Backroads and Bittersweet – C1
Chapter 1 – Welcome Back, Stranger
Claire hadn’t planned on crying, but the second her tires hit the faded “Welcome to Willow Creek” sign, something in her chest cracked.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the two-lane road. The familiar curves of the hills, the leaning fence posts, the tall grass swaying in the breeze — it all rushed back in waves: memories pressed between summers and secrets, laughter and aching silences.
She hadn’t been home in twelve years. Not since college. Not since she’d built a life out of escape.
Now here she was — back to box up her grandmother’s house and bury what was left of her childhood.
Claire rolled the window down. The air smelled like honeysuckle and dust, like warm pavement and the past. She drove slowly through Main Street, eyes scanning the same storefronts with new eyes. The coffee shop was still there, so was the old movie theater — though the marquee now read CLOSED FOR REPAIRS in crooked lettering. Some buildings had fresh paint; others had given up trying.
Her chest tightened when she turned onto Mill Road, gravel popping under the tires. Her grandmother’s house sat at the end of a long driveway, nestled between two weeping willows and a sagging porch swing that hadn’t moved in years.
She parked, cut the engine, and sat there a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
Just breathe.
Claire stepped out into the heat, her heels sinking slightly into the dirt. She reached for her suitcase when she heard the low hum of an engine behind her.
A beat-up black pickup rolled up slow, crunching gravel beneath its tires. The window rolled down.
“Need a hand?”
The voice stopped her.
It was lower than she remembered. Rougher, maybe. Like whiskey and late nights. But unmistakable.
Claire turned, squinting into the sunlight.
Jake Harper.
He looked different. Not wildly — still tall, still broad-shouldered and sun-kissed. But older now, more carved than built, like the years had sculpted him in silence. His hair was longer, shaggier than it used to be, and his jawline was shadowed with the kind of stubble that looked deliberate.
He smiled — just barely — and stepped out of the truck.
Claire blinked. “Jake?”
He shrugged. “Thought I’d stop by. Your grandma used to call me whenever her pipes made funny noises or the porch creaked too loud. Guess I got used to checking in.”
She swallowed, suddenly aware of the sweat at her temple, the heat of the sun on her neck.
“I didn’t expect anyone.”
Jake walked closer, boots crunching softly. “Most folks don’t. That’s half the charm.”
She laughed, the sound brittle in her throat. “Some things really haven’t changed.”
He stopped a few feet from her. His eyes were the same — a soft, unreadable gray. He looked at her suitcase. “You planning to stay long?”
Claire hesitated. “Just until I get the house in order.”
Jake nodded. “Well… if anything’s broken, I still do repairs. And oil changes. And apparently porch swings.”
She smiled, but something in his gaze made her stomach flutter — a quiet kind of noticing. Not lust, not quite. But the warm, unhurried kind of attention she hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her voice softer than she meant.
He lingered a second longer. Then nodded once and turned back to his truck.
“Welcome back, Claire.”
And just like that, he was gone — the truck kicking up dust as it disappeared down the road, leaving her standing in the quiet, pulse humming with something she didn’t yet have a name for.