Page 3 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

“I hope you brought a barf bag.”

I try to hold back a laugh as I reach into my purse and hand a small paper bag to Alayna. It’s her first day of school, not mine, but somehow I’m as nervous as I imagine she is.

“Ew, I didn’t mean literally.” She presses the bag back into my hands, her cheeks turning a darker shade of pink.

I bite my lip, my grin breaking through anyway. I love this child with a fierceness I never knew was possible. “Wouldn’t want to ruin those new shoes or anything.”

Alayna drags her Converse-clad feet across the freshly waxed floor, her eyes darting back and forth along the hall of blue and red lockers. The first day of school is the only day parents are allowed to escort their kids inside—you couldn’t have paid me to miss this moment.

“Thanks for convincing Dad to take me. There’s nothing better than fresh shoes on the first day of school.”

“They do look great.” I pat her shoulder, brushing sun-kissed curls back from her face.

“It’s going to be fine. You got all the classes you wanted, and I know it’s going to be a great year.

I loved high school. This is a great opportunity for you to explore new interests and figure out what you want for your future. ”

Alayna rolls her eyes and smirks. “So when you went to school here, you always dreamed you’d grow up to run the hardware store and spend all your free time with me and Dad?”

“Shh, be quiet and keep walking. You don’t want to be late on your first day.

” This day is not about me, and I do not want to talk about my hopes and dreams this morning.

I push her along, waving at a few teachers I still recognize.

It’s been fourteen years since I walked these halls, but so much of it remains completely unchanged.

I could’ve dropped her off at the door, but her dad forgot to sign a release form for her tech privileges and asked if I could handle it before opening the store. I jumped at the chance—it was the perfect excuse to walk in with her.

“I see Summer—I’m gonna go.” Alayna grips my shoulder. “See you after school.”

I nod, letting her break away toward her friends. I don’t need her to go to the office with me anyway. I know Mrs. Brosnan will recognize me and get me whatever form I need. That old bat has worked the front desk since before I was born, and I don’t see her leaving without a fight.

Another parent holds the office door for me as she exits. Her eyes scream for mercy, and I’m sure Mrs. Brosnan is the reason. I nod my thanks and step inside, preparing for battle.

It’s like a time warp, right down to the shining vinyl floors and the smell of stale coffee. Mrs. Brosnan, with her mad mop of white curls brushing her eyebrows, sits behind the oversized oak desk. Her head jerks toward me and I swear she grimaces.

“Ah, here to fill out the form for Ms. Phillips?” she asks, already moving from her desk to a small table and chairs normally reserved for kids in trouble.

Without waiting for an answer, she presses a pen into my hand and gestures toward a stack of forms. Her steely gaze still has the same terrifying effect it did when I was sixteen.

“Take one and fill it out. And if you don’t mind, watch the desk for a moment while I step out. Apparently, my assistant can’t be bothered to make it to work on time.” She purses her lips and disappears into the staff lounge.

Letting out a long breath, I try not to laugh. That woman could scare a ghost.

I take a seat and begin filling in the form.

The part I need to fill out is short, and I think if I hurry, maybe I can get out of here before the drill sergeant returns.

I’ve almost completed the last line when the door swings open beside me.

The smell of my favorite blueberry muffins follows a large man inside.

I notice his hands first—filled with coffee cups and pastry bags from Bean-Town, the coffee shop down the street.

He appears to be struggling to balance the load, and on instinct, I jump up to help him.

“Let me get some of that for you,” I say, taking a cup holder from the crook of his arm and setting it down on Mrs. Brosnan’s desk.

“Thank you, Mrs…” The man finally looks up, his eyes locking with mine.

I choke on air. My whole body jerks with the need to breathe. I press a hand over my mouth as I gasp and cough and try to breathe through the sensation.

“Frankie?” His hazel eyes sparkle with recognition. The boy I used to know so many years ago stares back at me. The first boy I ever loved. The last boy I ever allowed close enough to break my heart.

The boy I haven’t seen since we graduated high school and he hightailed it out of here like a man on the run.

Roman Clarke.

Only he isn’t a boy anymore. In a well-tailored suit and tie, his wavy brown hair cut shorter than I’ve ever seen it, he looks handsome, polished, and put together. He’s a fully grown man—and time has been very, very kind to him.

