Chapter 1. Rebuilding, Not Just Unpacking

January 9th, 4:22 PM

DING DONG.

I flinch so hard I nearly stab myself with the box cutter. My heart’s still rattling in my ribs when I shove the blade closed, wiping my hands down my jeans like I’ve just been caught doing something illicit.

Who even rings doorbells anymore?

Maybe it’s the delivery guy. Or some neighborhood kid selling overpriced chocolate bars for a school fundraiser. Or—God forbid—a well-meaning neighbor trying to welcome me to the block with a forced smile and a plate of cookies that taste like cardboard.

I glance around at the warzone of half-unpacked boxes, tape scraps stuck to my socks, a coffee mug that’s been refilled but never finished.

I am not in the mood to make polite conversation.

Still, I force my feet toward the door, plastering on the best I swear I’m normal expression I can manage.

When I pull it open, I am not prepared for what I find.

A living vintage postcard.

Sunflowers. A hat covered in them, actually. Big, golden petals bobbing with every movement. Beneath the hat, a face so warm and crinkled with a smile, I feel like I’ve just been enveloped in a hug before she’s even spoken a word. And the basket—gingham-lined, overflowing with peaches, fresh bread, and a pie still steaming through the weave of the cloth.

I blink. Then blink again.

“Well, aren’t you a sight?” she beams, tilting her head. “You look like someone in dire need of a good meal and a stiff drink. I can’t help with the second one—unless you like whiskey in your tea—but the first? Consider it handled.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“Oh, wow. That’s… really kind.”

Her grin widens, completely unfazed by my inability to form a basic sentence. “You’re the Thompson woman, right? I’m Mrs. Johnson. Red house, two doors down. Garden gnomes out front—some love them, some think they’re a cry for help.”

I let out something dangerously close to a snort. “Well, if I ever wake up to find them moving on their own, I’ll know who to call.”

“That’s the spirit.” She nods at the basket. “Thought you could use some fuel for the battle in there.”

I follow her gaze to the disaster zone behind me. “Unpacking is…a process.”

“A beast. One I’ve wrestled with more times than I’d like to admit. My husband and I moved here in ’87. Still unearthing boxes we swore we’d finish ages ago.”

I let out a breathy laugh, already feeling my defenses cracking under her easy warmth. The scent of cinnamon and butter drifts up from the basket, and my stomach growls—loud.

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes twinkle. “There’s apple pie in there. My specialty. I recommend hiding it if you want any for yourself. And the peaches? A little bruised, but sweeter than you’d think.”

I take the basket, its warmth seeping through the woven handle. It’s heavy, full of something I didn’t even realize I was missing.

“Thank you. Really.”

“Anytime, dear. Now, how’re you all settling in? The kids doing okay?”

The warmth slips, just a little.

I picture Jessica, curled in on herself like a closed fist, purple streaks hiding her face, earbuds wedged in as permanent armor. Tom, trying too hard to act fine, to fill the spaces his dad used to take up.

“They’re managing. New school, new everything. It’s… a lot.”

“They’ll find their rhythm. Houses need living in before they feel like home. Speaking of—there’s a neighborhood barbecue this Saturday. Burgers, lemonade, too many baked beans. You should come.”

I hesitate, already picturing myself trapped in a circle of friendly strangers asking too many well-meaning questions.

“Oh, that sounds—”

“Great! Wonderful! What’re the kids’ names?”

“Tom and Jessica.”

"Oh! I saw two young guys here yesterday—Tom, and who's the other one?”

I laugh. “Oh—no. That one's Leo. he’s not mine. He’s Tom’s best friend. Basically family, though.”

“Well, bring them all. Brownies for everyone, especially the not-quite-son.”

Before I can overthink my answer, I hear myself saying, “We’ll be there.”

Mrs. Johnson beams like I’ve just made her entire day.

“Perfect. And in the meantime, enjoy that pie. Fixes all kinds of stress.”

She waves, sunflowers bobbing, then disappears down the porch steps.

I stand there for a long second, the basket pressed against my chest, the scent of cinnamon thick in the cooling air.

Inside, I nudge the door shut with my hip, leaning back against it.

It’s too quiet.

The kind of quiet that stretches—long and empty, filling up all the spaces I don’t want to think about. I breathe in deep, letting the warmth of the basket seep into me, and walk to the kitchen.

The counter is still half-buried in clutter, a stack of unopened mail, an abandoned roll of packing tape, an empty coffee mug that was hot at some point today. I push a few things aside and set the basket down.

My phone buzzes.

Tom (4:45 PM): jess already made an enemy. impressive.

Me: what’d she do?

Tom: glared at a guy for breathing too loud.

Me: so, normal behavior.

Tom: also made a friend tho. shocking, right?

Me: it’s a trap. don’t fall for it.

The basket shifts when I lift the gingham cloth, and the golden crust of the pie peeks out beneath it. It looks perfect, flaky and warm, the scent of butter and sugar curling around me. A flicker of a memory tugs at me—the kitchen back home, my mom rolling out dough, flour dusting her wrists.

“The trick is in the butter, Jenny-bean,” she’d say, slicing cold cubes into the flour. “Cold as winter, fast as lightning.”

The house smells like cinnamon now.

For the first time since we got here, it smells like something other than fresh paint and cardboard.

Jessica (4:50 PM): tell tom to mind his business.

Me: tell tom urself.

Jessica: blocked.

Me: u do realize we live in the same house, right?

Jessica: unfortunately.

I set my phone down, running my fingers over the edge of the gingham cloth. The basket is still warm. The pie is still untouched.

Maybe I should wait for the kids to get home. Maybe I should share.

Maybe I won’t.

I take a bite straight from the pan, humming as the buttery crust melts on my tongue.

Okay. Mrs. Johnson wins this round.