Page 12 of Midnight and Mistletoe

“Boy has been on the road too long. It’s not natural to be so far away from home this long. It’s time for him to settle down and start a family.”

Marge nods sagely. “It’s true. Would be nice to have him back where he belongs.”

I open my mouth to defend Bastian’s twenty-five-year career, but then close it because Marge and Mr. Barlow aren’t insulting anyone.

Winterberry claims its own. My brother has always been one of ours, even when he was selling out stadiums on the other side of the world with Hall of Fame.

Noëlle slides my latte and Emmett’s scone across the counter, along with a small paper bag I didn’t order. “One cookie,” she whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“You’re my favorite.”

“I know.”

I pay, wave to Marge and Mr. Barlow, and step back out onto Main Street.

I love this. I love that Marge cares whether my brother is home. I love that Mr. Barlow thinks touring isn’t natural but wouldn’t dream of saying it in front of Bastian because that would be rude. I love that Noëlle is inventing sweet potato cookies for a Thanksgiving market that half the county is going to descend on in two weeks. I love that this town has, without ever being asked, quietly kept the biggest rock band in the country’s home base a secret for two and a half decades. Not one leaked tip. Not one paparazzi story tracing Bastian back here. Nothing.

The band could have been ruined by attention here. Instead, they got protection.

That’s Winterberry.

I take a sip of my latte and start back toward the office when my phone buzzes in my coat pocket.

I dig it out.

Taylen:

Joe’s tonight? Usual time? I need to complain about…someone…to someone qualified.

I stare at the message, wanting to say no but knowing I have to say yes.

Because if I say no to Friday drinks with Taylen without a credible reason, he’ll be suspicious.

He’s been my best friend forever, and he’s currently spiraling in slow motion about my brother being in town. I wish I knew why, but those two just seem to antagonize each other.

We’ve had drinks at Joe’s almost every Friday since Taylen turned eighteen, even before he was allowed alcoholic drinks. If I cancel, he’ll ask why. If I make up an excuse, he’ll poke at it. If he pokes at it, I’ll crack. If I crack, I’ll accidentally tell my best friend that Foster Crue is currently in my apartment, probably poking through my belongings and eating my food, and then I’ll have to move to another country.

Finn: