Chapter 1 - The Porch

Chapter 1: The Porch Frostenburg, North Carolina, July 23, 1993

The summer air lay heavy over Frostenburg like a well-worn quilt—hot, thick, and familiar. Out on the outskirts of town, along Bosk Farm Lane, the meandering country road cut through land once farmed by the Bosk family, stood the White family’s home – the original two-story farmhouse from the 1800s. Cicadas hummed their endless chorus from the trees that lined the spacious five-acre property, a tune so constant no one even noticed it anymore. On the wide front porch of the farmhouse, laughter spilled out like sweet tea over ice.

Katrina Monroe sat cross-legged on the wicker swing, her Pretty Woman-inspired polka-dotted dress brushing her knees as she leaned toward Rita. Her eyes sparkled behind her oversized sunglasses as she giggled at something Rita had said. Rita White, Sensitive pale skin always a little flushed, sipped from a sweating glass of lemonade, her voice rising and falling in bursts of chatter.

It was just another summer evening in the neighborhood, with Rita’s younger brother Shelton darting barefoot through the yard, chasing the family dog with a Nerf football under one arm. The porch creaked every now and then as someone shifted in their seat, and the scent of chlorine from the backyard pool mingled with the tang of charcoal from the Ullman's barbecue next door.

Katrina tilted her head, her sun-lightened bob catching the light. “I still can’t believe your mom lets half the neighborhood practically live here.” Rita shrugged. “She loves it. Says it keeps Dad from drinking too much beer alone.” Katrina laughed, but it cut off as two figures rounded the corner of the house. “Case in point” Rita whispered, eyes wide.

Paul White led the way, his ball cap pulled low over his brow, mullet peeking from beneath it like a 90s badge of honor. He barely glanced at the girls, letting the screen door slam behind him as he stomped inside without a word. Behind him was someone Katrina didn’t recognize, but instantly noticed.

Blonde. Blue eyes. A calm kind of handsome. Not in the magazine-cover way, but like he belonged to the world—the kind of guy who had seen things, done things, but didn’t need to talk about it. His light-colored t-shirt clung just right, and his jeans looked like they had been broken in by real work.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but warm. His eyes flicked to Katrina, not lingering long, but long enough. Rita giggled, pushing back a loose curl. “Hey Matt.”

Katrina blinked. She didn’t know him—had never even heard of him. She hadn’t moved to Frostenburg until halfway through her sophomore year, that's when Rita had taken her under her wing. They're the same age but Katrina had been a grade behind Rita. Rita had known of Matt from before, though not well. He’d graduated, gotten married and went to boot camp by the time Katrina moved to town. Paul and Matt had only been acquaintances in high school. They’d only recently reconnected after running into each other at one of the bars in old downtown—one of those low-lit places tucked between the college campus and the courthouse, where the beer was cheap and the jukebox had never been updated past '89.

Matt followed Paul into the house, and Katrina was left with a flutter in her stomach and the realization that she'd just been sized up in her new dress.

“I’ll be right back,” Rita said, hopping up. “Gotta pee. Don’t drink my lemonade.” Katrina smirked and waved her off, then leaned back into the swing and let it sway. She tried to act casual, but her heart ticked a little faster when the screen door squealed open again.

Matt stepped out with a beer in one hand, Paul close behind. He smiled when he caught Katrina’s eye. She straightened slightly. “Who’s your friend, Paul?” The guys paused a few feet from the steps, halted by her voice. Paul, clearly irritated, muttered, “Katrina, Matt. Matt, Katrina.” Katrina gave him a smooth, practiced smile—one that seemed to annoy Paul even more. “Nice to meet you.” “Yeah, nice to meet you too,” Matt said politely. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “Moved here when I was fifteen. Across the street, next to the Barretts.” Matt nodded like he remembered, though he didn’t. Not really. He’d only known Paul in passing back then, and by the time Katrina moved to town, he was already married to Kara and in boot camp for the Air Force.

Katrina glanced past him to Paul, who was already turning back toward the house. “You forgetting something?” Matt called after him. Paul muttered, “Yeah. My smokes,” as he headed towards the door. “I thought you were quitting,” Katrina said as he passed. “Mind your business,” Paul shot back without turning.

