“It’s hindsight,” I say, and Brent laughs. “Looks good on everyone.” I stop myself from saying that Brent looks good too—not because it isn’t true, but because it is. Upon closer inspection, Brent has changed. He’s just as handsome, but in a softer, more accessible way. His muscles have relaxed and he looks just tired enough to be real.

He shakes his head. “If I’d been smarter in high school…” Real, fake, fabricated. Maybe everyone in Barrens has trouble telling the difference. “Come in, before it starts dumping on us.”

I have to squeeze myself past him and for a second I smell his shampoo, and I remember that night in the woods and the water left on my skin from his hair after he kissed me.

I follow him to a booth in the corner and slide into my side, clutching a menu like it’s a life preserver. In high school, Woody’s was huge: when there were no parties, nowhere to go or no one to buy beer or no money to buy it with, everyone would go to Woody’s for the free coffee refills, shouldering up next to old-timers playing cards in their usual booths and groups of giggly girls pitching in for a plate of curly fries. I used to come by myself, after everyone else had cleared out, just to avoid being at home. It smells like the fryer and maple syrup just like it always did.

“So?” Brent leans forward, as if he can’t stand to leave any distance between us. “How is it to be home after all these years? Just like you remember it?”

“Hard to say, since I’ve spent half my life trying not to remember,” I say, and Brent laughs. Of course, he has no way of knowing how hard I’ve tried to put Barrens behind me. And how badly I’ve failed.

The waitress shows up, and I can tell by the way she laughs that Brent is still the big fish in town. I duck my head and pretend to be absorbed by the menu.

“You like omelets? Best in town. Two Western omelets, please,” Brent says. “And two coffees. You don’t mind if I order for you, do you?” His voice is teasing, and friendly, and happy.

I snap my menu closed. “I’ll just have scrambled eggs. No coffee. Tea would be great.” As soon as she leaves, I’m not sure why I did it. Only that I don’t want to make Brent so happy.

Or I do, which I can’t allow, either.

If he senses a rebuttal, he doesn’t act like it. “Strong choice,” he says. “You know, I always liked that about you—how you did your own thing. You never ran with the pack.”

I was too busy running from them, I nearly point out, but I don’t. He’s just being nice. But it’s Brent.

“You must be wondering why I wanted to see you,” I say.

“Come on, Abby. You haven’t been gone that long. You know how this town works. You hadn’t been back five minutes when Misha put out an all-points bulletin.”