Calliope's ex-boyfriend, her high school sweetheart, crash-landed back into her life like a rom-com sequel she never ordered, ready to rewrite the script of her existence once again.
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"You...
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Willow fucking Springs.
It's crazy that it's been a whole decade since I last set foot here, yet everything still feels so damn familiar. The air is still scorching hot, and the moment I start jogging down the street, lined with those quaint shops, I'm immediately drenched in sweat.
No matter where I've lived—from Chicago for school, to California, and now Grand Rapids — time has always seemed to move slower. Relationships had a deeper intimacy, whether it was with friends or family. There were no distractions from the fast-paced city life. And as I get older, I realize it more and more.
As I continue down the street, memories come rushing back. They all revolve around Calliope Bennett, from the very beginning till the end. Her presence seems to linger everywhere since I arrived a few hours ago. The bed-and-breakfast where I'm staying? Cal and I spent the night there after prom. It took a lot of lies and bribes, but it was easily one of the best days of my life. That same lingering feeling follows me wherever I go, with every place I see.
I'm going to feel a lot of that here.
"Come on, boy. Don't tell me you can't keep up now," I pant, trying to catch my breath as my dog runs alongside me. "We're almost there."
It's almost eight thirty, and the sun is setting. After I decided to come back here for the reunion, Caleb hit me up to meet him for drinks.
When I get to Mario's, I give Niko a treat and push through the familiar doors. This bar has been here since I was a kid, and Mario himself would pay me to clean under the table. I come from money, but never believed in handouts. It's one of the last things my mom told me before she passed away: "Just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't mean you can't build an empire with your own two hands."
I've lived by that quote for years and that's what makes me stand out.
"Did I just see a ghost come through my bar?" Mario says, swinging a rag over his shoulder. "Chase damn Harrison."
With a small grin, I look around, taking it all in. Vintage beer signs still adorn the walls. Old pictures, worn-out leather bar stools, and the usual pictures depicting the town's history. There are a few patrons scattered around the tables, and there he is—the town drunk, Whiskey Joe. He nods at me, as if he remembers who I am. The military fucked him up, earning him the title he carries to this day, back when I was thirteen.
I chuckle softly. "Don't say it too loud. Someone might hear you."
I'm sure I have a death wish around these parts.
"I say whatever I want in this shithole. You should know that by now, son," he announces, using the bar top to guide him around the bar. He's walking with a limp now. That further proves how long I've been gone. I witnessed this guy throw the biggest of men out of his bar, and it's taking its toll, alright.
