Did your niña pass her test?’ People would tell her everything while they waited for their coffee and pan dulce. It was like confession, but with donuts.”

“Did they talk to each other too?” Brooklyn asked. “Like in the line?”

“Oh yeah,” Holly said. “Especially in Houston. There was this one guy—Clarence. He drove a city bus. Always wore the same navy jacket, even in summer. He’d get there at almost exactly the same time as this teacher, Ms. Price. After a while, they started saving each other spots in line. They’d catch up every morning like clockwork. I was little, so I thought they were probably best friends or secret spies or something.

Sometimes it was quiet,” she added. “Like when it rained really hard and nobody wanted to talk about the weather anymore. You’d just hear the clatter of trays and the ding of the bell on the door.”

“Bell?” Honey-Lou asked, lighting up. “Like an actual bell-bell?”

“Yeah,” Holly said. “Little brass one, right above the door. Every time someone came in, it went ding. I’d be in the back doing homework, and that ding would kind of…pull me. I’d peek around the corner to see who it was.”

“Did it make you happy?” Honey-Lou asked.

“Pretty much,” Holly said. “Bell meant people. People meant stories. And tips, which meant sometimes I got a soda from the machine next door.”

“Did you ever fall asleep in the car on the way there?” Brooklyn asked.

“Oh, all the time,” Holly said immediately. “Especially in winter. My mom would carry me out to the car in my pajamas sometimes. I remember the way the seatbelt felt across my chest, and the streetlights slipping past the window. I’d fall asleep halfway there, and then she’d wake me up when we parked and say, ‘We’re here, bakery girl.’”

She could see those mornings so clearly: streetlamps throwing halos on wet pavement, radio buzzing low with old country songs, her mother’s hand warm on her shoulder.

“Sometimes,” she added, “she’d let me sleep on the little cot in the back room for a while. I’d wake up to the smell of the first batch of bread coming out of the oven. Best alarm clock in the world.”

Brooklyn’s whole face softened at that. “That sounds…perfect,” she said quietly.

“It was messy,” Holly said. “And loud, and there was flour *everywhere,* and the oven broke down twice in August. But yeah. Parts of it were perfect.”

“Did you get to eat the broken ones?” Honey-Lou asked suddenly, unable to sit on the question any longer. “Like if a donut fell over or a cookie got…crooked?”

Holly laughed. “Every single one,” she said. “Alma said, ‘Our mistakes feed us.’ So a bent cookie was basically lunch.”

“That’s the best rule I ever heard,” Honey-Lou said, deeply impressed. “Our mistakes feed us. I like that even just for life.”

“Same,” Brooklyn agreed. “We make a lot of mistakes. We could feed a village.”

There was laughter at that, warm and easy, but no one at the table heard it as self-put-down; they felt the affection inside it.

“Did you help bake?” Brooklyn asked. “Or just watch?”

“When I was little, I mostly watched and did little things,” Holly said. “Sprinkling sugar, that kind of thing. Alma let me press the fork marks on the peanut butter cookies. Later, when I was older, she taught me how to knead dough properly. Said I had good hands for it.”

She glanced at her own hands now, at the faint white scar on her middle finger where she’d once nicked herself on a baking tray.

“She’d wake me up to see the first tray come out sometimes,” Holly said. “It was like the sunrise, but inside.”

“What about Austin?” Brooklyn asked. “Was it different there?”

“A little,” Holly said. “We had college kids mixed into the regulars. Musicians, art students, people with guitars on their backs. The smell was the same, mostly. The oven was different — newer, not as loud. I missed the old one for a while. But the routine stayed. Dark mornings, oven roaring, dough rising, bell dinging, people talking. It kind of…raised me, along with my folks.”

The girls sat with that for a moment, forks moving slower now, twirling pasta thoughtfully.

“Do you miss it?” Honey-Lou asked quietly.

“Sometimes,” Holly admitted. “There are days I’d trade a whole spreadsheet for ten minutes in that kitchen, just to feel flour on my arms again.”

“Every time you cook with us” Brooklyn said, the idea coming to her all at once. “’Cause you’re teaching us stuff she taught you. So now we’re like…bakery grandkids.”

“Grand-baker-children,” Honey-Lou said, rolling the phrase around like dough. “We’re Alma’s…descendents. But with noodles.”

Holly blinked hard once, caught off guard by a sudden sting at the back of her eyes. She picked up her fork again, more to have something to do with her hands than because she needed another bite right that second.

“She’d probably tell you to add more pepper,” Holly said. “And then give you a cookie when you did.”

“We can add more pepper,” Brooklyn said helpfully. “We’re very coachable.”

Christina reached for the grinder and passed it to Honey-Lou, who took it with both hands, the way she’d held the eggs at the store.

“Here,” Holly said, watching them. “Little secret: if you close your eyes when you smell black pepper, for a second it feels like a bakery again. All the spices get mixed up in your brain.”

“Really?” Honey-Lou asked, already delighted.

Brooklyn lifted her fork and inhaled above her plate, eyes closing obediently. A small, contented smile curled at the corner of her mouth.

“It does kinda smell like a memory,” she said.

“Like we’re there too,” Honey-Lou added.

For a moment, the dining room held two kitchens at once—the Alabama kitchen they sat in now, and the faraway Texas bakery with its dark mornings and bright ovens, its regulars and its bell. The table bound them together: past and present, blood and chosen, stories passed hand to hand like slices of bread.

Holly looked around—at Christina, at these two glowing girls who had somehow, in a single day, become woven into the fabric of her house—and she felt something inside her ease, a knot untying.

“Eat up, bakery kiddies,” she said gently. “There’s plenty more.”

The girls smiled and bent over their plates, twirling, tasting, asking another small question here, another wondering there—about coffee machines and dough scraps and whether Alma ever burned a batch on purpose just for the smell.

Holly answered them, one by one, little snapshots laid out like pastries on a tray, letting them pick whatever they wanted to carry with them into their own, still-rising lives.

The next day after lunch, the house felt pleasantly slow.

They’d done dishes together—Honey-Lou in charge of rinsing, Brooklyn stacking plates carefully in the rack like she was building a fragile city. Florence had shooed them out of the kitchen after a while, insisting she could handle the rest.

“Go let your food settle,” she’d said. “You’re not on dish duty your whole vacation.”

Now the three of them stood by the front door: Holly, keys in hand; Brooklyn in her sneakers; Honey-Lou bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet as if whatever came next might involve flight.

“I’ve got to swing by the station for a bit,” Holly said. “Check on some paperwork, make sure no one’s left a coffee mug where it shouldn’t be.” She hesitated, watching their faces. “If you want, you can come along. Just a quick look. Only a quick look, if that’s okay with your mom.”

The girls exchanged a quick, bright look that said *yes* before their mouths caught up.

“You already asked her?” Brooklyn asked, hopeful.

“Called her this morning,” Holly said. “She said I could show you around as long as I didn’t put you in handcuffs or let you drive the squad car.”

“Oh, we would never,” Honey-Lou said, scandalized. “We’re very…law-abible.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn agreed. “We’re, like, the opposite of criminals. We’re…cinnamonals.”

Holly’s mouth twitched. “Good,” she said. “I prefer cinnamonals. Less paperwork.”

They piled into the car. The air outside was bright and clear, the kind of blue-sky day that made the whole street look like someone had just washed it. As Holly backed out of the driveway, the girls twisted in their seats to wave at Florence in the front window. Florence lifted her mug in salute like a tiny toast.

On the short drive into Alphaville’s little downtown, the girls’ chatter fluttered to quieter levels. The closer they got, the more their eyes turned outward, trying to catch every detail—the old brick storefronts, the gas station, the small cluster of offices.

“There,” Holly said, nodding ahead as she turned onto a side street. “That low building with the flag? That’s us.”

The police station was a one-story brick building with white trim and a small, well-kept lawn out front. A flagpole rose from the grass, the American flag lifting lazily in the light breeze. The front steps were concrete, the handrails painted a fresh-looking black.

“It’s smaller than on TV,” Honey-Lou said, pressing her forehead lightly to the window as they pulled into a parking spot.

Brooklyn craned her neck to see. “It looks…friendly,” she said. “Not, like…scary.”

“That’s the idea,” Holly said. “We’re not trying to be a haunted house.”

They climbed out of the car. The station up close had a solid, simple presence—nothing fancy, just brick and glass and a door with “ALPHAVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT” printed in white letters. Through the tinted front windows, faint shapes moved—people at desks, someone walking past with a file folder.

“You don’t have to stay long,” Holly reminded them as they approached the door. “If it feels weird, we’ll go.”

“It’s okay,” Brooklyn said quickly. “We wanna see. We like knowing…where things are.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou agreed. “We wanna see your…work habitat.”

Holly smiled at that and pulled the door open.

The lobby was cool after the sun, the air-conditioned hum wrapping around them. The floor was a speckled tile that had been polished so often it almost reflected. A couple of plastic chairs sat along one wall, a coffee machine in the corner, a corkboard with flyers about neighborhood watch meetings and safety tips.

Behind the front desk, an officer in a navy uniform looked up from a ledger. He was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a moustache that had clearly survived the eighties.

“Afternoon, Chief,” he said, easy and respectful. “Thought that might be your car.”

“Hey, Walt,” Holly said. “Just checking in for a bit.”

She rested a hand lightly on the counter. The girls stood just behind her, half-hiding, half-peeking past her elbow.

“These are my cousins,” she added. “Brooklyn and Honey-Lou.”

Walt’s face warmed into a broad smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “You picked a good day to visit. Quiet as a library in here.”

“We’re good at quiet,” Brooklyn said, then reconsidered. “We’re…medium at quiet.”

“We can do respectful quiet,” Honey-Lou added. “For officialness.”

Walt chuckled. “Respectful quiet’s our favorite kind.”

Holly led them down the hallway that opened beside the front desk. The main corridor ran the length of the building, doors on either side, fluorescent lights buzzing softly above. A bulletin board held schedules and notices; a framed city map took up one wall, little pushpins marking certain points.

As they walked, people appeared in doorways or passed them in the hall.

“Chief,” a younger officer nodded as he walked by, carrying a stack of papers.

“Afternoon, Chief Michaelson,” another said, a woman in plain clothes with a radio clipped to her belt.

“Morning, Chief,” came from someone else who looked like he’d been up all night.

Each greeting was casual but edged with respect, like calling someone by their first name and their title at the same time. Holly returned each one with a small nod or a quiet “Hey, how’s it going,” not making a big deal of it.

Behind her, the girls walked in step, eyes wide, taking it all in.

