DID you know there are over 1,500 types of tea?

Or that tea plants are actually trees?

Here's a mind-blowing fact: all tea — whether it's black, green, oolong, white, or yellow — comes from the same plant, the Camellia sinensis.

Camellia sinensis.

Such a cool word to say

A delicate scent of old paper and faded ink wafts from my book, intertwining with the warm, earthy fragrance of oolong tea brewing in my favorite blue teapot. Its surface is decorated with intricate white flowers, reminiscent of ocean blossoms, and it sits proudly on the stove as steam begins to rise. I sweep my hair behind my ear, my fingers brushing the soft strands, and turn my attention back to my latest treasure—a thrifted gem I scored online from ThriftBooks.

I love that site.

Tea is just so fascinating.

I flip another page, completely entranced by the intricate photos of misty tea gardens carved into mountain sides. My fingers trail over the glossy image like I can feel the cool mountain air through the page. Ellie is curled up on the floor by the back door, her soft fur glowing in the golden hues of the early sunrise. Her fluffy tail swishes playfully against the cool tiles, chasing streaks of sunlight that sneak through the kitchen window.

"Ellie," I chirp, holding up the book so she can see the picture, "Look at this! Did you know tea plants grow at altitudes up to 7,000 feet? Isn't that amazing?" 

Ellie blinks at me, lets out a dramatic yawn, her tiny pink tongue curling like she's mocking me. 

"Seriously?" I sigh, flipping the book around to admire the photo myself. "Ellie, look at these terraces—they're carved into the side of a mountain! People climb these to harvest tea leaves. Isn't that wild?" 

Ellie rolls onto her back with a soft huff, stretching her legs out.  "Fine," I huff dramatically, setting the book back on the table, "I'll just admire it on my own. Grace, that's so cool—tea plants growing on mountains! Thank you, Grace, I know, right?" 

I glance down, and Ellie lets out a soft little trill, her tail swishing like she's humoring me. I grin, leaning down to boop her nose gently. "See? You get it. You're just playing hard to impress." 

She meows again, and I laugh, flipping back to the book. "You're the best audience, Ellie, even if you're a tough critic."

"But listen to this," I continue, flipping a page. "The higher the altitude, the slower the tea grows, which makes it so much more flavorful. Like, these plants are fighting to survive, and we get this incredible depth in every sip."

I run my fingers along the edge of the page, my gaze snagging on a beautiful photo of a misty tea farm in China. Rows of lush green bushes stretch into the distance, their edges shrouded in fog.

What's really cool?  Tea can glow in the dark.

My eyes widen, and I tilt the book closer under the soft glow of the kitchen light. The kettle begins to whistle, and I quickly leap up, grabbing it off the heat. I pour the steaming water over the carefully measured oolong leaves into my new favorite teacup from Target. It has a gold-finished rim and delicate floral patterns etched into the glass. I can't help but smile, already imagining how I could paint it to bring the design to life.

Oolong is my favorite.

Always has been. It's the perfect in-between tea—not as dark and heavy as black tea, not as light and grassy as green. It's balanced, complex, and... ancient. I've always been drawn to its history. The way it's crafted feels almost magical: the leaves are oxidized just enough to bring out the flavor but not so much that they lose their freshness.

I sit back down at the table, letting the tea steep while I return to my book. The page I land on has a stunning photo of tea fields in Taiwan—rows and rows of bright green bushes carved into the mountainside, mist curling through the valleys like a dragon.

"Did you know oolong is often called 'the champagne of tea-"

I pause as a faint vibration ripples through the floorboards beneath my chair.  I glance up to see Mom stepping into the kitchen, the shuffle of her slippers blending with the quiet hum of the ocean outside. Her cardigan hangs loosely around her shoulders, one sleeve slipping slightly, and her messy bun wavers on the edge of coming undone, strands framing her face. 

"Good morning, honey," she greets, curling her lips up half way. 

"Morning, Mom. You're up early."  I beam.

She lingers near the counter, her fingers brushing along its edge, her touch slow and deliberate. "Couldn't sleep, and your father wanted to pray this morning." she murmurs. Her eyes sweep the room for a moment before settling on the teapot. 