Feeling a bit awkward, Matt glanced toward the porch. Katrina offered a polite, slightly tight-lipped smile. She knew Rita had it bad for him. Big time. And while Katrina was a natural flirt—sometimes without even realizing it—in this moment, she was hyper-aware. She tried to dial it back. She wasn’t about to hurt her best friend’s feelings. “So, you back for good?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral. Matt nodded. “I think so. Got out a few months ago. Been staying with my folks. Looking for something steady.” “Must’ve been a big change.” “It is.” He took a sip of his beer. “Still figuring out what normal’s supposed to feel like again.” The porch swing creaked softly. Katrina looked down, pretending to adjust the hem of her dress. “Well, Frostenburg’s about as normal as it gets.”

Matt chuckled, but his eyes lingered on her a second too long. She felt it—that flicker—and tucked it away just before Rita burst back out the front door, a Mountain Dew in each hand.

“Miss me?” she teased. “Always,” Katrina said, forcing a grin. Matt tipped his beer in a casual goodbye as Paul reappeared, jamming a crushed pack of Marlboros into his shirt pocket, one cigarette tucked behind his ear for good measure. “You girls behave,” Paul muttered, already heading toward his beat-up Ford. “We make no promises,” Rita called after him, bright and breezy. Matt slid into the passenger seat—but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder. At Katrina. And she saw it.

Clear as day.

 

POV - MATT

Here he was—back in Frostenburg. On Bosk Farm Lane, the rambling country road on the outskirts of town, Matt stepped onto the White’s sprawling yard. The sight of the old farmhouse, the feel of the thick, humid air, the sound of cicadas – it all felt like the Frostenburg summers he remembered, a familiar backdrop for a life that had changed so much, for the person he’d become. So much had changed for him in four years. He was a different man now, forged in the structured intensity of the Air Force, shaped by the sterile, baking heat of an Egyptian desert, and scarred by a betrayal that still burned. Places that felt a million miles from here. And yet, he found himself standing in the Whites’ yard—Paul’s parents’ place, technically—surrounded by that comforting, unsettlingly unchanged summer familiarity.

The thick, humid air felt like a physical weight, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass, the distant tang of charcoal from the Ullman's grill next door, and the sweet chemical hint of chlorine from the backyard pool hidden behind the house. The cicadas hummed their relentless, unnoticed chorus from the ancient oaks and pines that dotted the spacious property. Frostenburg in the summertime hadn’t changed a bit, not on the surface. He had.

Paul had ducked inside a minute ago, the screen door slamming shut, muttering something about forgetting his smokes. Matt stayed put, his boots rooted in the soft lawn, resisting the urge to follow, his eyes drawn to the porch.

Katrina sat alone now, one leg tucked beneath her on the wicker swing, fingers fussing restlessly with the hem of her polka-dotted dress. He didn’t know her. Hadn’t even heard of her until today. Which struck him as odd—Paul had talked plenty about his sister, Rita, over the last couple of weeks, about being back home, about the construction work, but not once had he mentioned Katrina. It was like she’d just appeared, fully formed, on the White’s porch swing.

He took her in. The sun-lightened hair, the way the polka-dotted dress fit her figure. She was undeniably good looking. Too good looking, maybe. And that fact, combined with the quiet pull he felt towards her presence, tugged at a quiet, locked-down place inside him he hadn’t realized was still open. An unsettling flicker of interest he immediately wanted to extinguish. He wasn't looking for that. Not ever again, maybe.

There was something about the way she held herself, in the brightness of her eyes behind those sunglasses, in that seemingly effortless presence, and the way she looked. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it; there was just something that tugged at him, a quiet insistence he didn't like.

She glanced over just then. Not flirtatiously. Just curious. Friendly. Unassuming. A straightforward gaze that bypassed all his defenses because it wasn't looking for anything. He gave her a small nod, a controlled smile. There was a little small talk, just a few polite exchanges that didn't require him to reveal anything, but that's it. She smiled back—one of those polite, practiced Southern girl smiles he recognized instantly, the kind meant to make someone feel welcome even when you weren’t sure if they belonged. A surface kindness that sometimes felt like a carefully constructed wall. He knew about walls. Knew about what they hid.

Matt looked away, focusing on the worn wood of the porch swing, the sweating glass on the railing, anything but her.

