a/n: hi lovelies. thank you so much for taking the time to read/review/favorite this lil journey. hope everyone had a wonderful christmas and new year's! also, hope everyone is staying safe in all the winter weather. it's crazy out there. i know that this is slow coming, so without further ado… actually one more ado. please review. (i'm a poet, too). much love, inez.

"somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. he was afraid of what might come leaking out. he does something to me, that boy. Every time. it's his only detriment. he steps on my heart. he makes me cry."

markus zusak

the book thief

Cammie left Blackthorne Farms not knowing entirely what had happened.

Zach had loaded her down with cider—quite literally, he'd given her three gallons at a time to carry, then grabbed an entire crate on his own to take to her car, only to realize that the crate itself wouldn't fit.

They'd moved and shoved and crammed until she'd gotten the amount Abby had sent her for, but sitting knee-deep in fancy apply juice while driving across town, Cammie could still smell his aftershave, feel the rough sleeve of his flannel as he lifted while she shoved, see the taught pull of the fabric across his muscular frame.

She glanced at the apple butter teetering precariously on the edge of the dashboard, shifting every time she stopped at a stop sign.

Surely, this had been some sort of peace offering?

She had several things to say to him, but she knew that for every one comment she made, he would have five, and that they would all be justified.

She'd never been good enough for him.

That had always been okay with her—even when she'd heard he'd met someone, put a ring on her hand, settled down. She'd only eaten four tubs of Ben and Jerry's after that news. It was a moot point compared to the ten she'd eaten after—well, after the incident.

But he'd been too good for her too, still.

She wouldn't think about either of them.

Especially not Zach, who hadn't said an unnecessary word to her after the apple butter incident.

He'd asked how many gallons. He'd not said a thing throughout the entire packing fiasco. Then he'd told her to tell Abby that it was pre-spiced, and to taste it before adding too much cinnamon. He'd banged a hang on the top of her Volkswagen, shook his head as if he was amazed that it didn't tumble apart immediately after, and turned on his heel, not even offering so much as a goodbye.

What had happened? She wasn't sure.

And so she drove.

First, to Abby's house, where she piled all of the cider right in front of the door—payback was, well, payback. Then through town, looking at all of the little shops, noting which ones had changed and which ones had stayed the same.

Really, she was scoping for job opportunities, and without much luck. The small bookstore on Main Street was now an appliance store. Four years of experience in the publishing business—well, sort of—wouldn't help her sell refrigerators.

She knew her other options. The post office. The convenience store. The Dollar General on the outskirts of town. The family grocer.

Worrying about it then wasn't going to help her.

Cammie parked in her mom's driveway, wrapped her yellow raincoat tighter around her shoulders, and took to walking.

The worst thing about living in Roseville, Virginia, was the lack of industry. The second worst thing was the permanent rivalry between the private school kids—Cammie'd been one, Zach hadn't, and they were probably the only two to ever cross over into enemy territory without things getting ugly.

The best thing about living in Roseville, Virginia, was the apples and the salt air.

The town wasn't centered around the docks—main street was maybe a mile away, but the old houses that made up the blocks between the hubs of activity were probably some of the most beautiful in the South. But maybe she was biased.

Roseville was like every other tiny town on the south-eastern seaboard. The port was mainly for fishing, and that's how a lot of the town made their living. The houses were large and white, and moss hung from the live oaks in a way that made things eerie, especially on foggy November mornings.

Each house she passed was a testament to days past—high ceilings, wrap around porches, topped with double and sometimes quadruple chimneys. The brick sidewalk was uneven and worn. All was quiet, probably because the fifty-degree chill stuck to the bones in the damp air.

She didn't stop walking until she was at the wharf, watching men mend their nets and dump their hauls, seagulls lurking in hopes of stealing breakfast. The morning catch was already in. Cammie felt like she'd been caught, too, stuck in a net that would eventually make her drown.

The briny air scratched at her cheeks as she squinted out at the grey horizon, searching for anything to ground her, to make her feel anything but trapped, yet adrift.

She thought back on the morning, on Zach's tanned and taught forearms as he twisted the jars of apple butter nervously on the counter. On his eyelashes catching on one another as he looked down and tried to avoid her gaze.

Every time she came home, he was there, a tape stuck on repeat in the back of her mind. And it wasn't that he was physically there. It was just his presence—Mrs. Dabney at the diner, mentioning that he'd repainted her sign for her; an advertisement for the seasonal community apple harvest; the Goode Performing Arts Center at Roseville School District.

She always thought of him, wondered about him, even when she never saw him. It was exhausting. Maybe that's why she'd stopped coming. She hadn't been back for more than a day or two in years. She'd convinced Rachel to visit New York instead a time or two, or they'd met up at Abby's apartment in D.C.

Anything to stay out of her hometown and away from that tape in the back of her head, playing green eyes over and over and over again.

She dug her nails into a wooden beam of the boardwalk, forcing her thoughts back to other things. She should have gotten Cav. He would have loved the morning walk, and he would've been the perfect distraction.