"Same here, oh just waking up tho huh b ," I reply, flipping a page in my book. "Mom, look at this!" I twist the book around to show her, my finger tapping on the image of the people in Argentina in the fields picking tea leaves.

Her hand falters briefly as she pours the tea, the warm amber liquid cascading into our cups. She tilts her head slightly, studying the photo. "That does look beautiful," she murmurs.

I take the book back, running my fingers lightly along the page. "Can't you see it? Walking through rows of tea plants, wearing big straw hats, drinking tea fresh off the farm. It'd be like stepping into a dream." 

Her laugh is quiet, almost wistful, as she sets the teapot down and carries my cup to me. "Straw hats, huh?" she echoes, handing it over. 

I grin, inhaling the earthy aroma of the oolong. "We'd totally rock them.." 

Her fingers graze the top of my head, smoothing my hair back behind my ear, and for a moment, they pause like always—lingering. Then she pulls her hand back and reaches for her own tea. 

"What are you reading?" she asks, taking a small sip and settling into the chair across from me. 

"A book about tea," I holding it up proudly. "It's my latest treasure. Did you know the first tea bags were made of silk? Drinking tea from a literal silk bag? That's like royalty-level tea drinking." 

Her lips twitch with amusement, though her eyes flick toward the window for a brief second. "I didn't know that. You're always finding the most interesting things." 

I tuck my legs beneath me, cupping my tea with both hands. "It's because tea is fascinating," I declare, my grin widening. "Honestly, Mom, it's a whole world of culture and history. And guess what—oolong is technically halfway between black and green tea. Isn't that cool?" 

She hums softly, her fingers tracing absent circles on her teacup. "Very cool," she murmurs, her voice warm, though her gaze drifts back to the ocean beyond the window. 

The silence stretches, comfortable but not quite light. My chest tightens as my eyes flicker to the faint marks on her neck, barely noticeable where the light doesn't fully reach. I take another sip of tea, forcing myself to focus on the taste—the smooth, smoky sweetness with a hint of flowers.  "What do you want to do for your birthday tomorrow?" she asks suddenly, her tone casual, though I catch the slight furrow of her brow as she watches me over her cup. 

"Not sure yet. Maybe dinner? Hunter, Amal and Willow want to go out Friday." 

Her brow arches just slightly. "Hunter's back?" 

"Yep, finally. We were thinking La Vida or Driftwood Dock," I set my book aside. 

"Driftwood's nice," she muses, tapping her nails softly on the rim of her cup. "It's right by the water." 

"La Vida has better guac, though," I point out, smiling. "And you know how I feel about guac." 

Her laughter is softer this time, like a ripple in still water. "Life-changing, right?" 

"Exactly," I lift my cup as if making a toast. 

"Do you work today?" she asks after a beat, leaning forward slightly. 

"Just a short shift at the library," I reply, shifting my weight in my chair.

Her face softens, her smile breaking through the shadows. "Do you want me to drive you?" 

I shake my head gently. "Nope, I'll take my bike. It's a nice morning." 

Her lips press together briefly, and her hand brushes lightly against my arm before she leans back. "Alright. Just text me when you're done, okay? And don't forget—Rachel, Luca, and Derek are coming over tonight. I want you home early so we can cook together and set the table.

"Got it." I lift my cup again, forcing a smile that feels paper-thin. "Home early, ready to chop and stir." 

Mom's smile flickers briefly before she moves to the sink, her teacup balanced carefully in her hands. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her neck again, the faint purple marks barely visible in the golden glow. My stomach knots tighter, and I look away, focusing on the smooth surface of my tea. Ellie, who had been sprawled near my chair earlier, is gone. I spot her tail swishing faintly from beneath the couch in the living room, her usual spot when Dad is around.

The low hum of the Keurig breaks the silence, the brewing cycle beginning like clockwork. Right on time. 

"Mom, wh—" 

"Good morning, Grace. Beth"  His voice slices through the air.

Dad steps into the kitchen, his brown gucci loafers clicking softly against the floor. His presence fills the room like a shadow, heavy and unavoidable.  His white dress shirt tucked into his navy blue dress pants crisp with his Bible tucked under one arm. His free hand adjusts the cuff of his shirt.

