Page 31 of Curve Balls and Second Chances (Pickwick Pirate Queens #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A t her home out in the county, the home where she’d grown up and become bitter about her prospects until she decided to change her own future, Briana perched at her vanity, painting her lips a glossy red as she hummed along to the radio.

The little house creaked with familiarity, every corner a reminder of the years she had once felt trapped here.

The worn floors bore the scuffs of her restless pacing as a teenager, dreaming of escape.

The faded floral wallpaper in the hallway still curled at the edges, neglected but stubbornly clinging on—like the town itself, refusing to change no matter how much time passed.

Even her vanity, chipped at the corner and missing a brass pull, had belonged to her mother.

She had once sworn she would leave this furniture, this town, this life, far behind her.

Yet here she sat again, the glossy smear of lipstick on her lips like war paint.

Bitter thoughts occupied her mind.

She’d lied about her reasons for coming back. Lied to anyone who bothered to ask and, perhaps most importantly, lied to herself. The truth tasted too much like failure.

Back to this small town with its smaller people.

The words echoed inside her head with venom.

They had never understood her, not really.

These neighbors and classmates, these church ladies and softball players—they lived and breathed contentment, as though a porch swing and a family recipe could be enough to fill a life.

To Briana , it had always been suffocating, as though someone pressed a pillow to her face every time she walked down Main Street .

They had no idea there was a wild, wonderful world beyond this sleepy place. A world that had welcomed her once.

She saw it again in her mind, clear as if it were yesterday: bright lights glinting off tall buildings, the rush of traffic and laughter spilling from rooftop bars, the feeling of possibility hanging in the air like perfume.

There she had been someone. Beautiful , admired, unburdened by the old stories of who she used to be.

She had slipped into that world like sliding into silk sheets. Effortless . Intoxicating .

Until she crashed.

Her hand hesitated as she painted the bow of her lip, the memory of that fall sharp as broken glass.

She had flown too close to the sun, dazzled by her own reflection in windows and champagne flutes.

She’d mistaken attention for devotion, mistook desire for permanence.

And when it ended - when the city closed its doors to her - she found herself driving back to Tennessee , nursing wounds too deep for bandages.

Coming back to Pickwick Bend had been her only option.

She hated the sound of that, hated how it branded her return with desperation instead of choice. She told herself she had come back to take stock, to regroup, to remind herself of her roots. But really, she’d come back because there was nowhere else left to go.

And then, miracle of miracles, Acen had shown up in town shortly after she’d arrived.

She’d thought fate was smiling on her again.

For weeks she had floated on that possibility, certain the universe had realigned in her favor.

The boy she had once known, now a man, returned at the very moment she needed a lifeline.

She saw in him not just a chance at rekindling old sparks, but proof that she was still chosen, still worth fighting for.

She had told herself stories of how it might unfold: the town buzzing with envy as they walked side by side, Acen’s gaze fixed only on her, the life she’d once dreamed of finally within her reach.

But that hadn’t turned out the way she’d thought.

Rose McAlister had ruined that dream.

Rose, with her polished little coffee shop and her air of calm competence, with her untouchable reputation and her easy way of making people like her.

Rose , who had managed to turn Acen’s head without even trying, while Briana had painted her nails and smiled too wide, offering everything and receiving nothing.

So now she’d get her own back the only way she could.

The thought curled in her chest like smoke. She leaned closer to the mirror, dragging the lipstick carefully along her bottom lip until it shone, until her reflection looked fierce enough to match the storm behind her eyes.

She didn’t need to see the ripple to know it was there.

Small towns ran on gasoline and gossip, and she’d poured enough into the tank to keep tongues wagging for weeks.

The art of it, she told herself, was subtlety. You didn’t shout the truth—or the lie. You whispered. You dropped a phrase here, an observation there. You looked surprised when someone else repeated it, and you tilted your head just enough to suggest you knew more than you were saying.

She didn’t have to say the secret outright.

That was the beauty of it. She didn’t have to spell out the details, didn’t have to risk exposing herself to blame. She only had to tilt the story so it slid in Rose’s direction. Just enough to remind people that Rose wasn’t perfect, wasn’t untouchable, wasn’t the saint they wanted her to be.

And once the idea took root, it would grow.

That was the thing about suggestion. It bloomed wild, tangled, unstoppable.

Like kudzu creeping up a fence post, once planted it covered everything in its path.

She had already heard whispers of it—the way someone would lower their voice in the grocery aisle, the way a church pew would shift slightly when Rose sat down.

Doubt was a seed you never had to water; people did it themselves.

Her reflection smirked back at her, lips red as sin, eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

She leaned back, taking in the whole picture of herself in the mirror.

She looked nothing like the girl who had once stared out this same window and dreamed of leaving.

She looked harder, sharper, like someone who had survived too much to ever be soft again.

The house around her was still the same—thin walls, sagging roofline, the faint scent of mothballs in the closets. But she was not the same. She refused to be.

When the game ended. If she lost. If the town wanted to make her the villain, so be it. Villains got remembered.

She reached for the perfume bottle on her dresser, misting the air until the room filled with the sweet, heavy scent. She closed her eyes, breathing it in, letting the fragrance coat her skin like armor.

By the time she stood, smoothing down her skirt and slipping into her heels, the decision had already been made.

Rose McAlister might believe she had the upper hand. But Briana knew better.

Because in Pickwick Bend , it wasn’t the truth that mattered.

It was the story people chose to believe.

And Briana Lewis knew exactly how to tell a story.