And God help me, my heart recognizes him before my brain can catch up.

There’s a moment—a flicker of something unspoken that passes between us—and it lands heavy in my chest. I blink, but he’s still standing there, looking at me like I’m a mirage.

Maybe I am. Maybe we both are. I’m sixteen again and also not sixteen at all.

Time has passed, years have hardened me, I’ve moved on…

but there’s a part of me—small, stubborn, buried deep—that never stopped wondering if I’d ever see him again.

A part that never stopped hoping he’d come back and explain why he left.

I hate that it's still there. I hate that it still wants anything from him at all.

My mind floods with the memories I’ve kept locked up tight for years: the warmth of his hand in mine, the way he used to make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, the promises we whispered under the stars.

And then—just like that—the sting of his absence.

The silence. The way I stared at my phone long after he stopped calling, the way I told myself I was fine.

I wasn’t fine.

I steel myself.

“Roman,” I finally manage to speak, but it comes out more of a squeak than anything. I clear my throat and try again. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”

I stare at him, unable to look away. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back since that summer—the summer everything changed.

I wonder what I look like to him now. My hair’s twisted up with a few stubborn curls falling loose, and I’m wearing jeans and a Hale Hardware T-shirt.

I didn’t dress for nostalgia. I didn’t dress for him.

And yet, here he is.

“I thought you would have heard through the local gossip mill by now,” he says. “I’m the new principal. ”

I shake my head, still trying to reconcile this version of him with the one I once knew so intimately. “What happened to Mr. Garrett?”

Mr. Garrett has been a fixture at this school almost as long as grouchy old Mrs. Brosnan.

A stickler for rules, he banned pep rallies and spirit days during my sophomore year, after deeming them too disruptive—and would’ve cut dances too, if the town hadn’t raised such a stink about tradition.

But beneath his prickly exterior, he’s always cared about his students—in his own way.

“He finally retired. Bought a boat and moved to Florida to be close to his grandkids or something. It was time.”

“But what about you?” The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with accusation I didn’t mean to let slip. My stomach flips, a nauseating swirl of coffee, nerves, and years of unanswered questions. “Why are you back here?”

He laughs, and that laugh… that sound. It stirs something in me I’d sworn was long dead. “I guess I felt like it was time to come home. I saw they were looking to fill the position, and I was more than qualified, so I jumped.”

Just like that. Roman Clarke, always jumping. Into ideas, into trouble, into me—then gone before the landing.

I purse my lips, trying to mask the sudden ache blooming in my chest. “An impulsive decision. Sounds about right.” I try to make it sound light, sarcastic, but it comes out brittle. Fragile, even.

He looks at me for a beat too long, like he’s trying to read between the lines of my words. I don’t let him. I pull my fake smile tight and wipe my clammy hands against my jeans.

“Well, congratulations,” I say. “And welcome back.”

I take a slow step backward, toward the door, like my body knows I need to escape before my heart decides otherwise. One more second in this room and I might say something I’ll regret. Or worse—say something I mean .

Before I reach the door, it swings open again. My head swivels as Alayna bursts in, her curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Oh good, you’re still here! Dad wanted me to remind you that we have dinner plans tonight. And don’t be late. You know how grumpy he gets when he’s hangry.”

Her words are a lifeline—something real, something grounding. But her eyes shift, catching Roman behind me, and curiosity replaces urgency.

“Are you the new principal?” she asks, her earlier nerves replaced by the bright boldness I’ve always admired in her.

“Guilty, as charged. I’m Dr. Clarke.” Roman’s gaze drifts from her to me, then back again, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.

“And you are?”

“Alayna Phillips-Hale,” she says proudly, chin lifted.

Roman’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, his lips parting for a moment before he regains his composure. “Gotta go though,” she adds, oblivious. “Can’t be late to my first class!”

She hugs me quickly before exiting the office, as carefree as she came in.

Roman stares at the door she exited through, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard as he swallows. His shoulders square and his face tightens into something unreadable. He straightens to his full height, suddenly less man and more… storm.

The room seems to shrink around us, thick with unspoken history. My heart stutters.

He turns to me, eyes sharp now. “Frankie Hale, how old is that child?”