They didn’t say anything yet, but Holly could feel their curiosity pressing gently against her back like a hand.

She stopped by a doorway that led to a room of desks—computers, file folders, a couple of bulletin boards with pinned-up photos and notes. “That’s the squad room,” she said. “Where a lot of the day-to-day work happens. Reports, calls, all that.”

“Like the brain,” Honey-Lou whispered.

“Pretty much,” Holly said.

They moved on. There was a small break room, where an officer in a T-shirt and uniform pants was stirring sugar into a mug. He looked up and raised the spoon in greeting.

“Chief,” he said. “We’re out of decent coffee again.”

“We’ll survive,” Holly said. “Tell supply we’re filing an official complaint.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They passed a framed photograph on the wall—a group shot of uniformed officers standing in front of the station, summer sunlight bright on their badges. At the center of the back row stood Holly, a little younger, hair slightly shorter, in full uniform. Beneath the photo, a small plaque read:

ALPHAVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
CHIEF HOLLY MICHAELSON
INAUGURAL YEAR

Brooklyn’s gaze snagged on it. She slowed, unconsciously reaching out to touch the edge of the frame without actually making contact.

“Hey,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.

Next to the photo hung another frame, this one containing a certificate with an official-looking seal. The glass glinted under the fluorescent lights.

CITY OF ALPHAVILLE
IN RECOGNITION OF OUTSTANDING SERVICE
CHIEF OF POLICE HOLLY R. MICHAELSON

There were smaller lines under that—dates, signatures—but those were the words that landed first.

Honey-Lou had stopped too, just behind Brooklyn’s shoulder. Her eyes moved from the photo to the certificate and back again. Then, slowly, her head turned toward Holly.

“Um,” she said, voice very small but very clear. “You’re…the chief?”

It was halfway between a question and an astonished discovery, like she’d just realized the nice lady giving them noodles last night was secretly the queen of something.

Brooklyn turned, too, the same realization dawning across her face like a slow sunrise.

“You’re the *chief*,” she echoed, almost whispering. “Like…like *the* chief. Of the police.”

Holly felt the back of her neck get warm. She glanced at the frames, then back at the girls’ faces.

“For now, yes,” she said, gentle and matter-of-fact. “That’s my job. I help the other officers do their jobs.”

She didn’t say *I’m in charge.* She didn’t say *I run this place.* She said it like she’d been given a role in a larger story, and her part was making sure everyone else could play theirs.

The hallway seemed to hold its breath for a second.

“That’s a really big job,” Brooklyn said, the awe in her voice soft, not sharp. Not scared. Just…deep.

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou added, eyes huge, taking Holly in like she was seeing her in a new frame now too. “You must be…very good at helping people.”

Holly’s chest tightened around something warm. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and gave them a small, slightly embarrassed smile.

“I try,” she said. “It’s a lot of listening. A lot of making sure people are safe. A lot of paperwork.” She wrinkled her nose a little, and the girls smiled.

“But mostly,” she went on, “it’s making sure the folks who are out there on the street have what they need. That they’re trained, supported, not trying to do it all alone. And making sure we remember we’re here to serve the community, not the other way around.”

Brooklyn looked back at the certificate, then at the officers in the distant squad room, then at Holly again. You could almost see her stitching the pieces together—Charms and clothes and helping people feel okay, and here, too, another kind of helping, a different kind of caretaking.

“Do they call you ‘Chief’ all the time?” she asked, a little wonder in the question.

“Mostly,” Holly said. “Or ‘Chief Michaelson.’ Sometimes just ‘ma’am’ when they’re trying to be extra official.” Her mouth quirked. “At home I still answer to ‘Holly, did you forget your lunch,’ so it balances out.”

That made both girls laugh, a soft, relieved sound that cut through the solemnity just enough.

“But when they say it here,” Brooklyn said, “they sound…like they trust you.”

Holly swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“I hope so,” she said. “Trust goes both ways. I trust them to do their jobs. They trust me to have their backs.”

“That’s like being a…captain,” Honey-Lou said. “On a ship. But the ship is a building.”

Brooklyn nodded, eyes still bright. “You’re the…help-captain,” she said.

Holly huffed out a tiny, surprised laugh. “That might be my favorite job title so far.”

A voice drifted down the hall, someone calling for an officer in the squad room. Phones rang faintly in the distance. The world of the station continued around them, normal and everyday, even as the three of them stood in that little pause by the wall.

“Can we see a bit more?” Honey-Lou asked, still keeping her voice hushed like they were in somewhere holy. “Just the…friendly parts?”

“We’ll stick to friendly,” Holly said. “Come on. I’ll show you the map room and the radio.”

As they walked on, the girls stayed a half-step closer to her than before. Not clinging, not crowding—just a little nearer, like they’d drawn a new line on their own internal maps:

Here is Holly.

Here is the station.

Here is what *Chief* means, when it belongs to someone who cooks noodles and tells bakery stories and stands in the hallway like the calm center of a maze.

They moved forward together, past the plaques and the photographs, deeper into the building where Holly spent so much of her life. And if their eyes glanced up a little more often when someone said “Chief,” if their shoulders squared a little with quiet pride at walking beside her, no one commented on it.

Holly just smiled to herself and kept walking, her hand hovering close enough to their backs that, if either girl had needed to, she could have reached out and touched safety in half a second.

