Thoughts of Junie

Junie|Thoughts of Junie – The House at The End of The Street – Chapter 5

The clinking of mugs and the scent of cinnamon hung heavy in the air of the bakery that morning. Outside, the autumn leaves scattered across the cobblestone sidewalk like confetti, swept up in bursts of wind that signaled the season’s change. Inside, the shop was quiet—no customers yet, just the low hum of the espresso machine and the two women behind the counter, moving with practiced rhythm.

Harper spread icing over a tray of muffins, the warmth of the oven brushing her face. Summer was refilling sugar jars, humming under her breath—something old and familiar, the same tune she’d once hummed in high school before every cheer competition.

“So,” Summer said, not looking up, “Ethan told me Eden kissed him on the cheek yesterday.”

Harper snorted. “She said he tripped and she was ‘comforting him.’”

Summer laughed, the sound full-bodied and warm. “Those two are something else.”

“Yeah,” Harper said softly. “They really are.”

There was a comfort to their mornings now—an unspoken rhythm forged through shared grief, exhausted parenting, and the quiet acceptance of who they had become. They weren’t the girls they once were. Not the cheerleaders with glittery eyes and dreams that stretched beyond Salem Oaks. They were mothers now—women who carried grocery lists in their pockets and fear in their chests.

“I’ve been thinking,” Summer said after a pause, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “We should take them to the orchard this weekend. Let them run wild. Give ourselves an hour to pretend we’re not completely falling apart.”

Harper chuckled. “That obvious?”

“You’ve been picking at your nails since you got here.”

Harper glanced down at her hands. Summer was right. She didn’t even realize she’d been doing it.

“Just a lot on my mind.”

“Phoenix?”

Harper hesitated. “Among other things.”

Summer leaned against the counter. “You know, sometimes I wonder if we ever really stopped being those girls. Like, maybe we just put on different clothes and learned how to pay bills, but deep down… I still feel seventeen some days. Like I’m still waiting for Jason to pick me up in that rust bucket he loved. Like I’m still trying to figure out what love is supposed to look like.”

Harper looked up, her throat tightening. “Do you miss him every day?”

Summer’s eyes glistened. “Every single one.”

Harper nodded. “I didn’t think I’d miss Phoenix. I buried that part of myself when I left. But now… I see him, and it’s like time just folded in on itself.”

“He hasn’t changed much,” Summer said. “Not on the outside.”

“No,” Harper agreed. “But there’s something in his eyes now. Like he’s lived through something and doesn’t quite know how to say it.”

“You both have,” Summer said gently.

They stood in silence for a moment, letting that settle.

Harper’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, Eden and Ethan were sitting side-by-side on a bench, Eden swinging her legs while Ethan showed her something on a handheld game.

“They don’t know how lucky they are,” she murmured.

“Neither did we,” Summer said.

Then
Spring, 2012

The locker room buzzed with excitement. Uniforms hung over open doors, ponytails were tied tighter, and perfume clung to the air like electricity. Harper and Summer sat side-by-side on the bench, stretching out their legs and comparing lip gloss shades like it mattered.

“I’m using Cherry Pop,” Harper said. “You?”

“Barely Blush,” Summer replied with a wink. “Jason says it makes me look like trouble.”

Harper laughed. “That’s because you are.”

“I’m not the one sneaking off with Phoenix behind the bleachers.”

“Not sneaking,” Harper defended, but her cheeks warmed.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

It had been easy back then. Even the drama felt like play-acting—breakups that lasted a weekend, tears that dried by third period, dreams so big they floated above their heads like balloons.

They didn’t know they were walking into storms.

Now
Salem Oaks Bakery, Present Day

Harper snapped back to the present as Summer handed her a cup of tea.

“Remember that competition in ’12?” Summer said. “The one where you forgot your dance and improvised?”

Harper groaned. “I still can’t believe Coach let me live after that.”

“You crushed it,” Summer said. “Phoenix didn’t shut up about it for days.”

Harper smiled, small and aching. “I didn’t even think he noticed.”

“Oh, he noticed.”

They stood there, steeped in memory, sipping tea in a shop built on sugar and second chances.

“I’m glad we found each other again,” Harper said.

Summer nodded. “Me too. Even if it took everything breaking first.”

The bell above the door jingled. A customer entered, shattering the moment. Harper wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the register.

Life continued. But the pieces of the past—Jason’s laughter, Phoenix’s touch, their teenage dreams—lingered in the quiet spaces between them. And somehow, that made the present feel a little less lonely.

The bell above the door chimed again, and Harper glanced up from the register, expecting another regular looking for their morning croissant.

Instead, Phoenix Montgomery walked in.

Only this time, he wasn’t alone.