Mom's shoulders stiffen, but she doesn't turn around right away. She finishes drying her hands on the dish towel, folding it neatly before she faces him. 

"Good morning," Mom whispers.

Dad crosses to the Keurig, reaching for a to-go coffee cup. "What are you doing up so early, Grace?" 

"I couldn't sleep," I clear my throat. "I wanted to read and watch the ocean." I hold up my tea book as if it's a shield, though I feel the weight of his gaze pressing against me. 

He glances at the book and furrow his brows. "I That's not the word of God."

My fingers tighten around the spine of the book. "I... I wanted to read this first. I just got it as an early gift for my birthday."

His jaw tightens, and he scoffs faintly, setting his coffee down. "Grace, for someone who's been blessed enough to survive everything you've been through, you sure don't seem very thankful to God." 

My throat tightens, and I close the book slowly, placing it on the table. "I am thankful," I quietly respond.

"Then start showing it." He leans against the counter, his hand resting near the Keurig. "God should come first, above all else, you both know this. Not tea trivia, not the ocean.." He gestures toward the book with a flick of his hand. 

"But God is in the ocean," I swallow hard, my pulse quickening.

"Don't talk back to me young lady. You think you made it through everything on your own? You think your doctors saved you? It was God, Grace. You're here because He willed it. And yet, you don't start your day with Him. How do you think that looks?" His voice isn't loud, but it carries weight—each word sharp and deliberate, like a knife pressing just enough to hurt without drawing blood. 

"I—" 

"Jared, do you have everything for today?" Mom's voice cuts in softly, pulling his attention away. 

"Yes," he replies curtly, picking up his coffee cup. "I'll be home late." 

"How late?"  She quizzes with an arch brow.

"Beth, I'll be home around seven," he checks his watch.

"But Jared, Rachel is coming over tonight. You know she—" 

"Beth." His tone shifts, colder now. "I'm her father. You've had dinner without me before. Just leave my plate in the microwave, as usual." 

Mom's hand grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. She doesn't say anything, but her silence feels heavier than any argument. 

"I have to go," Dad announces, grabbing his briefcase and planting mom a quick kiss on her neck causing her to flinch, "I'm running late." 

"Okay," Mom murmurs, her voice barely audible. 

He pauses at the doorway, glancing back at us. "I love you both," he says, the words stiff and hollow. 

"Love you," We force out together.

The door shuts behind him, and the house feels both quieter and heavier without him.  Mom walks slides open the patio and door and walks out. Mom doesn't move for a moment. She stares at the patio hardwood floor. Her shoulders sagging as though the tension that held her upright has finally snapped. I sit frozen at the table, my hands still clutching my teacup. The tea has gone lukewarm, but I keep holding it, as if the warmth could anchor me. 

Ellie slinks out from under the couch, her movements slow and cautious. I push back my chair, the sound of it scraping softly across the floor. Mom doesn't turn around. She stays at the banister, the morning breeze catching the edge of her sleeve as she gazes out over the ocean.

I stand up from the table and make my way up the stairs, my steps a little heavier now, as though the weight of the morning lingers with me. As I enter my room, I take a deep breath, trying to leave the tension behind me. My space is a small sanctuary—clean, minimal, with soft lighting that makes everything feel a little more calm. The eucalyptus from my diffuser fills the air. It's comforting, almost as if the scent itself is telling me to just breathe.

I go to my closet, my fingers running over the fabric of my clothes. I pull out a crisp white top with puffed sleeves and a pair of high-waisted, loose jeans, setting them on the bed before walking over to my vanity. Ellie is curled up on my swing chair in the corner, her eyes half-closed.

"Alexa, play Tori Kelly," I mutter, my voice soft but certain.

"Now shuffling songs by Tori Kelly on Amazon Music," the speaker responds, and the room fills with the soothing sound of 'Bottom Line.'

The music is a welcome distraction as I head to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and stepping into the shower. The warm water feels good against my skin, and I close my eyes, letting the droplets cascade down my back. I let my mind wander, the weight of the morning pressing at the back of my mind.

Dad's voice echoes in my head, as it always does after one of his rants. "For someone who's about to be twenty-one, you sure aren't thankful to God for everything you've been through."