Charms glowed a little warmer than the rest of the mall.

From the corridor, you could already see it—soft light spilling out under the sign, reflections of color moving gently on the polished tile. The sign itself was simple: CHARMS, in looping script, gold against a deep green background. A little glass display window showed a mannequin in a soft blue dress and another in a sharp charcoal suit, angled toward each other like they were in quiet conversation.

“There she is,” Florence said, with that mixture of pride and long familiarity she reserved for her shop and her family. “Home turf.”

Brooklyn and Honey-Lou had slowed to a reverent loiter a few steps back, gazes pinned to the window.

“Oh wow,” Honey-Lou breathed. “They got…manne-queens.”

She said it like royalty, her accent stretching the word out.

Brooklyn pressed closer to the glass, drinking in the way the dress fell, the gentle sway of the fabric even though nothing was moving it. “They look like they’re waiting for their stories,” she murmured.

Holly, standing between the girls and the entrance, felt both of them vibrating faintly, like they were plugged into the building’s electricity.

“Ready?” she asked.

Two eager nods, almost in sync.

Christina was already inside, having left them briefly to “turn the lights up a little and make the hangers behave.” Now she appeared at the doorway, pushing it open with her shoulder, bell above it chiming a soft, bright ding.

“Welcome to Charms,” she said, with a hint of mock formality that couldn’t quite hide her pleasure. “Grand tour begins now.”

The girls stepped over the threshold like they were crossing an invisible border. The air inside was cooler than the corridor, but not cold; it smelled faintly of fabric, paper tags, a whisper of perfume, and something clean and floral that might have been whatever Florence used to freshen the carpet.

Music drifted softly from somewhere up near the ceiling—instrumental, gentle, like a heartbeat in the background.

“Whoa,” Honey-Lou said, eyes going immediately wide. “It’s like…a clothes garden.”

Racks spread out in low arcs from the front to the back, not crammed but comfortably full. Dresses in all colors hung in small, organized groups: blues and greens here, reds and pinks there, neutrals and blacks in elegant rows. Along one wall, neatly spaced hangers held jackets, blouses, skirts. At the back, a higher rack showed suits and dress shirts, shoulders lined up like polite soldiers. A little round display table in the center carried necklaces, bracelets, hair clips that sparkled softly under the lights.

Florence locked the front register with a small practiced twist, then turned to watch the girls take everything in. Her eyes were warm, pleased.

“You can look,” she said. “You can touch. Just be gentle. Clothes don’t like being yanked around.”

“We know,” Brooklyn said at once, almost offended at the thought. “We’re very gentle. We know fabrics have…emotions.”

“Feelings,” Honey-Lou confirmed seriously. “They get wrinkled inside if you’re rude.”

Christina smiled, leaning one hip against the front counter. “Then you’ll get along just fine,” she said. “This is the front section—what people see first. We try to put the friendliest things here. Nothing too scary.”

Honey-Lou drifted toward the nearest rack like a moth. The dresses there were all spring colors—soft yellows, light blues, a couple of floral prints. She reached out and stroked the sleeve of one, fingertips moving as if she were smoothing a cat.

“This one’s saying hello,” she declared.

“What’s it saying?” Brooklyn asked, right beside her, mesmerized.

“It says, ‘You can breathe in me,’” Honey-Lou translated. “And also, ‘I don’t itch.’”

“That’s good,” Brooklyn said gravely. “It’s very important not-itching.”

Holly walked a little slower, letting them set the pace. She watched them skim their hands along the hangers, eyes flicking to the tags occasionally like they were reading names rather than sizes.

“Is it okay if we…move them a little?” Brooklyn asked, suddenly anxious, fingers hovering over a cluster of dresses.

“That’s what they’re here for,” Florence said. “Just slide them side to side, not off the hanger. Like you’re looking through a book.”

Brooklyn exhaled and began to part them carefully, one by one, like secrets.

Christina came to stand beside Holly, her voice low. “They’re really something,” she said, watching the girls. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” Holly murmured back.

Honey-Lou had found her way to the jewelry table now, eyes dazzled but hands tucked behind her back like she was in a museum. She bent close to a display of delicate necklaces, pendants catching the light.

“These are so tiny,” she said, awed. “Like little promises.”

“What kind of promises?” Christina asked, stepping closer.

“Like…‘I’m gonna be here all night on your neck,’” Honey-Lou said promptly. “‘Even if you feel nervous, I won’t fall off.’ And, ‘I match your dress, we’re a team.’”

“That’s exactly what they’re saying,” Christina said. “You’ve got the language down already.”

Brooklyn had wandered toward the suit section, drawn by the sharp lines and muted colors. She touched a sleeve of dark navy, eyes thoughtful.

“This feels…solid,” she said quietly. “Like you could stand up in it and not blow over.”

“A lot of people come here for that,” Christina said. “Solid is a popular request.”

“Do you ever pick things and just…know?” Brooklyn asked, looking up at her. “Like, ‘Oh, that one’s waiting for you’?”

“Sometimes,” Christina said. “Sometimes I’m wrong, too. That’s why we try things on.”

“Trying-ons are like test drives,” Honey-Lou contributed from the jewelry table. “But for legs.”

“For legs and arms,” Brooklyn amended. “And shoulders. And hearts.”

Florence chuckled, moving toward the back to flick on the lights over the fitting rooms. There were three of them, small but neat, curtains drawn back for now. Above each was a simple little framed print—flowers, a skyline, a stylized woman walking down a street.

