New friends

You save Priya's number under her name, the contact photo defaulting to a grey silhouette. You type and delete twice before settling on something that feels natural—not too eager, not too cool.

Hey! Totally ok that you got my number. I'd love to meet up—I'm still figuring out what there is to do around here since I'm pretty new to town. Are you going to that art show next Friday? Would be fun to see you there.

You hit send and pocket the phone, then take another croissant from the bag. The afternoon sun is warm on your bare arms, the dove-grey dress catching a slight breeze that makes the fabric shift against your thighs. You lean against the post office wall, watching Main Street do its slow Friday dance.

The reply comes in under a minute. Priya types like she's being charged by the word.

YES. Friday is happening. Janelle and Wren are coming too. We're going early to scope the pieces before the crowd arrives. 5:30 meet at the community center entrance?

Then immediately:

Also there's a ceramics girl who does these insane glazes and I NEED to see her work before someone buys it all. She only brings like 10 pieces per show.

Then:

Also also there's a food truck that does Korean corn dogs and they're life-changing. Just putting that out there.

You're smiling at your phone when a voice startles you.

"Excuse me—sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

A man stands a few feet away, mid-fifties, with a thick grey beard and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a broad nose. He's wearing a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he's holding a stack of books against his chest like a shield. Behind him, the door to Ink & Spine stands open.

"You looked like you were having a good conversation with someone," he says, nodding at your phone. "I'm Cal. Cal Drummond. I run the bookshop here." He gestures over his shoulder with his chin. "Just wanted to introduce myself. Saw you walking past earlier—new to town?"

"Riley," you say, extending a hand. His grip is firm but brief. "Yeah, I'm staying at the Ellison place. Just started working at Petal & Thread."

Cal's eyebrows lift. "Margot's shop? Good for you. She's been running herself ragged alone." He shifts the books in his arms. "If you're a reader, come by sometime. I've got a whole section on textile history that might complement what Margot's teaching you. And I do a Wednesday evening reading group—nothing stuffy, just people sharing what they're into."

Your phone buzzes again. Priya: So?? 5:30?

"I might take you up on that," you tell Cal, already typing back.

5:30 works! Looking forward to it.

Cal nods, gives a small wave, and retreats into his shop. You finish the last croissant, brush crumbs from the dove-grey fabric, and look around. Main Street is starting to show signs of the late-afternoon shift—shutters being pulled halfway, a delivery truck idling outside the pharmacy, the distant clatter of chairs being stacked at The Gilded Fork.

Your phone buzzes one more time. Priya again:

Perfect. Also—you have really good taste. Like scary good for someone who just started. Margot's lucky she found you.

You tuck the phone away, the compliment settling warm in your chest. The walk back to the estate is fifty minutes in ballet flats. Your feet are already tender from the day. But the afternoon is golden, you have a job, you have plans, and somewhere in your crossbody bag, an accountant's business card holds the promise of an actual paycheck.