Some texting

You step out of Petal & Thread into the afternoon sun, the bell chiming behind you. Main Street stretches in both directions—quiet, unhurried, the kind of small-town thoroughfare where people nod at strangers and shopkeepers leave their doors propped open. The paper bag of croissants dangles from one hand. Your crossbody bag rests against your hip, the weight of Margot's book and your phone inside it.

You find a bench near the pharmacy—Gail's place, where she'd complimented your lipstick two days ago—and pull out your phone.

Got the job. Boutique on Main Street. Starts Monday.

You hesitate over the next line. What do you say? You can't exactly explain the full situation. You settle on something that feels honest without revealing anything.

Turns out I'm better at clothes than I thought.

You hit send and pocket the phone, then unwrap a croissant from the bag. It's slightly stale but still buttery and flaky, and you eat it in three bites while watching Main Street breathe.

Chloe's reply comes within a minute, as it always does.

OMG RILEY!!! That's amazing!! What kind of boutique??

Women's clothing. High-end fabrics, curated stuff. The owner's great.

Wait wait wait. You're working at a FASHION boutique?? My cousin the fashion girl. I'm literally crying. Mom is going to die when I tell her.

Don't tell her yet. Let me settle in first.

Fine fine fine. But I'm telling her eventually. She's going to be SO proud. Also you HAVE to send me outfit pics. I need to see what you're wearing to work.

Your thumb hovers. Outfit pics. The dove-grey dress. The ballet flats. The low twist in your hair.

Maybe once I'm more settled, you type back.

Ugh fine. I'm so happy for you. Barcelona is gorgeous but I miss you. Tell me everything about the shop later ok??

Will do. Love you.

Love you too weirdo

You tuck the phone away and take a breath. The afternoon is warm, the kind of late-spring warmth that makes everything look slightly golden. You start walking.

Main Street reveals itself slowly. You pass the pharmacy—closed for lunch, the blinds half-drawn. Next door is a small bookshop called Ink & Spine, its window display featuring a hand-lettered sign that reads "Local Authors Week." A narrow alley between buildings leads to what looks like a community garden, green and overgrown.

The post office sits at the corner, a brick building with a flag out front. Across the street, The Gilded Fork is visible—Fletcher's place. You can see movement through the windows, the lunch rush winding down.

You pass a yoga studio called Stillwater, its door painted a soft sage green. A woman in athletic wear exits, wiping her forehead with a towel, and gives you a friendly nod as she passes.

Further along, you notice a small bulletin board outside the post office—job postings, community events, lost pets. A flyer catches your eye: "Larkspur Hollow Community Art Show — Next Friday 6-9pm — Local Artists, Live Music, Refreshments." Priya's invitation, confirmed in print.

Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Hey! It's Priya from the shop. Got your number from Margot (hope that's ok). Just wanted to say you were awesome today. See you around?"

You're standing in the middle of Main Street, croissant bag in hand, the afternoon stretching ahead of you with nowhere particular to be.