“You want to see the back?” Florence called over her shoulder. “The less glamorous part?”

“Yes, please,” Brooklyn said instantly.

“Backstage,” Honey-Lou breathed, thrilled. “Where the clothes take their breaks.”

They followed Florence past the shoe shelves—low heels, strappy sandals, polished loafers lined carefully—and into the narrow hallway that led behind the shop floor. Back here, things were different: more practical, more compressed. Racks held plastic-covered garments waiting for pickup. A small steamer hissed quietly in the corner, sending little clouds of damp heat into the air. A big table sat under a bright lamp, a well-used sewing machine at one end, pincushions and chalk and measuring tapes scattered neatly.

“This is where Christina does minor alterations,” Florence said. “Hems, darts, little fixes.”

“It’s like a…surgery room,” Honey-Lou said in a hushed voice. “But for hems.”

Holly leaned against the doorframe, watching Brooklyn’s eyes roam the space.

“Do you fix them?” Brooklyn asked Christina, turning to her. “Like, when they don’t fit people right?”

“We help them fit *better,*” Christina said. “Clothes are just a starting point. Sometimes they need a nip or a tuck to match the real person they’re going on.”

“Do you ever talk to them while you fix them?” Honey-Lou asked.

“Sometimes,” Christina said. “Sometimes I talk to the fabric more than the person. ‘You can do it,’” she mimicked, fond. “‘You can stretch that extra half inch. You’ll be fine. Don’t be dramatic.’”

The girls giggled.

“What’s this for?” Brooklyn asked, pointing to the long metal ruler mounted on the wall.

“Hems,” Florence said. “Measuring length. Making sure we don’t leave one pant leg shorter than the other.”

“We’re good at measuring,” Honey-Lou said quickly. “We measured our wall at home for maps. We could be…ruler assistants.”

“Interns,” Brooklyn said. “We can be Charms interns.”

Florence and Christina exchanged a look that had years of shared amusement in it.

“We might just take you up on that,” Florence said. “We can teach you how to hang things properly and steam without burning your fingers. Maybe let you restock the accessories.”

“We’re very careful with hot things,” Brooklyn said. “And cold things. And medium things.”

“You have to go through the official training,” Christina said seriously. “Module one: Hanger Etiquette.”

“Hanger etiquet,” Honey-Lou repeated, delighted. “That sounds so fancy.”

“Module two,” Christina continued, “is ‘How Not to Panic When Someone Asks for a Size You’ve Never Heard Of.’”

“Is there a module three?” Brooklyn asked.

“Module three is ‘Listening More Than You Talk,’” Christina said. “But I think you might be ahead of the curve on that one.”

Brooklyn’s cheeks pinked, pleased.

They drifted back out to the main floor, looping around in a slow circuit. The girls made little discoveries as they went—buttons shaped like tiny flowers, a dress with pockets (which earned a soft gasp and a whispered, “She’s practical *and* cute”), a pair of shoes in exactly the right shade of green to match a blouse on the opposite wall.

“Do you stand right here?” Brooklyn asked at one point, stopping beside Christina near the front register. “When people come in?”

“A lot of the time,” Christina said. “Or I’m back there with the fitting rooms. Or over here,” she added, nodding toward the shoes. “Or kneeling on the floor, pinning hems.”

“Do people look scared when they first come in?” Honey-Lou asked, quietly. “Sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Christina said. “You can see it in their shoulders, or how they hold their bag. That’s when I talk about the weather first. Or compliment their earrings. Or make a little joke about how weird mirrors are.”

“Weird how?” Brooklyn asked.

“Mirrors only show you what’s in front of them,” Christina said. “They don’t know how brave you are, or how kind, or how tired. They just show shapes and colors and try to make you forget the rest.”

“So you remind them,” Brooklyn said. “Of the rest.”

“That’s the idea,” Christina said.

Florence checked the time on the small clock by the register. “We’ve got a bit before I have to open back up properly,” she said. “You girls want to try anything on? Just for fun. No pressure.”

The question landed between them like a small, delightful bomb.

“Can we?” Honey-Lou asked, eyes huge.

“Really?” Brooklyn added, equally stunned. “Even if we don’t…need it for anything?”

“You don’t have to have a reason to see yourself in something nice,” Florence said gently. “And it’ll give Christina some practice for when you come back for *real* things. Dances. Interviews. Saving the world.”

“Oh my gosh,” Honey-Lou whispered. “We’re gonna do dress-up in an actual store.”

“We’ll just do a couple,” Christina said. “Think of it as…practice rounds. You’ll tell me how it feels, and I’ll see how good my guessing is.”

The girls looked at each other, a dozen unsaid questions passing in one quick exchange.

“Okay,” Brooklyn said at last, nervous but glowing. “We trust you.”

“Any colors you hate?” Christina asked, switching effortlessly into work mode, her eyes soft but intent. “Anything that makes you feel like someone else picked your outfit for you and you got stuck with it?”

They thought about it seriously.

“I don’t like…stuff that’s super boingy,” Honey-Lou said. “Like if it tries to escape you when you walk.”

“Ruffles,” Brooklyn interpreted. “She means too much ruffle.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou agreed. “I like smooth. And I like…happy colors.”

“Okay,” Christina said, nodding. “Happy, smooth, not too boingy. Got it. And you?” she asked Brooklyn.

