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Tyla Walker

Second Chance at the First Love

Second Chance at the First Love

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I thought he was forgotten…

Now he might be my forever.

Quincey was my high school sweetheart. My first love…

But he let me walk out the door.

Now, years later, and I’m back in our small town.

I’m not sure if I’m hoping to see him or avoid him.

But when the gallery I’m displaying my art in turns out to be his…

I think I fall in love all over again.

He’s not the shy, schoolboy I remember…

The years have done him well.

And when he finds out my mother is ill,

He wants to come to my rescue.

But this time, will he be my knight in shining armor?

Or is second chance just another shot at heartbreak?

Chapter 1 Look Inside!

Chapter 1 
Brin

The minute I step off the bus, the familiar sights of my small hometown wash over me like a bittersweet wave. The scent of freshly baked bread from Mrs. Donnelly’s bakery mingles with the crisp autumn air. My heart does a little flip. I scan the street, noting the new coffee shop where the old hardware store used to be. Some things change, just as people do, I guess.

"Brin Cole, as I live and breathe!" Mrs. Donnelly herself emerges from her shop, flour dusting her apron. "Never thought I'd see you back here."

I force a smile. "Hey, Mrs. Donnelly. Long time, no see."

Her smile has always been so warm. "You know, seeems that fancy New York air hasn't changed you one bit. Still the same girl who used to draw on my sidewalks with chalk."

I chuckle. "And you still make the best bread in town, I see."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, go on with you. But seriously, it's good to see you, Brin. Don't be a stranger, alright?"

"Will do," I promise, though I’m not sure how true that is.

As I walk down Main Street, memories rush back, like I knew they would. There’s the park where I first learned to sketch landscapes. The diner where we had our first date. I push that thought aside. Quincey Harper. Just his name stirs up a cocktail of emotions—nostalgia, regret, and something else I can’t quite place.

I keep walking, my steps slow and deliberate, the weight of memories pressing down on me. It’s impossible not to think about the day I decided to leave for New York. The decision wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. 

The memory of Quincey’s face as I told him I was leaving still haunts me. We were standing in his parents' opulent living room, the tension between us palpable.

"New York?" he’d echoed, his voice incredulous. "Brin, you can’t be serious."

"I have to do this, Quincey," I’d insisted, my voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. "This is the chance of a lifetime; I can't pass it up."

"And what about us?" His eyes, usually so full of life, had been dark with hurt. "You’re just gonna throw it all away?"

"You can come with me," I threw the idea out there, hoping he took the bite. "We can rent some shitty apartment we can barley afford, and binge Chinese takeout every night. Consider it a new adventure." I said.

"It's not that easy Brin, I have… I have responsibilities here, expectations that have to be fulfilled," he said as he ran his hands through his chestnut brown hair, just as I had many times before. 

It was at that point that I finally realized that his devotion towards his family and maintaining their social status was far more important than his devotion to me. It's something I had considered for a very long time, but the foreshadowing didn't make it hurt any less.

"I have to go Quincey," I said, trying to conceal the wave of emotions undulating under the surface. "I need to find out who I am, outside of this town, and since you won't come with me, outside of... us."

He’d stared at me for what felt like an eternity before he nodded, his jaw set. "Fine. Go. But don’t expect me to wait around."

"I wouldn’t ask you to," I’d whispered to him as my heart shattered while I blindly hoped that he would.

Little did I know then, that I would be the one still harboring unresolved feelings, waiting around for seemingly nothing. 

The ride to New York had been a blur of tears and doubt. But once I’d arrived, the city had enveloped me in its chaotic embrace, and I’d thrown myself into my art with a fervor I didn’t know I possessed. Every brushstroke, every sketch, was a way to channel the pain, the longing, the what-ifs.

And yet, here I am, back in this town, accomplishing what all I had set out to do in New York, yet unable to fully escape the ghosts of my past. The memory of Quincey is as vivid as ever, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever truly move on.