At his side stood a tall, wiry woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun. Her heels clicked against the tiled floor like punctuation marks, and her eyes scanned the bakery like it offended her very presence.

Harper stiffened. Summer muttered something under her breath.

“Well,” the woman said, loud enough for everyone in the shop to hear, “it smells like sugar and failure in here.”

Harper’s jaw clenched.

“Grandmother,” Phoenix murmured, clearly embarrassed, but the woman ignored him.

The old woman strode forward, eyeing the pastry display as if it might be contaminated. “No éclairs. Not a proper cake in sight. This is what passes for a bakery these days?”

Harper moved to stand a little straighter. “Good morning. Can I help you with something?”

The woman turned slowly toward her, the corners of her mouth pinched. “You must be Harper Grace.”

Harper nodded, offering a polite, if tight, smile. “I am.”

Phoenix was lingering near the door, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck.

“And that—” the woman’s eyes flicked toward the front window, where Eden and Ethan were now drawing foggy pictures on the glass with their fingers—”must be your child.”

Harper followed her gaze and felt her stomach tighten.

“Lovely,” the woman said, not meaning it. “It’s always nice to see a mother doing her best. Even if there’s no father in the picture.”

The words sliced through the room like glass.

Summer stepped forward. “Excuse me—”

“It’s fine,” Harper said quickly, her voice cool. Her hands trembled just slightly as she wiped a crumb off the counter. “Some people confuse being cruel with having standards.”

The woman arched a brow but said nothing. Phoenix looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him.

“I was hoping to show my grandmother the bakery,” Phoenix said, voice low, trying to salvage the moment. “It’s one of the oldest shops in Salem Oaks. She… hasn’t been back in years.”

“Well,” Summer said sharply, crossing her arms, “you picked a hell of a way to reintroduce her.”

Phoenix exhaled slowly. “I didn’t know she’d say all that.”

“I’m right here,” the woman said.

“Yes,” Harper said. “We noticed.”

For a moment, no one moved. The shop was silent but for the squeaky marker noises of the kids at the window.

Then Eden called through the glass, “Mommy! Come see what I drew!”

Harper forced a smile. “Be there in a sec, baby.”

Phoenix’s grandmother gave a tight shake of her head. “A child shouldn’t be raised in a place like this. Too soft. Too sentimental.”

Phoenix finally stepped in, voice firmer now. “That’s enough.”

The older woman gave him a sideways look. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“No,” he said. “You’re saying what you think. And it’s not welcome here.”

For a flicker of a second, Harper caught his eye. Something passed between them—an apology, maybe. Or gratitude. Or both.

The woman sniffed, turning to the door. “I’ll wait in the car. I don’t need to see anything else.”

As she left, her heels echoed like thunder.

Phoenix remained, eyes lingering on Harper.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “She’s… old money, old pride, old everything.”

Harper gave a small nod. “So is mold.”

That made him crack the tiniest smile. “Can I make it up to you?”

“Depends. Does it involve her never coming back?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

There was a long beat.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Harper didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. Just remembering what it feels like to be judged for a life you never planned.”

Phoenix looked at Eden, then back at Harper. His voice dropped. “She’s a beautiful kid.”

“She’s my whole world.”

“I can tell.”

Harper cleared her throat. “You should go. She’s probably melting down in your car.”

Phoenix nodded. “Right. Just… I’ll see you soon?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t say no either.

As he left, Summer let out a breath. “Well. That was a circus.”

Harper leaned her elbows on the counter. “Tell me about it.”

Outside, Phoenix helped his grandmother into the car, then glanced back once before pulling away.

Harper watched the taillights disappear.

The bell above the door jingled again. Normal life resumed. But her chest ached, a little heavier now.

And somewhere deep inside her, a question had begun to form. One she wasn’t ready to ask—not yet. But it was there, waiting.

Like Phoenix.

Waiting.

The scent of ripe apples hung in the air, sweet and crisp, carried on the kind of autumn breeze that cooled your skin but warmed your heart. Rows of trees stretched in neat lines across the orchard, their branches heavy with fruit. The late afternoon sun slanted low, casting a golden haze across everything, painting the world softer, quieter.

Harper tightened the scarf around her neck as she watched Eden dash ahead, squealing with laughter as she chased Ethan down a path dusted in fallen leaves.

“They’re going to sleep good tonight,” Summer said beside her, sipping a cup of hot cider. “We should bring them here every weekend.”

Harper smiled faintly. “And we’d be broke by the end of the month.”

Summer nudged her shoulder. “Worth it.”

They walked slowly down the rows, the crunch of leaves beneath their boots keeping rhythm with the rustling branches overhead.

“You ever think about what it would’ve been like if none of it happened?” Summer asked.

“If what hadn’t happened?”

Summer hesitated. “Everything. Jason, the baby, your move. Phoenix.”

Harper watched the kids disappear behind a tall tree. “All the time.”

There was a pause.

“I used to think we had time,” Harper continued. “To grow up, to make mistakes. To come back and fix the things we broke.”

Summer’s voice was quiet. “We didn’t know what real broken looked like back then.”

“No,” Harper agreed. “We didn’t.”

They reached a clearing where an old wooden bench sat beneath a tree. The girls used to sit there in the summers, sipping lemonade after practice, gossiping about who kissed who under the bleachers. It looked smaller now. Or maybe they’d just grown.

They sat down together, watching Eden and Ethan wrestle apples into their tiny basket. Harper smiled.

“She’s got his spirit, you know,” Summer said.

Harper blinked. “Who?”

“Phoenix.”

Harper turned her gaze back to her daughter. “You think?”

“She’s wild, stubborn, and tender as hell. That’s Phoenix to a T.”

Harper wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.

Summer tilted her head. “You ever think about telling him?”

Harper didn’t answer right away.

“I think about it every night,” she finally said. “What it would mean. What it would change.”

“He deserves to know.”

“Maybe. But so does Eden. And if he can’t be what she needs… I don’t want her hurt.”

Summer reached over, lacing their fingers like they used to do before cheer competitions when nerves got the best of them.

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” she said. “But you don’t have to carry this alone forever.”

Harper swallowed hard. “I know.”

Across the orchard, Ethan offered Eden a crooked apple, and she grinned like it was gold.

Harper smiled faintly. “Do you think they’ll remember this day when they’re older?”

Summer’s voice was steady. “I hope so. God knows we’ve earned some soft memories.”

They sat there in the orchard a while longer, letting the world slow down. Letting the silence feel like healing instead of grief.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Harper allowed herself—for the first time in years—to feel a little hope.

Even broken trees still bore fruit.

The orchard was nearly empty now. The kids had run themselves tired and were nestled on a nearby blanket with cinnamon donuts and juice boxes, their laughter softening into sleepy murmurs.

Summer was quiet beside Harper, eyes fixed on a distant point between the trees. Her cider had gone cold in her hands.

Harper noticed the shift in her—how her shoulders sagged just slightly, how her lips pressed together like she was holding back something heavy.

“Hey,” Harper said gently, “you okay?”

Summer let out a breath through her nose, but she didn’t look over. “I don’t talk about him much. Jason.”

“I know.”

“But sometimes… it catches up with me. Like my chest forgets how to breathe without him.”

Harper reached over and touched her arm. “You don’t have to talk about it if it hurts too much.”

“I think it always hurts,” Summer said softly. “But maybe talking makes it hurt with a purpose.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again.

“He was working nights back then,” she began, her voice low and slow. “Construction gig a few towns over. Said he liked driving in the dark, said it cleared his head.”

Harper nodded, encouraging her without interrupting.

“One night, he stayed late. Something about helping a buddy finish up a drywall job. They were just loading up the last bit of gear when these two guys came into the lot.”

Her hand trembled slightly on the cup.

“They thought there was cash in the van. Or tools they could sell. Jason tried to stop them.”

Her voice cracked, just barely.

“He told his friend to run. Said he’d distract them long enough. But one of the guys had a gun. It happened so fast, the friend said. One second Jason was yelling, the next…”

She trailed off, swallowing hard.

“I still don’t understand it. He built homes. He built us. He wasn’t supposed to be the kind of person who dies like that.”

Harper’s throat burned. “I’m so sorry, Summer.”

Summer gave a small, sad smile. “The worst part is… some days I still wait for the door to open. Still think I’ll hear his keys drop on the counter.”

They sat in the silence that followed. It wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.

“I remember when you two first got together,” Harper said. “You were so sure. So in love.”

“He drove me crazy,” Summer laughed through her tears. “Always late. Always messy. But he loved me in a way that made me feel like I belonged to the world. Like no matter how broken I was, I was still his home.”

“You were.”

“I just… I never thought I’d be doing this alone.”

Harper looked over at the kids, curled up now under their coats like puppies in a pile of leaves.

“You’re not alone,” she said. “Not in any of this.”

Summer leaned her head on Harper’s shoulder, and they sat like that for a long time—two women reshaped by love, by loss, and by the quiet resilience of keeping on.

As the last light of day faded, Summer whispered, “I’m scared I’ll forget his voice.”

“You won’t,” Harper said. “I promise.”

And somewhere beneath the apple trees, under a sky going silver with dusk, that promise rooted itself like something real. Like something worth growing.