Page 50 of Wild Thorns

“You’re a very specific kind of nerd,” he said, but he was smiling. “Come on. I’ll get you food and then you can photograph whatever you want.”

He took my hand, casually, like it was nothing, like he did it all the time, and pulled me into the crowd.

Jasper guided me through the crowd with an ease that suggested he'd been doing this his whole life. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him; stopping to chat, to clap him on the back, to exchange the kind of coded greetings that came from deep familiarity.

A group of men in their fifties called him over to settle a debate about a fishing trip from ten years ago. A woman with a toddler on her hip asked after Rowena’s health with genuine concern. A teenage boy working a ring-toss booth called out, “Hey, Mr. Voss!” with the kind of respect usually reserved for teachers or coaches.

“Mr. Voss?” I murmured as we walked away.

“I coached his little league team two summers ago.” Jasper shrugged, but I caught something in his expression, a quiet satisfaction in being part of something larger. “Small town. Everyone’s connected.”

I thought about what that would feel like, being woven into a place so thoroughly that your name carried weight. My name had felt like a liability for the past couple of years. Something to hide, to change, to abandon.

"The Voss boy," one elderly woman said, patting his cheek. "And who's this pretty thing?"

"This is Serena. She's staying at the family place."

The woman's eyes sharpened, taking me in with sudden intensity. "Is that right?" she murmured. "Well, well."

Before I could ask what that meant, Jasper was pulling me toward a food booth, talking enthusiastically about ribs.

I kept seeing them: the looks, the glances, the way people watched me with something that felt like speculation. Like they were waiting to see what I would do. It wasn’t unfriendly, exactly. More like‌ anticipation. The way people watch the end of a movie they’ve seen before, curious how a new viewer will react to the twist.

A cluster of women near the lemonade stand stopped talking when we passed, their eyes tracking me with what felt like appraisal. An older man at the woodworking booth nodded at Jasper and then looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Two teenagers whispered behind their hands.

"Do I have something on my face?" I finally asked.

"What?"

"Everyone keeps looking at me."

Jasper's expression flickered, something between amusement and discomfort. "They're curious. New faces in Magnolia Creek are rare."

"It feels like more than that."

He didn't deny it. Just handed me a plate piled with ribs and pointed toward a less crowded area. "Come on. I'll show you the good seats."

Chapter fourteen

Almost

The "good seats" turned out to be a low stone wall at the edge of the town square, shaded by an ancient oak draped in Spanish moss. From here, we could see the whole festival spread out before us; the dancing, the music, the endless parade of small-town humanity.

The air smelled like fried food, magnolia blossoms and something sweeter: funnel cake, maybe, or the kettle corn I’d seen a vendor selling near the entrance. A bluegrass band played on the main stage, the fiddle weaving in and out of the banjo in a way that made my foot tap without my permission. Children ran past, trailing ribbons, their laughter bright and uncomplicated.

It was, objectively, charming. The kind of scene that belonged on a postcard or in a movie about finding yourself in a small town.

A month ago, I would have felt like an outsider. I would have watched all this warmth and connection and felt the familiar ache of not belonging, of being on the outside looking in.

Instead, I felt… something else. Instead, I felt belonging taking root.

Jasper sat close enough that our shoulders touched. The warmth of him seeped into me, comforting in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.

He’d been the perfect companion all afternoon, pointing out landmarks, introducing me to people, steering me toward the best food vendors with the confidence of someone who’d been attending this festival his entire life. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. More than once, I’d caught people watching us together, their expressions speculative.

“They’re staring,” I’d said at one point, after an elderly woman had looked between us with barely concealed delight.

“They’re curious,” Jasper had corrected. “New faces are rare here.”