She didn’t know his story—the eighteen-year-old kid who signed up to be an Air Force firefighter, the quick marriage under pressure from his devout mom and family expectations to his high school sweetheart, Kara, who probably should’ve just stayed his high school sweetheart. She didn’t know the brutal clarity of finding another man in his bed after months in a war zone that felt safer than coming home. She didn’t know about Kara, or the gut punch of realizing the betrayal wasn't just that night, but had been happening the whole damn time he was in Egypt, stationed there during Desert Storm, sitting in a fire truck waiting for action that rarely ever came. She didn’t know the kind of burn that left. And somehow, that made her easier to be around. Most people here knew. Knew bits and pieces. Enough to look at him with pity or awkwardness. Enough to make him want to keep them all at arm’s length.

He spent his last year and a half of enlistment after the divorce single again, burying the hurt under layers of work and partying harder than he should’ve, learning to keep his emotions locked down tight. He used to be a hot head, quick to snap, wearing every feeling on his sleeve for everyone to see. He’d learned to control that now, worked hard at it. Kept his face calm, his voice low. He wasn't looking for anything serious. He met his physical needs with the occasional drunken one night stand, but nothing more...he wasn't looking for anything more. Hell he wasn't looking for anything at all.

He’d only been out of the Air Force and back home since the end of June. Just less than a month. Stepping back into Frostenburg, trying to find steady ground again.

Paul came back outside just then, slamming the screen door again, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, stuffing a half-crushed pack of Marlboros into his pocket. Tension seemed to radiate off Paul, a tight energy Matt recognized. Paul had barely acknowledged Katrina earlier, and seeing her talking to Matt clearly wasn’t improving his mood. “Let’s go,” Paul said curtly, already heading down the steps toward the truck.

Matt gave Katrina one last glance. That magnetic pull was still there, sharper now, a physical ache fueled by her presence and the unsettling interest she sparked. She looked away—almost too quickly. A mirror of his own instinct. Just then, Rita reappeared on the porch, balancing two Mountain Dews. Her eyes were bright as she handed one to Katrina and sat back down on the swing. Rita. Paul's younger sister. Sweet, kind. He liked Rita. He mostly just saw her as Paul's younger sister but she seemed nice enough. 

Matt followed Paul to the beat-up Ford, glancing back at the porch again before climbing into the passenger seat. He saw Katrina settle back on the swing, saw Rita beside her. He could still feel that flicker, that tug from Katrina. Clear as day. And the unsettling realization that returning to Frostenburg, to the familiar summer air and unexpected encounters, might not be as simple or as quiet as he’d hoped.

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POV - KATRINA

The porch swing creaked gently as Katrina shifted her weight, the sound familiar and comforting—like the rhythm of summer itself. This porch, this yard – the five sprawling acres of the White family’s original farmhouse on Bosk Farm Lane – this was where she felt most at ease in Frostenburg, the true neighborhood hub. Her bare foot traced lazy circles on the wooden floorboards while the rest of the neighborhood hummed in the background: someone mowing a lawn on a neighboring spacious lot, a radio playing Garth Brooks down the meandering road, the crack of ice in Rita’s lemonade glass. Unlike her own quieter house across the street, where her parents preferred their solitude, the White's porch was always full, always buzzing, and her mom, Julia, seemed content knowing Katrina was here.

She saw Matt look at her again. Not for long. Not obviously. Just enough for her to feel it. He was good-looking in that quiet kind of way. Like he didn’t try to be—which only made it worse. Clean-cut. Sharp eyes. The kind of guy you could imagine in uniform. "A firefighter in the Air Force," Rita had said. "Overseas during Desert Storm."

He’d only just come back to Frostenburg a few months ago. She hadn’t even known he existed until about an hour ago. He’d already graduated by the time she moved here as a sophomore. She and Rita had met in choir—though they were the same age, Rita was a junior. Katrina’s mom had waited a year to put her in kindergarten, so she was technically a grade behind. Back then, Katrina was just the new girl trying to remember where her classes were. So Matt wasn’t part of her high school experience. No shared memories. No overlapping teachers. No awkward pep rally sightings. He was more of a name she might’ve heard in passing—filed away under someone else’s nostalgia. She’d seen the way Rita glowed when she talked about him. That barely-contained grin. The way she smoothed her shirt when she knew he was nearby. So yeah—Rita was clearly crushing. Big time. And Rita was her best friend. Her fiercely loyal best friend who had taken her under her wing when she was the lost new kid.