The words are like static in my brain, buzzing and annoying, but they stick. The way he ties everything back to God, to religion—he uses it like a weapon, manipulating it, twisting it until it feels suffocating.

I take a deep breath, trying to push the thought away as I lather shampoo in my hair. The hot water washes away the thoughts of the day, but it doesn't quite erase the feeling of his words, accusations and twist everything it's not.

I step out of the shower, the steam curling into the cool air of my bedroom and sending a shiver down my spine. Wrapping myself in a towel, I pat my skin dry and smooth lotion over my arms and legs, the faint scent of coconut lingering in the air. I slip into my clothes, the fabric soft and comforting against my skin. 

At my vanity, a glint of light catches the gold jewelry scattered neatly across its surface. I pick up a pair of delicate hoop earrings, fastening them with a practiced flick of my fingers. Next, I slide on a dainty bracelet that jingles faintly as it settles into place, followed by the gold name plate necklace my mom gave me for my last birthday—a simple piece, but one I never take off. 

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, my damp hair clinging to my shoulders in loose waves. I reach for my brush, running it through until the strands fall smoothly, then clip a small gold barrette to one side to keep it in place. It'll air-dry just fine, no need to wrestle with a blow dryer today. 

If Mom spots me with wet hair, she'll insist on drying it herself. Its her biggest pet peeve.

The opening notes of "Treasure* fill the room, and I hum along softly lean into the mirror, pulling out my mascara, the soft brush sweeping over my lashes. I concentrate, focused on the task at hand when my phone buzzes insistently on the bed. Glancing over, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Hunter's always like this—loud, dramatic, and impossible to ignore.

Hunter: If you don't answer your phone, GRACE NOELLE! WILLOW BEIGE! 😫😫😫😤😤😤  Amal Rawiya

Hunter: Ugh.😡

Hunter: I'm coming to getting all of you! 🙃

Hunter: GRACE! WILLOW AMAL! Answer your damn phones 😤

Willow: Hunter, come down several notches, it's too early 😣

Amal:  and I'm just getting up, I don't have to be at work until 9:30!

Hunter: I'M COMING TO GET YOU FIRST WILLOW, AND AMAL THEN GRACE NOELLE YOU BETTER BE READY.👺

Willow: What no!

Amal: I'm not even ready 😫 I haven't even had my coffee!

Hunter: Starbucks will be in route, Willow you ready?

Amal: You are beyond wild for this Hunter Blaise!

Willow: Are you really at my house?

Willow: OMG!

Willow: You are waiting!

Hunter: OMY, BE READY AMAL AND GRACE!

Amal: I need to put on my lashes!!!! 😫

My shoulders bounce as a giggle slip from my lips. I set my phone down on the vanity, finishing my mascara and blush a little more quickly than I'd like to. I better hurry up—Hunter drives like he's in Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift and Amal only lives a couple minutes away. I slip on my pink socks and white chunky shoes, feeling like I'm in a full-on race against time. I grab my beige graphic flower tote bag and head toward the door.

The doorbell rings, not once, not twice, but in a rapid-fire assault that could rival a game show buzzer. I wince, already bracing for Mom's inevitable complaint about the noise. Sure enough, her voice drifts up from downstairs, warm and amused. Hunter's unmistakable squeal follows, loud enough to make Ellie leap off my bed and trot toward the stairs, tail high.

"Grace, are you ready yet?" Mom calls out.

I grab my tote bag and take the stairs two at a time, my breath quickening as their chatter grows louder. When I reach the bottom, Hunter is already spinning some ridiculous story about a run-in with a Broadway performer, cradling Ellie in his arms like she's the queen of the house.

"Look who's finally graced us with her presence," Willow teases, leaning casually against the bannister. Her knotless box braids catch the sunlight streaming through the window, her top knot perfectly in place. She's rocking a flowy green sundress, paired with beige wedges that somehow make her look effortlessly royal.

Amal stands beside her, scrolling through her phone, dressed in a soft blush pink blazer over a white blouse tucked into tailored high-waisted pants. Her hijab matches perfectly, the fabric flowing like silk.

"Good morning, It's good to see you all," Mom greets with a warm smile, looking at each one of them.

