Hurricane Tongue

Chapter 1

Jasmine

The late January morning air nips at my face as I stroll down Main Street in Millbrook, taking in the familiar sights of my hometown with fresh eyes. Already, Valentine's decorations dot the storefronts - heart-shaped wreaths, pink and red banners, and twinkling lights strung between lampposts.

I pause outside The Corner Cafe, remembering how it used to be a run-down convenience store before my first major development project transformed this block. Now it's a bustling hub where locals gather for artisanal coffee and fresh pastries.

"Morning, Ms. Owens! Hope you're doing well today!" Tom, the owner, waves through the window. His business has tripled since the renovation. I wave back, sending him a wide smile as I make my way down the street.

Walking past the new mixed-use building on Cedar Street, I admire the way the modern architecture blends seamlessly with the town's historic charm. Three years of battling with the old guard on the planning commission, proving myself over and over, but it was worth it. The ground floor retail spaces are all leased, and the affordable apartments above are at full occupancy.

"These are the best studios in town," a young woman tells her friend as they pass by. "I was so lucky to get in."

My steps quicken with pride. This is why I do what I do - creating spaces that serve the community, not just developers' pockets. The pocket park ahead used to be an empty lot collecting trash. Used to be an ugly little sore spot on the town, with dead grass and wonky chainlink fences that surrounded the space. Now children play on the equipment while parents chat on benches beneath flowering trees I insisted on including in the design.

A couple strolls past hand in hand, stopping to admire the Valentine's Day art installation local students created for the park. My vision for this town has always been about more than just buildings - it's about fostering connection, creating places where life happens.

The old boys' club didn't think a woman, especially a Black woman, could reshape Millbrook's future. But every successful project, every positive change I've brought to my community proves them wrong. Looking around at all we've accomplished, I allow myself a moment to savor how far we've come.

As I continue on, I find myself taking a familiar turn, strolling down the impressive homes that belong to the richest in our community. My contentment falters as I pass Ryan's old house on Maple Drive. The Victorian mansion looms behind its wrought iron gates, windows dark and shuttered. I force myself to keep walking, but memories flood in uninvited.

This sidewalk witnessed countless midnight walks, his jacket draped over my shoulders as we dreamed about our future. His ambitious plans for revitalizing abandoned properties sparked my own passion for development. Back then, we thought we'd transform Millbrook together.

"We'll make this town shine," he'd promised, blue eyes blazing with determination. "You and me, Jazz. We'll show them what's possible."

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting off a shiver that has nothing to do with the winter chill. What if I'd been less stubborn? What if he'd chosen differently? The questions haunt me even after ten years.

The park bench where we shared our first kiss sits empty, dusted with morning frost and snow. I remember the warmth of his hands cupping my face, the way his thumb traced my cheekbone before he leaned in. That same tenderness turned to steel when his family's development company threatened to demolish the historic Black church for luxury condos. The church where my grandparents were married, where our community gathered for generations.

"It's just business, Jasmine," he'd said, voice cold and foreign, so different from the warmth that used to color every word between us. "Sometimes progress requires sacrifice." His eyes had been distant that day, like he was already halfway to Boston, leaving me and everything we'd built behind.

But whose progress? Whose sacrifice? The argument split us apart, sending him to his gleaming corporate towers in Boston while I stayed to fight for my community's soul. Every project I've completed since then feels like both a victory and a reminder of what we lost. Each ribbon cutting, each renovated building, each new community center stands as testament to what can be achieved when you put people first—and what Ryan couldn't see through his privileged lens.

"I should have expected that from him," I whisper, the ghosts of my past haunting me yet again. "A billionaire's son. Why'd I ever think that would work out?"

I brush away the snow on the bench, my fingers tracing the weathered grain, remembering how simple everything seemed before reality crashed in. First love has a way of making you believe anything is possible - that kisses can solve problems, that different worlds can merge seamlessly, that money and power don't matter when hearts align. Even now, some traitorous part of my heart wonders if we could have found middle ground, if love could have bridged the gap between our worlds. If I'd pushed harder or if he'd listened longer, could we have written a different ending to our story?