And Katrina was not about to step on that. Even if the way he looked at her, the way his blue eyes met hers, the way he just stood there, taking her in, made every inch of her five-foot-two, 119-pound frame suddenly aware of itself in ways she hadn’t felt in a long time. A slow, unmistakable hum under her skin—uninvited, but impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the usual attention she got, the kind she was used to, the kind that just rolled off her back. This felt... different. Sharper. More potent.

She tugged at the hem of her polka-dotted dress, suddenly conscious of the low neckline that accentuated her ample cleavage—something she hadn’t given much thought to earlier. It was new—from Belk. Reminded her of that one Julia Roberts wore in Pretty Woman. A splurge, definitely, given the tight budget from her $4.85 an hour daycare job and having to cover her car insurance and the electric bill every month in lieu of rent. She’d liked how it made her feel when she tried it on—pretty, confident, like she could walk into a room and belong in it. But now, with Matt standing just a few yards away, she felt like maybe she’d misjudged the outfit. Or maybe not the dress itself, but what it implied. The awareness it stirred in her, the awareness it might stir in him.

She shifted her position on the swing, leg still tucked under her, but angled slightly toward the yard. Fingers swept her sun-lightened bob behind her ear—casual, intentional. A redirect. As if body language alone could erase that strange little crackle in the air. He didn’t speak first. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was deciding whether to say something or let the moment slide by. She started the small talk, and it flowed easily, but was uneasy at the same time, because Rita wasn't there.

And it didn’t feel right. Talking to him, feeling that pull, with Rita just inside. It felt like a betrayal, even before anything had happened.

Still, there was something about him. Not just the looks—it was something else. A weariness behind his blue eyes that seemed too old for someone who couldn’t be much older than Paul. Like he’d already lived three more lives than someone his age should have. Like he carried stories he wasn’t ready to tell. His stillness felt like a deliberate control, the calm surface hiding something turbulent underneath. She wondered what they were. His deep blue eyes held no secrets—and all the secrets—at the same time. Who had hurt him so deeply that he looked like that? Why did he look like someone who didn’t quite know how to be home yet, even standing here in the familiar Southern heat of Bosk Farm Lane? Her intuition, usually sharp, was working overtime, piecing together fragments she didn't understand.

The screen door slammed, jolting her. Rita stepped out with two Mountain Dews, grinning, her plump cheeks flushed from the heat. Rita. Always so open, so full of life. She handed Katrina a cold can. “Bet they’re going to Tumbleweed. Paul’s obsessed with their wings lately.” Katrina nodded, cracked open her soda, and didn’t mention the way Matt had smiled at her. Didn’t mention the glance. Or the silence. It felt too complicated, too charged, to share with Rita, not when Rita’s eyes were so full of innocent hope where Matt was concerned. Some things were better left sitting in the space between sips and swing creaks.

For now, anyway.

POV - RITA

Stepping through the screen door and onto the wide front porch felt like walking onto a familiar stage. Rita held two cold cans of Mountain Dew, her ponytail sticking to the back of her neck in the humid air, that one stubborn curl flopping into her face like it always did. At five-foot-four and a size 18, she often felt a little clumsy, a little too much for the narrow spaces life seemed to offer. The weird buzzing heat of late afternoon on Bosk Farm Lane, the sound of cicadas and distant neighbors, made everything feel just a little too loud—too bright, too much. But this porch, the porch of her family’s sprawling farmhouse, the neighborhood hub her mom loved so much, felt like one of the few places she could just be, even with the butterflies doing acrobatics in her chest. Stupid, ridiculous things. They had no business fluttering like that just because Matt was around.

And there he was—out in the yard, arms folded, standing like he’d walked straight out of a damn Norman Rockwell painting. If Norman Rockwell had decided to paint someone five-foot-eleven, with blond hair and intense blue eyes, someone tall, broody, and unfairly good-looking. Someone who could make a girl’s brain short-circuit just by standing still. He was in good shape, with that calm kind of handsome that wasn't flashy, just... undeniable.

