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Three thousand and eighty-five people. That’s it—the entirety of Gerard’s world. The sum of every person who’s ever mattered to him. And I’m about to meet them all.

Well, maybe notallof them. But it sure as hell feels that way as we drive down Main Street, or as Gerard calls it, “the heart and soul of Elk Valley.”

Quaint little shops line the street, their windows displaying charming assortments of handmade goods and local wares. We pass a bakery with a chalkboard sign advertising fresh apple pie, and I fight the urge to lower the window to catch a whiff of that delicious cinnamon and butter.

Next door, a hardware store sells everything from hammers to hoses. Out front, a group of old men sit in white rocking chairs, carving pieces of wood and swapping stories.

They look up and wave as we pass, and Gerard returns their gesture with a grin.Ladies and gentlemen, the prodigal son has returned.

We continue past a diner that has probably been there since the 1950s. Its parking lot is full of pickup trucks and SUVs. Through the wide window, people engage in animated conversations over plates loaded with eggs and bacon.

Gerard’s excitement peaks as we drive by a picturesque white clapboard church with a soaring steeple that reaches up to the sky. “That’s Elk Valley Community Church. My family has been going there every Sunday morning since I was in diapers.”

I admire how the church stands tall and proud against the snow-capped mountains. It would fit right in on a Hallmark movie set, full of charm and small-town tradition. But as pretty as it is, I feel uneasy at the thought of ever stepping foot inside.

Churches and I don’t mix. Not since my mom dragged me to Mass once as a kid. She stuffed me into an itchy sweater and made me sit still for hours. I always felt out of place, as if everyone could see right through me.

As we pull up to a red light, a group of townsfolk approaches the car. Gerard lowers the window, letting in a blast of frigid mountain air that makes me shudder.

“Well, look who it is!” a gray-haired man in a red flannel jacket exclaims. “Gerard Gunnarson, as I live and breathe. Welcome home, son!”

“Thanks, Earl,” Gerard replies with a megawatt smile. “It’s good to be back.”

Earl peers into the car. His pale blue eyes narrow slightly, and his bushy eyebrows knit together. “And who’s this you’ve got with you?”

I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, suddenly feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass.Gerard, bless him, doesn’t miss a beat, though. “This is Elliot Montgomery. We met at BSU.”

A hush falls over the group. Their eyes sweep over me, assessing and denouncing me all at once.

“Well, isn’t that…something,” a woman in a puffer coat says in a carefully neutral tone.

I don’t miss how she purses her lips in a way that suggests she finds “something” not entirely to her liking.

“It’s nice to meet you all.” I attempt a smile, but I’m pretty sure it comes off as more of a grimace.

Salvation comes when the light turns green. Gerard waves one last time and eases his foot off the brake. As we leave them behind, I sigh heavily.

“Did that seem weird to you?” Gerard asks, his brow furrowed in confusion as he turns onto a side street. “The way they were acting, I mean.”

I gaze out the window, realizing that the towering pines and snow-capped mountains in the distance have suddenly lost their charm. “Not really.”

“What do you mean, ‘not really?’”

I bite my lip, unsure whether to share the swirling thoughts in my head. It’s not an easy topic to discuss. Nor am I in the right state of mind to explain to Gerard that the people he knows might not be all they’re cracked up to be.

“Gerard, I’m Hispanic,” I say, choosing to rip the Band-Aid right off. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Elk Valley isn’t exactly a beacon of diversity.”

He blinks, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief. “But…what does that have to do with anything?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “It has everything to do with it. I’m different. I don’t look like them, I don’t sound like them, and I sure as hell don’t fit into their neat little boxes of what’s ‘normal.’”

Gerard frowns. “But that’s ridiculous! Your race doesn’t define you. It’s a part of who you are, like your brown eyes or sarcastic sense of humor.”

I smile. Leave it to Gerard to compare my ethnicity to my snark. But as sweet as his words are, they don’t change the reality of the situation. “I know that. And you know that. But to them?”I jerk my chin at the window, indicating the townsfolk we just encountered. “To them, I’m a curiosity at best and a threat at worst.”

The next several minutes pass by in awkward silence. Gerard taps the steering wheel as he mulls over my words. I know him well enough now to know he’s struggling to reconcile his idyllic childhood memories with the uncomfortable truth.

“I never thought about it that way,” he admits, sounding sad. “I guess I’ve always been so caught up in the hockey world that I never stopped and considered how it might appear from the outside.”