Cammie stood there for a few more moments, feeling a bit like she'd betrayed her new furry friend, but more like she'd betrayed some part of herself. She saw Grant, Zach's best friend since the second grade, gathering up nets with who she assumed to be his younger brother. Further down the boardwalk, a highway crew was repairing the potholes made by seafood stocking trucks.

"And so it goes," she murmured to herself, pushing off of the railing. Her mom would be up and about, probably worried sick about her daughter's whereabouts after not seeing her the night before. Cammie turned, heading west.

One step in, her foot caught a paving stone, and she stumbled back to keep from falling.

"Hey!"

She paused subconsciously at the deep voice and turned to find whoever was yelling.

"Cammie!"

It was Grant, bounding up out of his boat easily, like it wasn't floating on whitecapping waves.

"Cammie! I thought that was you!" He trotted across the dock to her, yellow rain slicker flapping around him. He opened his arms, as if to pull her into a bear hug, then paused at the last second.

"Oh shit, sorry. I forgot." His grin was sheepish, his eyes bright and open, always the exact opposite of his best friend. "I'm sure you don't wanna smell like fish for the rest of the day."

Despite herself—despite her alarm and worry and general awkwardness—Cammie couldn't help but laugh.

"Hi, Grant."

He laughed back.

"Damn, I thought I was seeing a ghost for a couple of minutes there," he leaned up against the railing. "But you're the only person I know who trips over her own two feet like that." He reached out to ruffle her hair, as if he was ten and she was seven again.

She laughed again, dodging his mussing fingers. "Yeah, I…"

The awkwardness caught up with her.

As always, he caught her and pulled her back into the conversation. "You here for the holiday?"

"Yeah, the holidays, I guess," she shrugged.

"More than two days this time?"

"Yeah," she kicked at the stupid brick with her foot. "For a while, actually. I'm not entirely sure how long. Haven't really had time to look for a job, or anything."

Grant let out a low whistle. "Look for a job? I never thought we'd see the day little Cameron Anne came stumbling back from the big city."

She grimaced, and his grin faltered a bit, as if he realized that he'd struck a nerve.

"Well it's good to see you back, hopefully for good. Matt's dancing in his grave right now." He shifted up straighter. "And hey, good thing you're back, cause Z's really paying for his raising right now, if you know what I mean."

Cammie snapped back into the present from the place she'd been zoned out in.

"No. What do you mean?"

"Yeah, she's really gotten to be a handful, and now she's into all that ballet shit." He laughed and shook his head, glancing back to check on his brother and the boat. "Zach doesn't know fuck about ballet, but you were always Miss Twinkle Toes, even though you can't even walk anytime else, so—"

He turned and caught the look on her face.

"Cam?"

"Who's gotten to be a handful?"

"Elle."

Cammie just stared, wondering why he expected that to clarify anything. Grant's eyes widened to the size of saucers.

Cammie had seen Grant Newman in compromising situations—hell, she'd walked in on him losing his virginity to Bex Baxter at his tenth-grade end-of-year dance. But she'd never seen him look quite so uncomfortable as that moment, standing in his bright yellow rain gear, hair whitened by saltwater and cheeks chapped by wind.

"Oh shit. You don't know."

"What do you mean, I don't know?" The pieces were coming together in her mind—the pictures of the little girl in Zach's house, the lack of wedding ring.

"Don't you have Facebook or something?"

"No. I try to stay away from social media. It's gossip city, out there on the internet, and—what don't I know, Grant? Is Zach divorced? Did something happen to his sister? Did she have a baby?"

"No, Catherine didn't." He shuddered. "And God, let's hope she never procreates."

They stood for a second, and Cammie felt near-hysterics. Was he going to say it, or was he going to make her ask?

"El's Zach's daughter, Cam. Fuck. Ellie. Eleanor. You didn't know?"

Cammie felt like the ground was opening up beneath her. "What do you mean, I didn't know?" She knew that she was shrill, and that they were drawing attention, but she didn't care. "Does it look like I knew?"

"Joe and Rachel didn't—Abby didn't blab her big mouth?"

"No, I… They don't tell me much about Zach."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit. I— Is she… Is his wi—"

"Yo Grant, it's time to go!"

Cammie could have shoved the youngest Newman brother off of his barnacled boat and into the icy bay. Grant glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who was obviously just trying to save Grant from whatever situation he'd run into with a crazy chick on the boardwalk.

Cammie was sure he'd turn back and at least explain—explain why and how Zach had come to have a daughter, be missing a wife, and how Cammie was supposed to help with the ballet situation.

Grant's brother checked his phone—what was his name? Jesus, not knowing things was becoming frustrating— and waved frantically, yelling something about the weather report, and this time looking more than a little bit sincere.

"Damn. Cam, I've gotta go. Listen, it was good seeing you. Don't be a stranger."

This time he did pull her into a hug, fishy gear and all. He pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her tight. "He needs you," he whispered, then let her go, turning and striding back down the dock. With one last wave, he jumped into his boat, cranked up the motor, and was gone.