Then again, I get a little twitchy during those couple months every year that I’m home in Michigan. Restless. Then I’m packing and unpacking my shit, wondering if I can travel leaner, lighter, during the next round of faires. So maybe I don’t want that down-home kind of life as much as I think.

Am I wrong, Anastasia? There must be a reason that you stayed in a small town like Willow Creek. Tell me what I’m missing about small-town life. Besides you. Which, let’s face it, might be reason enough to convince me.

Well.

My heart pounded at those last couple sentences. I couldn’t believe this. Dex MacLean, who had a new wench at every faire, missed me. He thought I would be a reason to settle in one town. I flipped back to the tagged picture of him from our Faire, which I had downloaded to my laptop. I took my time savoring him. His smile, free and open and just a little naughty. The strong column of his throat and hint of chest disappearing into the loose linen shirt. Strong corded forearms; long, nimble fingers coaxing music from his guitar.

I studied his face with the new knowledge of this email I’d received, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d severely misjudged him, thinking he was just a fun piece of man candy for a couple weeks. No, Dex was the complete package: gorgeous as hell, but smart and sensitive at the same time. Why hadn’t he shown me this side of him when we were together?

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I hadn’t let him in until I’d sent that first message. But he’d certainly let me know that it wasn’t too late.

Good job, Drunk Stacey. Maybe you didn’t screw up so badly after all.

Five

To: Dex MacLean

From: Stacey Lindholm

Date: September 4, 7:37 p.m.

Subject: Re: Re: My Real Name

I didn’t exactly stay in Willow Creek by choice. Some of us choose to settle in small towns; some of us have settling in small towns thrust upon us.

Let me back up.

When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion merchandising, I was so excited. I had a future. A job: my advisor had, by way of a well-worded recommendation letter, paved the way to an entry-level job in New York with one of the bigger department stores. A place to live: okay, it was with three roommates, and I was relatively sure that my future bedroom had originally been a closet, but it was in New York. I was on my way to everything I’d ever wanted. Independence. Excitement. My life was about to begin.

I only had one more carload of stuff to move to New York when Mom had her first heart attack.

I didn’t even get to start the job. I put them off, and for a few weeks they were even nice about it. But when Mom ended up needing surgery—the scary kind, with words like “bypass” and “quadruple”—those weeks stretched into months. I couldn’t imagine trying to start a new life and a new job away from home while worrying about Mom and her recovery. The job offer disintegrated. My New York roommates found someone else to sleep in their closet. I got the message: you’re not going anywhere.

It’s not all bad, but I think one reason it seems so compelling to you is because it’s a novelty. Something you don’t experience. Because if you lived it, if you were born and raised in a nowhere place like Willow Creek, you would think very, very differently.

I’ll admit that it’s kind of nice to be where everyone knows you. But at the same time, everyone knows you. Did you go through that rebellious teenage phase? I’m sure you did, you have that look. Not me. Imagine trying to pull some shenanigans when not only are you risking arrest, you’re risking your mother knowing what’s going on before the cops do. Believe me, overprotective moms are scarier than the prospect of getting arrested.

Also, I’m not sure how I feel about you calling me Anastasia. Literally no one calls me that. Except for teachers on the first day of school, which was a while back.

“What are you working on, honey?”

“Nothing,” I said automatically, and closed my laptop before she could see the screen. I looked up as Mom came into the kitchen and immediately snapped into diagnosis mode. I’d become very observant these last few years when it came to my mother and her health. She’d looked fine earlier when I’d come down to the house to have dinner with my parents—her meatloaf was not to be missed. But now her eyes looked fatigued, and her complexion had a dull cast to it that I didn’t like at all. “You okay? You look tired.”

“Thanks.” Her eyebrows went up. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”

I tsked at her. “You know what I mean, Mom. Did you overdo it today?”

“I’ve had a couple rough nights.” She ducked into the pantry and came out with a bag of microwave popcorn. “Nothing worth worrying about.”

“Rough nights?” My voice was sharper than I’d intended, but she couldn’t just wave off something like that. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve had a little insomnia, that’s all. Cut it out. I’m fine. You’re as bad as your father.” After starting the popcorn, she came over and kissed the top of my head as if I were seven—in her eyes I probably still was. She nodded at the still-closed laptop. “So what are you working on?”

“Nothing. Just . . . just an email.” I felt my cheeks heat with guilt, as though she somehow knew I’d been writing about her. I tried to come up with something, anything, to change the subject. “I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow after work if you need anything.”

“Some more milk would be great, if you’re going to be there anyway.”

“Sure.” Behind me, little pops started coming from the microwave, quickly followed by the smell of hot salt and fake butter. I traced the edge of my laptop with my index finger, itching to open it and finish my email, but I couldn’t do it while Mom was in the room. When I looked up again, she was digging through her purse on the kitchen counter and extended a twenty-dollar bill in my direction.

“Here you go,” she said. “For the milk.”

“Are you kidding?” I shook my head. “Okay, first of all, milk does not cost twenty dollars. Second, I just mooched dinner off you. I think we can call it even.”

“Just take it, will you? I know you’re trying to save your money, Stacey. You’re still paying student loans, not to mention rent and your car . . .”

“My car is paid off, and you hardly charge any rent at all.” And I’d insisted on paying rent in the first place, back when I’d made the decision to stay. Back when Mom’s mobility had been limited and Dad had looked lost: Mom was his compass, and he didn’t know how he’d get by without her. The rent was a pittance, but it made me feel a little less like I still lived with my parents.

The microwave beeped, and Mom popped open the door. “Grab the bowl for me, will you?”

I didn’t have to ask which one; the popcorn bowl lived on top of the fridge. I stretched onto my toes and fished it down, handing it to her. Mom smiled at me, and I had to admit that she really did look okay. I was worrying too much. But every time I looked at her, I couldn’t help but remember how she’d looked in the hospital: small and pale, hooked up to machines that beeped and kept her alive. Every time I wondered what I’d been thinking, sticking around for so long, I’d think of her so tiny in that hospital bed, and no, I didn’t regret staying home. Even if it really did mean I’d blown my chance to get out of this town and start a life of my own.

“I meant to ask,” Mom said. “Did you give your friend those lists?”

“I did, and she said thanks. She’s already getting a big head start on this wedding.” That was an understatement, and I rolled my eyes, my patented grin back on my face.

Mom clucked her tongue at me. “It’s a lot to plan, Stacey. You’ll see someday.”

Yeah, maybe if marrying my cat became legal one of these days. But out loud I said, “I’m sure you’re right. No pressure, though, right, Mom?”

“No, honey. No pressure. You’ll find the right guy when it’s the right time.” A slightly awkward silence followed, because honestly, when would the right time be? Ever since I’d made the decision to stay home, my parents had lived by the mantra of “take your time.” It was nice that they liked me being around and were in no hurry for me to strike out on my own. But every once in a while, I wondered if taking my time should be taking this long.

Finally, Mom cleared her throat and held up the bowl of popcorn. “Want to watch a movie before bed?”

I did. I really did, but I shook my head. “I joined this book club, and I need to read this before next Thursday.” I pulled the Depressing World War II Book out of my bag and waved it at her.

She took it from my hand and frowned at the cover. “Hmm.” She flipped it over and read the back before handing it back to me. “You need to be in a better book club. That looks depressing.”