I adjust my strap on my shoulder, "It's definitely a pleasant surprise." I tease.

"I'm carpool this morning, Mrs. Carrington," Hunter announces, holding Ellie up like a trophy. "Even Ellie approves."

Mom shakes her head with a laugh. "What did I say about calling me Mrs. Carrington? It's just Mrs. Beth."

"Suck up," I cross my arms as Willow and Amal laugh.

"Grace." Mom arches her brow and Amal and Willow snicker.

"I wanted to ride my bike." I playfully huff.

"You have plenty of time to ride your little bike, it's bestie time." Hunter teases.

Mom smiles, shaking her head and looking over at Amal and Willow, "I love seeing you girls, you know that right. I wish you would come over more, we love having you here" She hugs both of them.

Their polite smiles don't quite reach their eyes, and my heart sinks. I glance at Hunter, whose knowing look mirrors my own unease. The truth weighs heavily on my chest, a bitter reality I've carried since I was a little girl: the real reason Amal and Willow don't come over more often is Dad.

He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and claps his hands together with a nervous energy, breaking the silence. "We should have a sleepover like old times,"

Mom watching us with that fond expression she always has when the four of us are together, chimes in. "I was just telling Grace we should do something special for her twenty-first birthday this year. Maybe a dinner on the beach?" 

Hunter lights up like a Christmas tree. "Oh, that's perfect. You know I love a theme. fairy lights, make your own pizza, wi- i mean maybe even a bonfire..." 

Willow raises a brow. "Calm down, Martha Stewart. Let's not scare her off again." 

Amal bounces her shoulders, "I would so be in charge of that no worries."

"I'm just saying," Hunter continues, unfazed. "It's her 21st. It has to be iconic. The stuff of legends." 

Amal, Willow and I exchange a look. We know this means trouble. Last time Hunter planned 'legendary,' eighteenth birthday it ended with glitter in every corner of my room for weeks and places I care not to explain.

"She mentioned dinner with you guys already, i think that would be special" Mom runs her fingers through her hair.

"That's still the plan," Willow assures her. "Don't worry, Mrs. Beth. We'll make sure she survives." 

"Survives what?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. 

"Nothing," Amal says with a dazzling smile that screams mischief.

"Besides, I can't wait to get you a new bag." Amal tugging at the strap of my tote bag.

"You're still carrying this? Girl, it's giving 'grandma's gardening day.' We need to fix that."  Willow giggles at the end.

"I like this bag," I protest, hugging it defensively. 

"She's right," Hunter agrees, folding his arms. "It's cute, but it's... functional. You're turning 21, not 41." 

"Do I need to remind you about the pink phase you had in middle school?" I shoot back. 

"Fair point," Willow bounces her shoulders.

Hunter gasps dramatically. "How dare you? My taste is impeccable, especially in pink!" 

"It's excessive," I counter, grabbing my keys. 

"It's iconic," he retorts, linking his arm with mine as we head for the door. 

Amal slips in on Willow's left, her pace perfectly matching Willow and I's. She adjusts the strap of her bag and smirks. "She's not wrong, you know. We're the only reason your life has any excitement."

I roll my eyes, but the tug of a smile betrays me. "Yeah, yeah. Let's just go."

Behind us, Mom calls out, "Have fun! And Grace, don't forget to call me later. I was thinking baked ziti tonight for dinner!"

"I will!" I shout back as we approach Hunter's Jeep.

Hunter's Jeep is already parked at the curb, looking as pristine and over-the-top as its owner. It's spotless, a shining white Wrangler with oversized tires and not a speck of dirt in sight. The top is off, and the salty coastal breeze is whipping through the open interior like it owns the place.

"Shotgun!" Willow calls as she strides ahead. She's already sliding into the passenger seat, adjusting her sunglasses.

I huff, throwing my tote bag into the backseat before climbing in after it. "You always call shotgun."

"Seriously" Amal carefully adjusts her sketchbook on her lap.

"Because I always win," Willow says sweetly, grinning back at me.

Hunter climbs into the driver's seat, running a hand through his tousled curls as they dance in the wind. "Calm down children." He chuckles

"Maybe you should start a rotation chart," Willow quips, popping on some lip gloss.

