By the time five o'clock rolls around, I'd rather be anywhere but on the Freedman's' front porch—anywhere else. Preferably my bed, though.

According to the brief two sentences Gramps shared regarding his new friends on our walk, they're recently retired, have two sons that live down around Atlanta, and he enjoys their company. When a perky, makeup-slathered face and perfectly coiffed hair appear on the other side of the screen door, it makes me wonder whether Gramps has started to go senile.

Of course, since I prefer no company, it's not like anyone would have excited me.

Mrs. Freedman's lips are painted a bright, berry fuchsia and spread wide at the sight of us. The scent of her perfume tries its best to push me backward off the porch. "Martin! It's so lovely to see you, we're so glad you were able to come." Her wide, dark eyes shift to me. "You must be his granddaughter. We've heard so much about you!"

"Ain't she as pretty as I said, Meredith?"

"Gramps, sheesh. Stop."

"No, you are, dear. Simply beautiful, and he talks about you all the time." She extends a hand my direction, pumping and pulling me forward into the house at the same time.

It hurts, this interaction. The stimulation. The quiet of my own thoughts has filed down my nerves, exhausted my tolerance for faking normal, but if I'm going to get along in Heron Creek without getting tossed into the loony bin, learning to at least fake it will serve me well.

My teeth grind together, but muscle memory finds me a smile. "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Roger! The rest of our guests are here already. They're a nice young couple that you're just going to love. Come and say hello!"

The rest of her guests? Crap on a cracker, more people.

Gramps meets my gaze, his blue eyes sharp and full of concern. Maybe I'm fooling Meredith Freedman with my faux relaxed friendliness, but he knows better. His presence soothes me with an ease born from years of practice, and I do my best to calm down. It's just people. I used to love them all, the way Gramps does.

A balding man rounds the corner, wearing the retirement uniform of khaki shorts, a colored polo, and Sperrys. His smile is as big and genuine as his wife's, his handshake a little weaker but no less enthusiastic. "Hello, Martin! How're you feeling?"

"Still vertical!" Gramps quips, appearing stronger this evening than he had this morning. His voice booms the way it does in the cobwebbed corners of my mind, his presence curling out to fill the corners of the rooms.

"And you must be Graciela. We're so happy to welcome you to Heron Creek."

"Back to Heron Creek," I reply absently, my mind still stuck on who might be in the kitchen. Whether I know them or they know me. If Mrs. Walters has already gotten to them with rumors of my drunkenness.

Mr. Freedman's brow wrinkles, but his smile doesn't falter. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression you were from Iowa."

"I went to college in Iowa. I was raised there but spent every summer here between the ages of six and eighteen. This is pretty much home, to me." I soften my slew of words, which sound kind of lecturey even to me, with a shrug. "But thank you."

"Of course. You might know our other dinner guests then—they're about your age."

"Roger, I think you may want to check on the meat—" The man—it's a man, I realize, not a boy—stops short when he sees the Freedmans are no longer alone.

When he sees me.

My heart stops beating, and the shock wraps a thick down pillow around my head. It blocks reality, slows my thoughts until my ears register sounds as far away, a million packed-together feathers between me and the rest of the scene. The Freedman's' other guests, the nice young couple, is one-half William Gayle.

Which means the other half is Melanie.

Our eyes stick together, his dusky blue gaze swirling with the same confusion somersaulting through me, tearing me apart in the process. I haven't seen Will since the summer after high school graduation. Since he asked me to stay and I said no, since I took it one step further—a final step, off a cliff—and said college would be better for both of us without any attachment holding us hostage.

"Gracie." His lips taste my name, roll it around in a way that's familiar but also strange. As if it's a drink he doesn't like but takes another sip because a friend promises it's an acquired flavor.

I want to reply, to diffuse the tension crackling in the room with so much force we're probably about to give the old folks a triplet of heart attacks, but the feathers drift down, coat my tongue.

"William, boy, it's good to see you." Gramps swoops in, rescuing me, at least for the moment.

Will tears his attention from me with what looks like effort. He shakes his head once, then twice, and finally digs out a genuine smile for Gramps, along with an embrace. "Gramps. I didn't know you were coming tonight! You should have told me, and we could have picked you up."

"Got Gracie to babysit now, so you and the boy are off the hook."

The boy?

As though on cue, two more blond heads round the corner. One, a shiny dirty blonde bob, belongs to the former Melanie Massie. We'd become fast friends at six, during my first summer in Heron Creek, and her, Amelia, and I had shared everything. Of course, we'd never dreamed that would include Will.

The second head only comes up to my knees. It belongs to a little boy who can't be older than two. He sports a head of cornstarch curls that came from Will, but his chocolate brown eyes are a gift from his mother.

If forming words in the face of Will is impossible, this is something else. I know they have a kid, but meeting him hasn't been on my list of things to do. Ever. The ring on Mel's finger catches the light from the declining sun as it streams through the screen behind me, winking at me as though to say, see what you threw away, Gracie? And what do you have now?