He looked good in jeans. The kind that sat low on his hips like they belonged there and nowhere else—worn in all the right places. That casual confidence of his wasn’t something he put on. It was just there. Natural. Effortless. And it drove her absolutely insane in ways she didn’t like to admit. And of course, he was quiet again. She’d noticed that the last time Paul brought him around—how he’d drift into these silences, like his mind had slipped out the back door and left his body behind to catch up. She always wondered where he went in those moments. Maybe it was just part of who he was now. After Kara. From what little she’d heard, that girl had really messed him up. Matt wasn’t dating anyone. He’d told Paul he was down for some "fun," but not looking to get into anything serious. Not after the train wreck of a marriage he'd gotten out of the year before. It had gutted him—more than he let on. She could see it, even when he smiled. Especially when he smiled.

Her best friend was still sitting on the swing, leg tucked up, that polka-dotted sundress catching the breeze just enough to make her look like she’d stepped right out of Seventeen magazine. Katrina. Effortless. Those big hazel eyes—brown, green, gold—like they couldn’t decide what they wanted to be, and didn’t have to. And her boobs? Full, high, perfectly placed. The kind of chest that made Rita’s own C-cups feel… small. The kind of chest most girls had to buy or pray for. Rita probably would buy hers someday.  She wasn’t  bitter about it. Not really. Just… a quiet internal sigh. Katrina was just naturally built for those kinds of dresses.

It wasn’t Katrina’s fault, though. Not at all. She was the best friend Rita had, had been since junior year, when she’d shown up new and quiet, and Rita had practically adopted her on the spot. Katrina, with her pretty hazel eyes and easy charm, had a gift for making things less weird, less heavy. Her laugh had this way of pulling people in, and she had this look—like she saw something in you that no one else did. Like you mattered. Like you were the most interesting person in the room. Rita loved that about her, truly did. But sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she had a little bit of that effortless pull for herself.

She wished she could feel that confident around… well, around anyone. But in this moment... around Matt. Standing there, feeling thick and pale and clumsy in the heat, she wished she had just an ounce of Katrina's seemingly natural grace.

She’d seen the way Matt had looked at Katrina just now. Rita was almost sure of it. Just a flicker, barely a heartbeat of a look. But she saw it. She’d felt it before—on guys' faces when they spotted someone who wasn’t you, and something shifted behind their eyes. Her stomach did that familiar little dip, the one that whispered of course he would look at her like that. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe he was just thinking. Maybe it meant nothing.

But it felt like something. Rita tightened her grip on the soda cans, trying to remind herself not to spiral. She had a habit of doing that—getting lost in her own thoughts, caught in the whirl of emotions she didn’t know how to handle. Her mind was already off and running, spinning out possibilities and worst-case scenarios like a runaway carousel.

Taking a deep breath, she walked out, forcing herself to calm her nerves. She handed Katrina her drink, trying to act casual, but feeling anything but. “Miss me?” she asked, her tone light, though her heart was performing Olympic-level gymnastics in her chest. If Katrina had noticed anything weird, she didn’t let on. Rita nodded, glancing toward the driveway where Matt had disappeared. She let her shoulders drop just a little. No need to play it cool now that he wasn’t looking. “Bet they’re going to Tumbleweed. Paul’s obsessed with their wings lately.” Katrina just smiled, popped her can open, and looked out at the yard. Rita sat down beside her, trying not to overthink it. Not the way Matt had looked at Katrina. Not the way her stomach had dipped when she noticed the brief moment between them. It wasn’t just that Matt had looked at Katrina—it was how he had looked at her. As if he’d seen something in her. Something Rita couldn’t quite define but had a feeling everyone else seemed to see, that sparkle. Katrina, with her effortless smile and quiet confidence, had a way of making people feel like they mattered. It was a gift. And Rita had always noticed just how easy it was for others to be drawn to it. Maybe that was why it didn’t sting as much as it could have. It wasn't exactly jealousy, at least not a bitter, resentful kind. More like a quiet, internal twinge, a simple acknowledgment of a difference she couldn't bridge, a difference she saw reinforced in Matt's fleeting glance. Matt was complicated. And maybe a little broken. But Rita had always believed broken things still held value. That people could grow again in the places they’d cracked.

She took a sip, leaned back in the swing, and let the rhythm carry her forward, her mind a tangled mess of emotions she wasn’t ready to face. Her pale skin, prone to burning even in the late afternoon sun, felt hot, but maybe that was just her flush.