"Yeah,I should because sometimes I feel like you are up here more than Grace and Amal combined" Hunter deadpans, turning the key in the ignition.

"It's true," I defend, buckling in.

The Jeep roars to life, and we pull away from the house, the salty ocean breeze rushing to greet us like an old friend. The highway hugs the coastline, the waves crashing against the sand, sparkling under the sunlight. My gaze lingers on the water, mesmerized, until Hunter cranks up the music, and Beyonce Cozy fills the air, blending seamlessly with the sound of the wind.

The Jeep practically bounces with energy as the playlist shifts unpredictably, one upbeat track giving way to another softer melody. Willow and Amal are already singing along, their voices clashing harmoniously in the best way possible. Hunter drums his fingers on the steering wheel, offbeat as usual.

"Okay, quick Starbucks stop," Hunter announces, pulling into the drive-thru lane. 

We shuffle in the Jeep as Amal digs through her bag for her phone. She lets out an exaggerated sigh, her voice cutting through the casual chaos. "So, I got some news."

I glance over at her, immediately catching the change in her tone. "What's up?"

Amal hesitates, her eyes flicking toward Willow, who's animatedly trying to convince Hunter that a pink drink is superior to a cold brew. She exhales slowly. "The shop my family runs? Someone vandalized it last night."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. "What?"

"Spray-painted some nasty stuff," Amal mutters, her voice quieter now. "'Go back to where you came from,' things like that."

A wave of anger and sadness floods me. "Amal..."

I reach for her hand, squeezing it tightly as if that could somehow fix the ugliness of the world. Willow and Hunter must have overheard because the air in the Jeep shifts. The laughter vanishes, replaced by a heavy silence.

Hunter grips the steering wheel tighter, his usual carefree energy replaced by something sharper. "Do you know who did it?" His voice, low and steady, feels like the calm before a storm.

Amal shakes her head, looking down. "No. We're cleaning it up today. It's not the first time, though."

Willow crosses her arms, her jaw set like steel. "This is why we have to stick together. They think they can get away with this crap? Not on our watch."

Hunter leans over, wrapping an arm around Amal's shoulders in a rare display of affection. "Anyone messes with you, Amal, they mess with all of us."

Amal blinks back tears, a small smile breaking in. "Thanks, guys."

The drinks come, and we settle back into the Jeep. Hunter pulls away from the Starbucks, the mood slowly beginning to lift again as Amal sips her latte. Her stop is first—her part-time job at a t-shirt shop on the boardwalk. 

As she hops out, she turns back to us with a warm smile. "I love you guys. Thanks for always having my back."

"Always," Willow calls out, raising her drink in a toast. 

Hunter tips an imaginary hat, and I blow her a dramatic kiss, earning a laugh as she disappears into the shop. Hunter steers us back onto the road, his voice softer now. "I missed you guys, you know."

Willow and I exchange a look, her expression mirroring the tug I feel in my chest. "We missed you too," Willow reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "It's not the same without you, Hunter. You know that."

He chuckles, though there's an edge to it. His curls whip across his face, and he brushes them aside with a distracted sigh. "Yeah, but being on the road? It gets... lonely. My team is great, but they're not you guys. I'm just glad competition season's over."

Willow flips down the visor to adjust her sunglasses. "It's about time. Grace and I have been holding it down without you."

"I know, I know," Hunter replies with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But I think this time, I'm going to work at the gym instead of traveling."

I lean forward, resting my chin on the back of Willow's seat. "Is that why you're back early? Or is this about the breakup?"

Hunter's hands tighten on the wheel, the knuckles standing out against his tanned skin. "Yeah, it's about the breakup," he admits, his voice quieter now. "Dylan just... couldn't do it. Couldn't be himself. I mean, I get it. Coming out isn't easy, but..." His voice falters, and for a moment, all we hear is the rush of the wind.

Willow tilts her head, her sunglasses slipping down her nose just enough to give him a piercing look. "But it's not fair to you, Hunter. You shouldn't have to dim your light for someone else's fear."

"Exactly," I add, my voice firm. "You deserve someone who's proud to be with you. Dylan didn't deserve you."

Hunter's lips twitch into a faint smile, his grip on the wheel loosening. "I know, I know. But it still sucks. I thought we had something real. I loved him. Turns out, I was just his... secret."

Willow shakes her head, propping her sunglasses back up. "Boy, please. You're not anyone's secret. You're the whole damn show, and don't you forget it."

That earns a real laugh, one that echoes through the Jeep and lightens the mood instantly. Still, I can't help but worry. The last time Hunter spiraled like this, it was nearly impossible to pull him back.

"Enough about my tragic love life," he declares, waving a hand as if to physically push the topic away. "Willow, what about you? Any hot dates?"

Willow's face lights up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Actually, yes. I met this guy at the shop last night. Super cute, tall, clean-cut, looking for a charm bracelet for a friend. We're going on a date this weekend."

"What?!" I exclaim, sitting up straighter. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugs, clearly enjoying the dramatics. "It just happened last night. His name's Zack. He's got these deep brown eyes and a smile that could end wars. I'm already smitten."

My stomach twists. Zack... could it be the Zack from my church? The one who leads youth group and bakes cookies for Sunday school? "What's his last name?" I ask carefully.

Willow pulls out her phone, scrolling casually. "Something generic, I think. Why?"

"No reason," I mutter, though my mind is already spinning. This is going to be... interesting. And honestly? I'm all for it.

"Grace, you look like you've seen a ghost," Hunter remarks, catching my expression in the rearview mirror.

"Just thinking," I reply, brushing it off. "Anyway, let's talk about something else. Like... the five things I want to do now that I'm turning 21."

Willow spins in her seat to face me, her excitement palpable. "Ooh, spill!"

I tick them off on my fingers. "First, I want to have my first kiss."

Hunter nearly swerves the Jeep, gasping in mock outrage. "Oh, the smutty books have corrupted you, Grace Noelle!"

"I don't read smut!" I snap, my cheeks heating as they both burst into laughter. Of course, my secret collection at Willow's house betrays me. "Second, I want to go on a real date. Like, dinner, maybe a movie—the whole deal."

Willow nods approvingly. "Yes, girl. Get that romance."

"Third," I continue, "I want to go up north. I've always wanted to see the fall leaves and those big libraries in Boston."

Hunter raises a brow. "Random, but okay."

"Fourth, I want to start school again. I want to become a librarian." I sigh dreamily, letting the idea settle. It feels distant but not impossible.

Willow beams. "I like, I like."

"And fifth," I say, taking a deep breath, "I want to move out. Find my own place and just... start fresh."

The Jeep falls quiet for a moment, my words hanging in the air. Then Willow reaches back, her hand finding mine in a reassuring squeeze. 

"You'll do all of that, Grace. I know you will," she says firmly. 

"And we'll be here for every step," Hunter adds, his voice warm and steady.

A smile breaks across my face, the tightness in my chest easing. "Thanks, guys." 

Hunter maneuvers the Jeep into the small parking lot of the Coastal Bay Library, the tires crunching against the gravel. The building itself is quaint, with weathered brick walls and a wide front porch adorned with potted plants and a wooden bench. The sign above the door reads Coastal Bay Public Library.

"Home sweet library," Hunter quips as he pulls into a spot near the entrance. He turns off the engine, and the sudden absence of the rumbling Jeep makes the quiet hum of the seaside town more noticeable. 

"You say that like you don't tease me for working here every chance you get," I scrunch my nose as I unbuckle my seatbelt.

"Because it's cute," he counters with a grin, twisting around to look at me. "You in this dusty little building surrounded by books? It's very 'Beauty and the Beast,' minus the Beast, of course. Maybe one day he will come" 

"Grace is Belle," Willow chimes in, flipping one of her braids over her shoulder. "And I'm clearly Lumière because I light up her life." 

"You sure do," I giggle, grabbing my tote bag. 

Hunter leans back, his curls blown into an even wilder state from the wind. "I want to be Mrs.Potts than!"

"Oh curvy and lush," I tease, climbing out of the Jeep. 

Hunter winks, blowing me a kiss, "You know how hard I work on the glutes."

We all laugh and I hop out the jeep. He blows the horn a few times and they turn up the radio louder as Hunter speeds away. I push open the door, the familiar smell of books and polished wood greets me, and I feel a sense of calm settle over me.