“I…don’t like things that make me feel…tiny,” Brooklyn said slowly. “Like I disappear inside them. Or like I’m wearing grown-up clothes that snuck onto my body when I wasn’t looking.”

“Nothing that feels like a costume you didn’t pick,” Christina said. “Do you like any colors in particular?”

“Green,” Brooklyn said immediately. “Like trees. And dark blue. Like…late sky.”

“Excellent,” Christina said. “Give me five minutes.”

She moved away then, weaving between racks with the ease of muscle memory, hands flicking through hangers, eyes scanning. The girls watched her like someone watching a magician shuffle cards.

Florence nudged Holly lightly with her elbow. “Look at them,” she murmured. “They’re eating this up.”

Holly smiled. “It’s like watching baby ducks discover water,” she said.

Christina returned with two dresses over one arm and a simple skirt and top combination over the other.

“These are just suggestions,” she said. “You can say no to any of them.”

She handed Brooklyn a deep green dress—simple, knee-length, with short sleeves and a soft, swishy skirt—and a navy skirt with a cream blouse that had the smallest pattern of tiny leaves. For Honey-Lou, she’d picked a soft coral dress that looked like it moved easily and a pale yellow top with a light, denim-like skirt.

“Let’s start with one each,” she said. “Pick the one that feels most ‘maybe.’”

The girls held the hangers like they were carrying something precious. They regarded the fabrics, the shapes, the colors. Then, simultaneously, they looked up at Christina.

“These,” they said at the same time, each touching the dress they’d been handed first.

“Good instincts,” Christina said. “Fitting rooms are back there. Take your time. Holler if you need help with zippers.”

They disappeared behind two adjacent curtains, giggling once before catching themselves. Holly and Florence stayed near the front, pretending to busy themselves tidying a stack of folded scarves, though their eyes kept drifting back toward the fitting rooms.

There was rustling, the faint creak of hangers, the muffled thump of a shoe dropped on the floor. Then a moment of hush.

“Are you ready?” Brooklyn’s voice floated out, shy.

“No,” Honey-Lou said immediately. “Yes. Kind of. Three-quarters ready. You go first.”

“You go first,” Brooklyn said. “You’re braver.”

There was a small, whispered negotiation, and then both curtains drew back at once.

For a second, no one spoke.

Honey-Lou stood in the coral dress, the fabric falling easily from her shoulders in a way that made her look like she’d stepped out of a painting of a summer afternoon. The color warmed her skin and made her eyes look even brighter. Her hands hovered nervously near her sides, like she wasn’t sure where to put them.

Brooklyn, in the deep green dress, looked suddenly older in a way that wasn’t about age at all—more grounded. The color made the brown of her eyes look deeper, her hair darker. She’d automatically smoothed the skirt once, then let it hang, fingers unclenching slowly.

Holly felt her heart squeeze.

“Oh,” Christina said softly. “Hello, you two.”

Florence’s face lit up. “Well,” she said. “Look at that. You both look…just right.”

“You look like a…garden show,” Honey-Lou blurted to Brooklyn. “Like, really fancy plant life.”

Brooklyn laughed, a little breathless. “You look like…sunset,” she said. “Like the good part before it gets dark.”

The compliments landed on both of them like little sparks. You could see them take it in, hold it up inside themselves, test it.

“How do you feel?” Christina asked gently, the question important, not casual.

“Floaty,” Honey-Lou said, swishing the skirt once. “But not in a falling-down way. In a…balloon way.”

“I feel…” Brooklyn hesitated, searching for the right thing. “…like I’m me, but someone turned the focus knob. Just a little.”

Christina smiled, that quiet, proud smile that said she’d done her job but knew the real work had been done by the girls themselves.

“That’s what we want,” she said. “You can go look in the mirrors properly, if you like.”

They moved toward the angled mirrors near the fitting rooms, steps a little uncertain at first, then more deliberate. When they saw themselves fully—front, side, the way the fabric fell when they turned—it was like watching them meet new versions of themselves across a small distance.

“Hi,” Honey-Lou said to her reflection, half-joking, half-serious. “Nice to…wear you.”

Brooklyn didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there, hands at her sides, watching her own face soften, then settle.

“I don’t hate it,” she said quietly, almost surprised. “I think I like it. I think…I like me in it.”

“That’s the whole point,” Christina said from behind them. “Liking you in it.”

They didn’t stay in the dresses long; this wasn’t about buying anything today. After a few more spins and shy smiles and little adjustments, they ducked back into the fitting rooms to change, emerging in their regular clothes with their hair slightly mussed and their cheeks still pink.

“Thank you,” Brooklyn said, clutching her folded dress over her arm like it was still on her. “That was…really special.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “I feel like we had a…confidence snack.”

“A what?” Florence asked, amused.

“Like, not a whole meal yet,” Honey-Lou explained. “But a taste. Like…horses devours.”

“Hors d’oeuvres,” Brooklyn whispered, but without correcting, just sharing the word like a secret.

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “That. But for courage.”

Christina’s eyes glowed. “You’re welcome,” she said. “You can come back for more snacks any time.”

They stayed a little longer, helping Florence refold a scarf display and carefully aligning a row of shoes so that each toe pointed at the exact same angle.

