Page 2 of Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls #1)

Mom and I arrive in Bramble Falls early on Sunday.

The newly risen sun reflects off the morning dew and paints the town in a golden hue.

Sugar maples line the quiet streets, their green leaves clinging to the dregs of summer the same way I’m clinging to home, relentlessly resisting the inevitable change.

The passenger-side window is cold against my forehead as I take in the small town, which looks exactly the same as it did when I was a kid. Small houses sit atop small, perfectly landscaped yards. A few people walk their small dogs down the sidewalk.

Everything here is small.

I already miss New York City. I miss its vastness and its sounds and its bustle. I miss its food and its buskers and its bookstores. Hell, I even miss the trash and the awful smells and the subway.

I do not belong here.

Mom stops at the only traffic light in town and turns to me, grinning, as if everything is fine and normal. Her lips move, and Gracie Abrams’s voice fades as I pull out my AirPods.

“What?” I ask.

“I said it’s beautiful here, isn’t it? Do you remember all of this?” She gestures at Bramble Falls’s town square in front of us.

The white gazebo where my cousin Sloane and I used to eat picnics and meet up with her friends sits surrounded by the same freshly cut grass that always felt like silk beneath my bare feet. The green lawn is dappled with trees, their branches casting shadows over beds of orange and maroon mums.

“Of course. I wasn’t in the womb the last time we were here,” I say dryly.

Mom frowns and accelerates when the light changes.

We follow the road around the square, passing the old hardware store with the same sun-bleached TOOLS & MORE!

sign that’s always been in the window, the diner where Sloane and I used to get thick malts and chili dogs on unbearably hot summer days, the tiny post office where I used to mail postcards to my friends back in New York, and the market where I (accidentally) stole something for the first time.

Yeah, the quaint town is pretty, and I have a lot of fond childhood memories here.

But warm memories aren’t enough to extinguish my bad mood.

This place isn’t home , and I’m not going to pretend to be excited about moving just to make my mom happy—especially when it’s her fault I’m stuck here.

I get that she’s going through a lot, but I still don’t understand why I had to come with her.

It can’t be to stave off her loneliness, since she’ll be living with Aunt Naomi and Sloane.

It can’t be to help her avoid homesickness, since home is evidently the last place she wants to be.

Every avenue of thought leads me to the same conclusion: that she’s doing it out of spite, trying to get under Dad’s skin, and I’m collateral damage.

As we drive past a tiny greeting-card store, a woman with curly brown hair and deep wrinkles smiles and waves at us. Mom waves back.

“Do we know her?” I ask.

“No,” Mom laughs. “People here just wave to each other. She was being friendly .”

“Right.”

Mom sighs. “This is going to be good, Ellis,” she says, staring at the road ahead of her. “For both of us.”

I turn off my music and put my earbuds away because Aunt Naomi only lives a couple blocks from downtown. “Sure.”

Silence stretches between us as we turn onto Saffron Lane, and the small, white colonial house with its bright blue door and shutters comes into view.

We haven’t even pulled into the driveway when my aunt comes running out of the house with a face-splitting grin, her arms held out, ready to wrap us in hugs.

Great.

Mom swings our BMW into the driveway and barely throws it into park before she’s out of the car, hugging her sister.

A second later, Sloane saunters out with a smile that matches her mom’s.

While I look more like my dad, Sloane is her mom’s replica, sharing the same shoulder-length, pale blond hair, thick bangs, sky-blue eyes, and matching flannel shirt.

“Hey, Ellis,” Sloane says, wrapping her arms around me the moment I step out of the car.

“Hey,” I mutter, patting her on the back. I hate that the excitement over seeing my cousin again is tainted by my circumstances.

Yet another thing my mom ruined.

She pulls away and sets her hands on my shoulders. “Are you doing okay?”

I get that she’s trying to be nice because she knows about my parents, but I can’t stand the pity in her eyes. I do not need pity. I just need to go home.

“I’m fine,” I answer, forcing a close-lipped smile. “How are you? It’s been forever.”

“I’m great!” She takes a step back, plastering on a grin so wide I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt her face. “We’re so excited to have you stay here, especially this time of year!”

“Oh, yes, Ellis,” Mom says, stepping beside me. “You’re in for a treat. Nowhere else does autumn quite like Bramble Falls.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. I could not possibly care less about autumn in Bramble Falls. Or anything in Bramble Falls, for that matter.

Aunt Naomi pulls me into a tight hug, and the warmth of her embrace and the long-forgotten scent of her coconut shampoo dull my sharp edges just a bit.