I sink onto the cold bench, my fingers still tracing the wood grain. Nearly ten years ago, right here, Ryan surprised me on Valentine's Day with a picnic. He'd spread out a red checkered blanket on the bench despite the February chill, bringing thermoses of hot chocolate and my favorite pastries from that little bakery on Third Street.

"One day we'll own that bakery," he'd declared, feeding me a chocolate-covered strawberry. "Turn it into a chain across New England. Your recipes, my business sense - we'll be unstoppable."

"I don't want a chain, and you know that." I'd laughed, stealing another strawberry and savoring the rich chocolate coating. These were the best of the best, like everything else he owns. "I want to keep things local, keep the charm. Maybe just expand the storefront, add a reading nook. Something cozy where people can feel at home."

"Then that's what we'll do." He'd pulled me closer, his warmth seeping through my coat as his fingers traced lazy circles on my arm. "Whatever makes you happy, Jazz. We'll build something amazing together. Your vision, my support - that's all we need."

Now I sit on the bench where that blanket had been, where we'd sprawled for hours planning our future between kisses and shared dreams. The bakery still stands, unchanged, its faded blue awning and weathered brick facade exactly as they were back then. Meanwhile, Ryan's family real estate corporation has spread across multiple states, swallowing up small businesses like the ones we'd sworn to protect. The irony isn't lost on me - how his promises of "whatever makes you happy" transformed into exactly what I'd feared most.

My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder - almost two weeks until Valentine's Day. The storefronts downtown already shimmer with hearts and cupids, each decoration a tiny needle in my chest. The window displays mock me with their romantic promises - plush teddy bears clutching silk roses, glittering jewelry catching the sunlight, boxes of chocolate tied with perfect red bows. Every year I tell myself it won't affect me, that I'm over him, over us. Every year I fail.

"You're being ridiculous," I mutter, standing up and brushing off my coat. "It's just another commercial holiday." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears, and I hate the weakness in it.

But it's not. It's the ghost of promises whispered on this bench, of shared dreams that shattered against the reality of who we were - who he chose to be. The dread of another Valentine's Day alone settles in my stomach like lead, heavy with memories I can't seem to shake. I can still feel the warmth of his hand in mine, still hear the conviction in his voice when he talked about our future. What a joke that turned out to be.

A gust of wind rustles the bare branches above, snapping me from my daze. Ryan's ambition - it had seemed so aligned with mine in the beginning. We'd spend hours sprawled on his vast bedroom floor, sketching development plans on graph paper, debating the merits of mixed-use spaces versus pure residential.

"Think bigger, Jazz," he'd always say, expanding my careful drawings until they spilled off the page. "Why stop at one building when we could transform entire neighborhoods?"

But his version of transformation meant luxury high-rises and exclusive shopping districts. Mine meant affordable housing and community spaces. The gap between our visions grew wider with time, until it became a chasm neither of us could cross.

I pull out my tablet, forcing myself to review notes for tomorrow's planning commission meeting. The Anderson Street project needs my full attention - forty units of affordable housing with a daycare center on the ground floor. The kind of development Ryan would have dismissed as "thinking too small."

"Focus, Jasmine," I mutter, scrolling through building specifications. The numbers blur as my mind drifts to how Ryan's family company bulldozed similar projects in other towns, replacing them with upscale condos. His ambition always pointed toward expansion, toward profit margins and shareholder value. While I stayed rooted here, fighting for every inch of progress in Millbrook.

My phone buzzes with a message from the community center - they need the updated proposal by noon. Right. The Valentine's Day fundraiser can wait. These people are counting on me to be their voice, to protect their interests. I can't let old wounds distract me from what matters.

Standing up from the bench, I straighten my shoulders. Let Ryan chase his billions in Boston. I have a meeting to prepare for and a community to serve. The ache in my chest can wait - it's had ten years of practice.