With a small smile, I turn back to the library, ready to start my day.

The soft chime of the library doorbell echoes as I step inside, greeted by the comforting smell of old books and freshly vacuumed carpet. The Coastal Bay Public Library is small, but it feels alive with its quiet hum—people flipping pages, the faint tapping of keyboards, and the soft murmur of conversations. 

"Morning, Grace!" calls out Ms. Diane, one of the older librarians, as she straightens a stack of returned books behind the counter. Her short silver hair is as neat as ever, and she has a smile that makes you feel like you've done something right just by existing. 

"Good morning, Ms. Diane," I wave as I pass. 

"It's good to see you this morning." Mrs.Diane scans a book.

Before I can respond, my boss, Mrs. Helen Cartwright, strides out of her office. She's in her late forties, with sharp green eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor that somehow pairs perfectly with her perpetual collection of cat-themed cardigans. Today's features orange tabbies chasing yarn. 

"Grace, perfect timing," she clasping her hands together. "I need you to cover story time today. I was going to do it, but I've got a last-minute meeting with the Friends of the Library group." 

I blink. "Oh, sure! What's the book today?" 

"If You Give a Pig a Pancake," She hands me the book along with a clipboard listing the craft supplies and props. "The usual group should be here, plus a few new faces. Think you can handle it?" 

"Absolutely." I nod quickly, shifting my tote higher on my shoulder as a little flutter of nerves mixes with excitement in my chest. Storytime is one of those moments I secretly look forward to, even when it's absolute mayhem. A tiny smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I glance toward the children's section, already imagining the chaos waiting for me there.

"Excellent." Mrs. Cartwright pats my shoulder, her cat earrings swinging slightly. "You're a natural with the kids, Grace. They'll love it." 

I head toward the children's section, gathering everything I'll need—paper plates, crayons, glue sticks, and a plush pig that's admittedly seen better days. The small reading nook is already set up with a colorful rug, tiny chairs, and a chalkboard sign that reads 'Story Time with Miss Grace!' in bright pink letters. 

As I'm arranging the props, I hear the door chime again. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar elderly woman—Mrs. Reyes walking in with her grandchildren. The little girl curly hair bouncing as she walks. Little boy, smaller and wide-eyed, clings to her other hand, clutching a stuffed elephant. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Reyes," I call out, straightening up and brushing my hands on my jeans. 

"Oh, Grace! It's so good to see you, Your mom said you would be here today" her face lighting up. "I thought we'd stop by for story time today. These two need to burn off some energy, and I figured books are better than cartoons." 

"Hi!" Teal says brightly, letting go of her grandma's hand and skipping over to me. "Are you the storyteller?" 

"I am," I smile, crouching to her level. "And you must be Teal, right?"

She beams brightly and leans into Mrs. Reyes. "And you must be Rio," I glance at her younger brother. He's peeking out from behind Mrs. Reyes, his big brown eyes studying me.

Rio gives a tiny nod, clutching his stuffed elephant like it's his lifeline.

"Well, I'm extra glad you're here," I say, crouching slightly to meet his eyes. I hold up the book and the pig puppet, making the puppet lean forward to pretend-kiss Rio's nose. "This little pig thinks you're going to love today's story."

Teal's eyes light up, sparkling with excitement, while Rio takes a hesitant step closer, his curiosity starting to peek through the shyness. His lips twitch upward, just the faintest hint of a smile forming, and it's enough to make my heart melt.

Mrs. Reyes chuckles. "Looks like you've already won them over. They'll be your biggest fans by the end of this." 

The kids settle onto the rug with the other children, Teal sitting front and center while Rio clings to her side. I take my seat in the oversized rocking chair, the book in my lap, and look out at the small group of eager faces. 

"Okay, everyone," I say, my voice light and cheerful. "Who's ready to find out what happens when you give a pig a pancake?" 

The kids cheer, and even Rio cracks a tiny smile worth a million bucks.

Author's Note

Long chapters give better meaning and stories coming to life!

What do you think about Grace's parents?

What do you think about Grace so far?

What do you think about the co characters?

Predictions?