“Gosh, I’ve missed you.” She lets me go and tucks my long, dark brown hair behind my ears, her eyes traveling over me, taking in my Khaite jeans and cropped sleeveless sweatshirt.

“Wow. You have really grown up since I last saw you.”

“Hasn’t she?” Mom says, beaming at me.

Aunt Naomi frowns at her. “I can’t believe you stayed gone for so long. I feel like I’ve missed so much.”

Mom’s shoulders droop. “Life happened.”

“It sure did, didn’t it?” Aunt Naomi shakes her head and gives Mom a look only a sister could decode. Then she turns back to me and smiles. “Well, you’re here now. Let’s get you squared away.”

Mom pops the trunk, and I grab one of the only two suitcases of clothes she let me bring after reminding me that Aunt Naomi’s house isn’t big enough for my expansive wardrobe.

But, apparently, it’s big enough for my sewing supplies, which she insisted on packing, despite the fact that I’ve barely touched any of them in over a year.

I don’t spare the sewing stuff a glance before lugging my suitcase up the porch steps behind Aunt Naomi and Sloane. Mom follows with her bags, and we stop inside the entryway and set our luggage on the floor.

The house is small—go figure—but well-loved.

To our left, a beige slip-covered couch sits beside a blue gingham lounge chair in front of a small flat-screen television in the carpeted living room.

Unevenly hung photographs and art projects in mismatched frames cover the walls, and every shelf is jam-packed with knickknacks and books.

Straight ahead, I catch a glimpse of the tiny L-shaped kitchen, where potted plants bring life to the place, and the counter is filled with corny coffee mugs that read things like YOU ARE BEAUTIFALL , SPICE, SPICE, BABY , and YOU’RE THE APPLE OF MY PIE .

It’s a far cry from our spacious, well-kept NYC apartment, but Aunt Naomi’s house has always been oddly charming and cozy.

“Why don’t we show you your rooms, and I can give you a tour later,” Aunt Naomi says. “It’s been so long since you were last here, some things might have changed.”

I scoff. This is the type of place where nothing ever changes.

Mom shoots me a glare, then nods at Aunt Naomi. “Sounds good.”

The four of us head upstairs to the guest bedroom.

“Annie,” Aunt Naomi says to my mom, “this will be your room.”

The light blue bedroom is simple, with a queen-sized bed against the wall, a desk in the corner, and a single mahogany dresser.

Mom sets her suitcase on the floor. “This is perfect, Naomi. Thank you.”

Aunt Naomi smiles and motions for me to follow her. “Ellis, I was going to set you up in Sloane’s room,” she says, “but your mom said you’d probably prefer to have a space of your own.”

Oh, thank god.

Aunt Naomi leads us down the hall and stops at a door I’ve never opened before. In fact, I have no recollection of this door at all.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, twisting the door’s wobbly knob, “we’re out of bedrooms.” She pulls the door open and begins climbing a creaky set of steps.

I reluctantly follow her. The temperature rises as we reach the landing, where rays of sunlight shine through the window, turning floating dust particles to glitter.

“Sorry, it’s kind of stuffy up here,” Aunt Naomi says, pushing open the heavy wood-framed window.

I glance around at the giant room spanning the length of the house.

It’s filled with boxes, most of them overflowing with what appears to be the entire autumn section of a party store—plastic pumpkins, fall leaf garlands and red, yellow, and orange artificial plants, wooden fall ornaments, autumn wreaths, and knitted coasters in the shape of pumpkins and apples.

I love a hot pumpkin spice latte and a warm sweater as much as the next person, but this seems a bit overboard.

I follow Aunt Naomi through the narrow path between the boxes, brushing away spiderwebs—both real and fake—until we reach a cleared-out space under one of the gables, where, presumably, I’m supposed to sleep.

There’s a standard bed with what looks like a vintage Laura Ashley bedspread and an antique-looking wrought-iron bed frame, a single whitewashed dresser, and a few rugs Aunt Naomi has layered across this section to cover the floor.

But none of them cover the fact that this is an attic . I can’t help feeling like Sara from A Little Princess . I sigh. At least there’s a window.

“I know it’s not perfect,” my aunt says quickly, no doubt noticing my hesitation. “But I hope you’ll be comfortable….”

I glance at my mom, who nods at me, prompting me to thank my aunt for her hospitality.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “It’s great.”

I’m beyond angry at my mother for putting me in this situation, but it isn’t Aunt Naomi’s fault. I am grateful she made space for us, even if this is the last place I want to be.