Nothing. You have nothing.

The kid stares up at me, the stranger, and pops a finger in his mouth. I don't know anything about kids, not things like when they talk or can carry on conversations or whatever, but since this one walks he can probably say a few things. He's fucking adorable, like some kind of toddling angel.

Melanie finds her voice, her face white at the sight of me. "Gracie. We had no idea you were coming to visit." She's the same ol' sweet, friendly Mel, and nothing feels off about her reaction. Not until she shoots Will a suspicious glance. "We didn't know she was coming to visit, right?"

"He didn't know," I clarify, finding my voice. It sounds as far away as everything else, but other than that, fine. "And I'm not visiting. I'm here to take care of Gramps."

"You're staying?" Will's strangled question earns him the focus of everyone standing awkwardly in the foyer, and his cheeks turn red.

It almost makes me smile, the reminder of how easy it is to embarrass him. We had fun with that on more than a few occasions, but today I take pity on him. Because the responsibility for this mess rests mostly on my shoulders, maybe, but it's best not to examine my feelings too closely right now.

"And who's this?" I ask, forcing a perkiness into my voice that hasn't been there naturally since I discovered sarcasm around the age of eight. It's not easy to look at his kid, at this tiny replica of the boy I was supposed to marry, but squatting down to his level relieves me of facing either of his parents.

Mel's hand, that damn ring sparkling, toys with his curls. "This is Grant. Grant, honey, can you say hello to Aunt Gracie?"

My stomach tangles like two ropes twisting together in a ship's rigging—one love, one hate. Love, because it's so Mel to act as though no time as passed. As though she didn't marry my first love. Hate, because it had, and she did, and I don't want to be a part of this kid's life.

"Hi," he says, soft but clear.

"How old are you, kid?"

He holds up two fingers with a solemn, serious expression that's so much like his dad's that it breaks me in half.

"Two? Wow." It's all I can do, and I straighten up before he notices the tears in my eyes. My throat burns, as though someone poured gasoline down it, then struck a match.

"So, you all know each other?" Meredith Freedman asks the dumbest question in the history of dumb questions, but it breaks the tension, which has pulled so tight my cheeks hurt.

"We grew up together, Meredith." It's Melanie again, the only one of us that has regular access to her tongue.

"How lovely."

It's all I can do not to snort.

"Roger, how about we go check on those steaks? I'm afraid to leave them alone with you for too long."

Roger laughs at Gramps's comment and gestures him through the living room. The sound of the clumping walker disappears beneath a child's voice, and I look down to find Grant tugging on the hem of Mel's dress.

"Mommy, I have to potty."

"Okay, baby." She sweeps him up onto her hip and smiles at me. For some reason, it makes my throat burn even hotter. "Welcome back, Graciela."

Mrs. Freedman walks Mel and the kid out of the foyer, leaving me alone with Will. It seems I was wrong earlier today about never having seen a ghost in Heron Creek, no matter the stories.

Now I have, and he's mine alone.

"When did you get back?"

"Just this morning."

Silence. Then, "It's good you're here. Gramps...he's not doing too well."

"What do you mean?" We're having a conversation as though it hasn't been a lifetime since the last one. As though we're robots programmed to default to the last known setting. At least, I feel that way.

"I take Grant by and see him on Tuesday nights, when Mel's in school. We bring dinner, watch a game or play cards. He tries to hide how bad off he is, and he fools most people, but he shouldn't be alone."

Guilt gushes through me until it lands in my stomach. The idea of eating dinner is less desirable than ever. I shouldn't have stayed away as long as I have, knowing that Aunt Karen is a dubious caretaker at best. Alongside the shame spurts a geyser of irritation at Amelia. She's better than her mother.

At least, she used to be.

"I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere until...you know." Tears sting my eyes, refusing to obey my demand to stay away now that my audience is smaller. Or maybe because it's just Will. "I can't imagine not having him."

"Me either, Gracie. The whole town's going to grieve, you know that."

I nod, swallowing hard and stepping around him toward the living room.

"Listen, Grace..."

It's too much, the tone in his voice. The one that promises he's about to say something I don't want to hear, can't handle. Some stupid platitude about how things worked out the way they were supposed to, or no hard feelings, or he hopes all three of us can find a way to be friends again.

Instead of stopping, listening and accepting and dealing with the things neither one of us ever wanted to say or hear, I leave the foyer for the crowd, now a solace. Even though there's no escape. I've been back in Heron Creek less than twenty-four hours, but I'm starting to believe that that line about not being able to go home again is an absolute truth.



Dinner goes about as well as expected, which is to say that the Freedmans do most of the talking. Gramps hears about twenty-five percent of the conversation at best and spends more time nodding with a goofy smile than adding anything. Melanie tries, regaling our hosts with a few tales of our more daring childhood exploits, but it's clear that Will has as little interest in reminiscing as I do, and she gives up before dessert. Grant helps, adding a word here and there, and making zooming noises with his green beans, but there's a palpable sense of relief when the dishes are cleared.

"Well, I hate to be the party pooper, but I'm still pretty tired after driving yesterday. I think Gramps and I had better call it a night."

Gramps looks peaked and says his good-byes and thank-yous without further prodding. Dinner was good, and it's obvious the Freedmans retired after a lucrative working life, because Meredith is a pro at hosting. Everything, down to the last freshly pressed linen napkin, had been perfect. Like having dinner inside an issue of Southern Living.

They've been good to Gramps, though, befriending him and checking in, having him around to dinner. It's obvious that even though busybody Stella Walters was ready to ship him off to a home, he hasn't been alone. Will and Grant stop by, the Freedmans look in on him, and Melanie mentioned something about the town's new mayor being a big Braves fan and watching games with Gramps, too.

"Everything was wonderful, Meredith. Thank you." My robot voice is starting to freak me out.

"Of course, dear. Oh! And I almost forgot but Roger's brother is the chairman on the library's board of trustees and he was able to get you an interview, like your grandfather asked."

I shoot Gramps a look, but he's shuffling toward the front door, pretending not to hear.

It's strange, but I don't have it in me to ask what on God's earth she's talking about, even though I do not want a job. Not yet. I'll get it out of Gramps later and let him know that I plan to spend at least a couple months' worth of savings hanging around the house before facing the big, ugly world again.

Gramps is halfway down the street by the time I escape the well-meaning clutches of the Freedmans. When Melanie calls out for me to wait, I wish for a second I could pretend not to hear things I'd rather not address, too.

Instead, I stop at the end of the driveway. My fingers curl into fists, my fingernails pressing little half-moons into my palms while she strides toward me. I never used to be this way—doing anything to avoid spending time with people, scared of standing tall. It sucks. David did this to me, made me feel like an idiot at even the prospect of explaining how exactly I could drop everything and move halfway across the country with no job. Confronting the reason there's a winking diamond on Mel's finger but a shadow of a tan line on mine.

He changed me, but if I'm being honest, I'm mostly angry that I let him.

"Hey, sorry. I know you're ready to go." Behind her, Will carries Grant out to the car, leaning in to put him in a car seat. It's weird, because in my mind, they both still live less than a five-minute walk away.

Which is dumb. Of course they live somewhere else. In their house. Together.

"What's up?" I force out, mostly to stop from folding in on myself and imploding.

"I just...I know it's none of my business, but have you talked to Amelia lately?" She bites her lip, glancing over her shoulder as though Mrs. Walters can hear us from here. Maybe it's habit, but her paranoia infects me.

"No. Not since before she married Jake." I pause, not wanting to ask. Having to ask. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"You know. Come on, Mel. I'm tired."

"The last time I went down to Charleston, I called to ask if we could have lunch or just visit. Catch up, you know?" Another glance, over my shoulder this time. "She said yes, but then later Jake called back and said Millie couldn't make it. And one of my sorority sisters from state knows his family and said there were accusations against him in college. Violent stuff, swept under the rug. With all the miscarriages, I kind of...I'm worried about her."

All of this is news to me, and yet it's not a surprise. I've never seen any indication of Jake being violent but know for a fact that he's lower than the cow shit we used to scrape off our bare feet after cutting through the Jefferson's' farmland to get to the creek.

Worry for my cousin squeezes me tight, digs sharp claws into my heart and lungs and everything else I need in order to live, no matter how hard my brain protests that she's made it clear she doesn't need me. Millie didn't even show up for Grams's funeral last winter, for God's sake.

"I don't have any illusions that Millie's married to a great guy or anything, but you know her as well as I do. I can't believe she'd sit back and take something like that without saying a word." The words seem right when they form in my mind, but by the time they fall off my tongue they sound less than convinced.

Maybe it's just that the past few hours have forced me to face the fact that nothing is what I thought, or expected, or assumed during the twelve summers I spent in this town. There's nothing about life now that I saw coming. What makes me think I ever knew my cousin at all?

"Well, she never seemed like the kind of girl who would have her husband call and break a date with a friend, but I didn't imagine it." Her lip is red where her teeth worry at it. Without warning, Mel's hand snakes out and wraps around my forearm. Her dark eyes fall to my naked left ring finger, but she makes no comment.

The gossip is going to be all over town before the end of the week. That I'm back, with no ring, no fiancée, and a drinking problem. "No, I'm not engaged anymore. I don't want to talk about it."

She pauses, avoiding my face. Maybe it hurts her, too, to realize that there was a time when I wouldn't have wanted to talk to anyone else. "It's good you're here, Gracie. Gramps needs you."

That's all she says, and we both walk away. The parting words are innocuous enough, but there's more left unspoken. I heard it all the same. It's okay that I'm here because Gramps needs me. But falling back into old relationships, particularly with her husband, isn't going to be part of that equation.

Fine. I didn't come back here for Will, no matter what Mel thinks. I came back here to spend time with Gramps, and to hide. Having no friends, and no expectations, suits me just fine.