Chapter 2: A Thorny Welcome

The morning sun painted Lena's new kitchen in shades of gold and possibility. She stood at the window, cradling her coffee mug—the one chipped ceramic survivor from her city apartment—and watched the house next door for signs of life. Cal's truck was gone, probably had been since dawn if she remembered anything about his work ethic. The workshop windows stood dark and silent, but she could smell the lingering scent of wood stain on the morning breeze.

He looks exactly the same, she thought, her stomach fluttering with the same nervous energy that had kept her awake most of the night. Broader shoulders, maybe. More lines around those stormy eyes. But still him.

Still the boy who'd carved her initials in the old oak tree. Still the man whose heart she'd broken because she'd thought it was the noble thing to do.

Lena set down her mug with decisive clink. She'd moved back to Willow Creek for a fresh start, to build something meaningful with her own hands. That included making peace with her past—all of it. The mistake she'd made ten years ago didn't have to define the rest of their lives. They were adults now, neighbors who could coexist with civility, maybe even friendship.

The lasagna she'd made last night sat cooling on the counter, her grandmother's recipe that had never failed to smooth over rough patches. A peace offering, an olive branch, a way to say I'm sorry without having to find words that felt adequate for a decade of silence.

She changed into her favorite sundress—the yellow one with tiny white daisies that always made her feel brave—and gathered her courage along with the casserole dish. The walk across their adjoining yards felt like crossing a battlefield, each step weighted with memories and regret.

Cal's workshop door stood slightly ajar, and she could hear the rhythmic sound of sandpaper against wood. Her heart hammered as she approached, the familiar smell of sawdust and lemon oil wrapping around her like a ghost of summers past. How many afternoons had she spent in this very space, watching him work, learning the names of his tools, feeling safe in the sanctuary he'd built with his own hands?

"Cal?" She knocked softly on the doorframe. "Are you in there?"

The sandpaper stopped. A moment of silence stretched between them before his voice, carefully neutral, drifted from the shadows. "We're closed."

"I'm not a customer." She pushed the door open wider, stepping into the workshop that was both exactly as she remembered and completely transformed. The space was larger now, more professional, filled with tools that spoke of a master craftsman rather than an eager teenager. But there, on the far workbench, sat the same old radio they used to listen to on lazy summer afternoons.

Cal emerged from behind a half-finished cabinet, a piece of sandpaper still in his hand. He'd grown into his height, she realized, no longer the lanky boy she'd known but a man who moved with confident grace. His dark hair was shorter now, practical rather than rebellious, and his blue eyes held none of the warmth she remembered.

"Lena." Her name came out flat, emotionless, like he was reading it from a grocery list.

"Hi." The word caught in her throat, and she had to clear it to continue. "I brought you something. A welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. Well, welcome-back-to-the-neighborhood gift, I suppose." She held out the lasagna with a smile that felt too bright even to her own ears.

Cal's gaze dropped to the dish, then back to her face. "I don't need anything from you."

"It's just food, Cal. Your favorite, actually. Remember? Extra cheese, the way your mom used to make it." She took a step closer, and he immediately stepped back, maintaining the distance between them like it was a physical barrier.

"That was a long time ago." His voice carried an edge of warning. "I don't remember much about those days."

The lie hung in the air between them, sharp and deliberate. Lena felt her carefully maintained optimism falter. She'd expected anger, maybe even hostility, but this cold indifference was somehow worse. At least anger meant he still felt something.

"Cal, I know things ended badly between us, but we're going to be neighbors now. We don't have to be friends, but we could try to be civil—"

"Civil?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You disappear for ten years without a word, and now you want to play house over the back fence? That's rich, even for you."

Heat flashed through her, defensive and hurt. "I never said I wanted to play house. I said I wanted to be civil. There's a difference."

"Is there?" He set down the sandpaper with deliberate care, his movements precise and controlled. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same old Lena, sweeping in with her sunshine smile, expecting everyone to fall in line with whatever she's decided is best."

"That's not fair." The words came out sharper than she'd intended. "You don't know anything about why I left or what I've been through since."

"You're right. I don't. Because you never told me." He turned away from her, focusing his attention on the cabinet as if she weren't there. "And I stopped caring about your reasons a long time ago."

Another lie. She could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself. Cal had never been good at hiding his emotions, not from her. But he was trying so hard to pretend she meant nothing that it made her heart ache.

"I made mistakes," she said quietly, watching his hands still on the wood. "Big ones. But I never stopped—" She caught herself before the words could escape. I never stopped loving you wasn't something he was ready to hear, might never be ready to hear.

"Never stopped what?" He turned back to her, and for just a moment, she saw a flicker of something raw in his eyes before he shuttered it away. "Never stopped what, Lena?"

"Caring," she finished lamely. "About you. About this place. About the life we could have had."

"The life we could have had?" His voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "You made your choice. You chose your big city dreams over whatever this was. Don't come back here now and pretend you have regrets."

"Maybe I do have regrets." The admission slipped out before she could stop it, and she saw him flinch as if she'd struck him.

For a heartbeat, the walls between them wavered. She saw the boy she'd loved in the man he'd become, saw the hurt he'd carried all these years. Then his expression hardened again, more stone than flesh.

"Save it for someone who believes you." He turned back to his work, dismissing her as effectively as if he'd slammed a door. "And take your lasagna with you. I don't eat charity."

Lena stood there for another moment, the casserole dish growing heavy in her hands. She'd known this wouldn't be easy, but she'd underestimated just how deep his anger ran. The Cal she'd known had been passionate but forgiving, quick to anger but quicker to forgive. This man was harder, colder, carved from the same unforgiving wood he spent his days shaping.

"For what it's worth," she said to his back, "I am sorry. Sorrier than you'll probably ever believe."

She started to turn away, defeat weighing her shoulders, when something caught her eye. There, on a shelf partially hidden behind a stack of lumber, sat a small wooden rose. The carving was exquisite, every petal perfect, every thorn sharp enough to draw blood. She recognized the technique—Cal's work, unmistakably—but more than that, she recognized the symbol.

He'd carved her a wooden rose for their first anniversary, seventeen and earnest and so proud of his gift. She'd kept it on her nightstand all through high school, had packed it carefully when she left for college. It had been one of the few things she'd refused to sell when times got desperate in the city, one of the treasures she'd brought back with her to Willow Creek.

But this wasn't that rose. This one was newer, the wood still pale with recent work. Someone had carved this recently—someone who remembered what a wooden rose had once meant to a girl who'd thought she was doing the right thing by walking away.

Cal must have felt her stare because he looked up, following her gaze to the shelf. When he saw what she was looking at, his face went carefully blank.

"I need to get back to work," he said, his voice rough. "Lock the door on your way out."

Lena nodded, clutching the lasagna dish to her chest like armor. As she walked toward the door, she paused, not turning around.

"The rose is beautiful," she said softly. "She's lucky, whoever she is."

She heard his sharp intake of breath but didn't wait for a response. Some conversations were too fragile for words, too loaded with history and heartbreak to survive direct examination.

Outside, the morning sun felt less golden, the possibilities less bright. But as she walked back across the yard to her new home, Lena carried with her the image of that wooden rose, proof that somewhere beneath his anger and indifference, a part of Cal still remembered what they'd once meant to each other.

It wasn't much, but it was something. And Lena Petrova had built her entire life on the faith that something was always enough to start with.

The real question was whether she'd have the courage to keep trying, or if some bridges were too thoroughly burned to ever cross again.

Behind her, she heard the workshop door close with a decisive click, the sound echoing across the yard like a challenge.

Game on, Cal Thorne. Game on.