As I make my way to my mom’s house, the leaves crunch under my boots, each step a reminder of the most important reason why I’m here. The truth is, my mom’s health has been declining, and she needs me. The strong woman who raised me on her own, who taught me to be fierce and independent, now needs my help.

I push open the front gate, the hinges squeaking in protest. The house looks the same, yet somehow smaller, like it’s been holding its breath, waiting for my return.

"Brin honey, is that you?" her sing song voice carries out the open kitchen window, accompanied by something that smells delectable.

"Yeah mama, it's me," I say as a I juggle the bags in my hands and open the screen door.

Once inside Mama surveys the shopping bags I've now littered all over the kitchen table.

"Did you leave anything in the store? Or is it all in those bags?" she asks with a smirk as she stirs a pot of something on the stove. 

"I had to get some new materials; Bob Ross was full of shit when he said everything turns out to be a "happy accident." 

"Brin Cole!” she says with wide eyes. "That's no kind of language for a lady." She points her wooden spoon at me for extra emphasis. 

"Well good thing there's no one here I'm looking to impress." The lie tastes immediately bad in my mouth as soon as I say it. Mama gives me that look that says what she's thinking without needing words. And I can almost guarantee what she is thinking is, "You Brin Cole are also full of shit." Mama spent many late nights on the phone with me as I cried my eyes out over Quincey Harper. 

"Have you seen my palette knives?" I ask, hoping to break this awkward stare down.

"In the box by the window, where you left them last time," she replies, her voice tinged with amusement.

"Right, of course, I'm hoping to get this last little bit finished before tomorrow," I mutter, grabbing the box and pulling out the knives. I can't help but smile at her knowing tone. She always remembers where I leave my things, even when I don't. 

"Well don't stay up all evening working yourself to death baby, everything is going to be perfect," she says as she walks towards me, her steps slightly slower than I remember. "If you don't get it finished, it's okay. There will be plenty more exhibitions." She dusts off her apron, as she wraps me in a hug. 

"Thank you, mama," I say, hugging her back. If it wasn't for her, I'm not sure how I would have made it through those lonely years in New York. I owe it to her to be here and help her for as long as she so needs it. 

"Now grab a bowl and get some soup. It won't be any count if it gets cold," she says as she walks out of the kitchen drying her wet hands on a dish towel. 

I go to the cupboard and grab two bowls, scooping up two healthy servings of her homemade vegetable soup. 

I grab two spoons and head to the den, where Mama sits back in the recliner, surfing the channels and resting her legs from standing at the stove perfecting soup for hours I'm sure. 

I hand her a bowl and she smiles up at me graciously. I plop down beside her on the sofa and dig in. Man, have I missed her cooking. There's only so many times one can enjoy Ramen noodles before they're exiled.

We watch cheesy sitcoms, and eat our weight in soup until we're both so tired we can't keep our eyes open. As I get up off the couch, I realize she's right, granted she usually is. The unfinished painting sitting in my makeshift studio in the small guest bedroom with no natural light can wait. 

 I've poured my heart and soul into the work that is being displayed tomorrow and that is more than enough for me. I head down the hall to my childhood bedroom.

“Goodnight, Mama,” I say as I pass her room, and as soon as I change into something more comfortable and bury myself under the covers, I am sound asleep.

* * *

The next morning, I stand in front of the local gallery, the autumn wind nipping at my face. My art is in there, on display for the first time in my hometown. The excitement bubbles up inside me, mingling with a knot of apprehension that sits heavy in my stomach. 

The need to prove myself is strong, if this so happens to flop, I'm not so sure I can stick around. I may have to kidnap Mama and hide us back in New York.

"Ready to face the music?" Mama's voice breaks through my thoughts. She stands beside me, her hand warm on my arm.

"More like ready to face the memories," I mutter, my eyes scanning the sidewalks, dreading a familiar face. "You sure this was a good idea?"

She squeezes my arm gently. "It's about time, Brin. You've got nothing to be afraid of."

Easy for her to say. She's not the one who left a trail of unfinished business behind.

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