By the time they left, the bell chiming again as the door swung shut behind them, Brooklyn and Honey-Lou walked a little taller. Not dramatically, not like a movie makeover. Just a quiet, almost imperceptible straightening of spines, a lighter swing to their arms.

Out in the mall corridor, the everyday world resumed—kids with ice cream, couples with shopping bags, the distant roar of the food court. But Charms’ soft warmth clung to them like an invisible shawl.

“Clothes translator,” Brooklyn said under her breath, glancing back at the sign one more time. “That’s really what she is.”

“And we’re like…translation assistants,” Honey-Lou said happily. “In training.”

They moved on, side by side, already talking about which imaginary occasions might one day require deep green or soft coral, carrying with them the feel of good fabric and better words, of a place where helping people feel confident was as real and solid a job as any badge or bakery oven.

The guest room was a little square of quiet at the end of the hallway.

The house had settled around it—pipes ticking now and then, the hum of the refrigerator far away, the occasional soft murmur of Holly and Christina talking in their bedroom with the door mostly shut. Somewhere, a car rolled past on the street outside, its headlights stroking the ceiling in a pale slow sweep.

Inside, the only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand between the two twin beds. It threw a warm puddle over the middle of the room, leaving the far corners soft and dim. Their suitcases yawned open against the wall, clothes blooming out in uneven stacks. Someone—probably Florence—had put a little glass dish of wrapped candies on the dresser like a hotel.

Brooklyn lay on her side on the bed nearest the door, blanket pulled up to her waist. She’d kicked her socks off and curled her toes against the cool sheet. Across the gap, on the bed by the window, Honey-Lou lay on her side too, facing her.

The space between the beds wasn’t big, just enough for the nightstand and the lamp and a little rug, but from pillow level it felt like a small river they were peering across.

“You awake?” Honey-Lou whispered.

It was the kind of whisper that didn’t really need answering; Brooklyn could feel her cousin’s wakefulness like static.

“Uh-huh,” Brooklyn whispered back.

Her hand crept out from under the blanket, fingers inching toward the edge of the mattress. On the other bed, Honey-Lou did the same, arm extending across the small gap. Their hands met in the slice of lamplight between the beds, fingers tangling immediately like they’d done this a thousand times—because they had.

“Hi,” Honey-Lou breathed, even though they’d been in the same room for an hour.

“Hi,” Brooklyn said, smiling into her pillow.

For a little while they just lay there like that, sharing the silence, fingers tangled, thumbs tracing absent-minded patterns on each other’s skin. The day played in Brooklyn’s head like a slideshow—dogs and dresses and badge on the wall, the way Holly’s voice changed at the station, the way Christina’s eyes lit up in Charms, Florence checking the oven with the ease of habit.

“It’s weird,” Honey-Lou said at last, voice soft and drifty. “I feel like we been here for a week, but also like we just got here, like, five minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn agreed. “Time’s being…stretchy.”

“Like pizza dough,” Honey-Lou said. “You pull it and it goes all long. That’s our day.”

Brooklyn huffed a tiny laugh. “We did a lot,” she said. “Dogs, Linda, pasta, police, Charms…”

“And wives,” Honey-Lou added, almost dreamily. “We met official wives.”

The word sat between them, warm.

Brooklyn turned it over in her head. She’d said “wives” in relation to Holly and Christina before—they all had, back when Missy talked on the phone and said things like, “Holly and her wife are doing fine.” But it had always been a long-distance word, a radio word. Seeing it in person made it feel heavier, more solid. Like a real object you could touch.

“They’re so married,” Honey-Lou went on, in that same drifting tone. “Did you see how they passed the salt? Like they rehearsed it.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn said, a smile tugging at her mouth. “And when Christina put her hand on Holly’s neck in the mall.”

“And at dinner when they looked at each other at the same time and then looked away,” Honey-Lou said. “Like, ‘Oh, oops, we’re looking again.’”

The bed creaked softly as she wriggled a little closer to the edge, stretching their arms, their joined hands now hanging between the beds like a little rope bridge.

“It’s nice,” Brooklyn said. “They look…soft. Together, I mean. Not like a movie married where people yell all the time.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “They’re like…best friends but also extra.”

She thought about it, searching for the right thing.

“Like…best friends with paperwork,” she decided. “And rings.”

“They’re like…team-captain best friends,” Brooklyn said. “Of the house.”

“They’re wife-wives,” Honey-Lou said, satisfied. “I like that.”

Brooklyn pictured them in the kitchen earlier—Christina flicking water at Holly with a spoon, Holly pretending to be offended, Florence rolling her eyes in the background like she’d been watching that exact dance for years.

“I like it too,” she said quietly.

Their fingers squeezed around each other’s.

“You think Mama’s happy about it?” Honey-Lou asked after a moment. “About them being wife-wives?”

“She sounded happy on the phone,” Brooklyn said. “She likes that Holly has someone to, you know, tell her to go to bed.”

“She said Christina was ‘solid,’” Honey-Lou remembered. “Like a bookshelf. That means she approves.”

Brooklyn smiled into the pillow at that; she remembered those calls too, the way Missy’s voice got bright when she said their names together. *Holly and Christina.* Like one word.

“I like knowing,” Brooklyn said slowly, “that you can have…that. Like, two ladies can just…be married. Not just in movies for jokes. In real life. In dishedwashing.”

“In dishedwashing,” Honey-Lou echoed, perfectly serious. “And grocery shopping. And bed-making. And wife things.”

“And Auntie Flo,” Brooklyn added, the thought arriving right behind the first. “She used to be married and now she’s…not. And she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “She’s like…single on purpose.”

“Internally single,” Brooklyn said carefully. “Like when you don’t take a second cookie ’cause you’re already full, not ’cause there’s no cookies.”

“That’s a good way,” Honey-Lou agreed. “She got her shop and her chair and her tea and her charts. She doesn’t look sad at all.”

“Mama said she had a husband before,” Brooklyn said. “A long time ago.”

They lay there, words flowing slowly, not rushed. The house creaked softly as it cooled, a sympathetic sound.

“It’s weird,” Brooklyn said, “’cause at home I always think, like…grownups do the same thing. Get married. Have kids. Whatever. But here it’s like…a menu.”

“A marriage menu,” Honey-Lou said, delighted. “You can pick from the menu. Wife-wife, husband-wife, whatever Auntie Flo is. All good.”

“You can do one and then another, even. Like, first married, then not, then maybe married again if you want. Or just…never.”

“But you still gotta have people,” Honey-Lou said. “I think that’s the main thing. Not…alone alone.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn said. “Holly’s got Christina. Auntie Flo’s got them, and Linda, and the whole shop of prom kids.”

“And we got Mama and Daddy and cousins and each other,” Honey-Lou said, a little fierce. “We’re so not alone it’s, like…illegal.”

There was a beat, and then they both snorted quietly at the same time.

The lamp hummed faintly. In the tiny space between their beds, their linked hands felt like the center of the universe.

“Do you ever think about it?” Honey-Lou asked after a while, voice even softer. “Like…if you wanna get married one day?”

Brooklyn stared at the gentle oval of light above them, where a tiny moth traced patient circles.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Mostly I think about…not being stuck. I don’t wanna be stuck with someone who doesn’t…see me. You know?”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “I want…a nice married if I get married. Not a weird married. Like Holly and Christina. Or your Mama and Daddy when they’re laughing.”

“Yes,” Brooklyn said, the word coming out like a breath. “Nice married. Like, two people who like doing taxes together.”

“That’s so romantic,” Honey-Lou said sincerely. “Taxes with snacks.”

Brooklyn laughed again, a little bubble of sound.

“What about you?” she asked. “You wanna be married, you think?”

“I dunno,” Honey-Lou said. “I like the idea of having a…permanent sleepover with your favorite person. That sounds fun. But also Florence seems pretty happy with just her chair and her sudoku. So I also like that.”

Their minds drifted for a second to the house as they’d seen it that evening—Holly and Christina moving in easy circles around each other, Florence in her armchair with a book, Linda making rounds like a tiny, striped supervisor.

Brooklyn squeezed her hand, heart giving an odd little twist. “Mama always says, be you anyway.”

“She says it when we hold hands on the bus,” Honey-Lou said. “When that old lady glared, remember? Mama just squeezed my shoulder and mouthed, ‘Be you anyway,’ at us.”

Brooklyn smiled, remembering Missy’s fierce little nod, the way her mouth had made the words like a spell.

“Do you think Auntie Flo ever gets lonely?” she asked after a moment. “Without a…wife or husband. Just her.”

“I don’t think so,” Honey-Lou said, thoughtful. “She got lots of people. And she likes her quiet. Some people like quiet the way other people like parties. She’s, like…party-allergic.”

“And if she ever gets lonely,” Honey-Lou added, “she can just, like, un-single. If she wants. She’s still pretty. That man at the grocery store was totally looking at her avocado picking.”

Brooklyn smiled at the memory of the man in the produce aisle, trying to strike up a conversation about ripeness while Florence tested a cantaloupe like she was reading its secrets.

“She made him go away with one eyebrow,” she said. “She’s powerful.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said confidently. “So she’s not…unhappy.”

They fell quiet again for a little while, but it was a thinking quiet, not an empty one. The lamp hummed. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked as someone shifted in another room.

“I like this house,” Honey-Lou said eventually. “It feels like…all the histories live here.”

“Yeah,” Brooklyn said. “It’s like a…brochure.”

Brooklyn’s gaze dropped to their hands again, centered in that small, warm pool of light.

“What about ours?” she asked, almost to herself. “What’s our…brochure say?”

Honey-Lou hummed, thinking. “Roads,” she said. “Definitely roads. And maps. And songs. And…people.”

“And each other,” Brooklyn added quietly.

“That’s the front page,” Honey-Lou said without missing a beat. “We’re the…cover art.”

Brooklyn’s chest went tight in a way that wasn’t bad, just big.

They lay like that a while longer, letting the words soak all the way in. The lamp’s bulb buzzed once, the tiny moth tracing another slow figure-eight.

“I’m glad we came,” Brooklyn said at last. “Here.”

“Yeah,” Honey-Lou said. “Me too. I like seeing the future in real life.”
Brooklyn smiled into the pillow.

The lamp was still on when their eyes finally drifted shut, fingers still laced in the middle. Eventually, Holly or Florence would tiptoe in and switch it off, smiling at the sight of them—two girls in two separate beds, connected by that small bridge of hands, dreaming their way through a house that had shown them more kinds of futures in a day than they’d known how to imagine before.

For now, the guest room held them quietly, the soft glow wrapping around their joined fingers, the whole night leaning in to listen to the small, steady sound of them breathing together.