Hale yeah its you, p.1
Hale Yeah, It's You, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Nicole Reeves
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at NicReeves.lit@gmail.com .
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Nicole Reeves
Printed in the United States of America
First U.S. Edition: September 2025
Library of Congress Control Number: 2025915913
ISBN ebook: 978-1-7357037-5-6
ISBN print: 978-1-7357037-4-9
Author: Nicole Reeves
Editor: Victoria Freeman
Cover Design: Brenna Jones Design
Contents
Dedication
1. CHAPTER 1
2. CHAPTER 2
3. CHAPTER 3
4. CHAPTER 4
5. CHAPTER 5
6. CHAPTER 6
7. CHAPTER 7
8. CHAPTER 8
9. CHAPTER 9
10. CHAPTER 10
11. CHAPTER 11
12. CHAPTER 12
13. CHAPTER 13
14. CHAPTER 14
15. CHAPTER 15
16. CHAPTER 16
17. CHAPTER 17
18. CHAPTER 18
19. CHAPTER 19
20. CHAPTER 20
21. CHAPTER 21
22. CHAPTER 22
23. CHAPTER 23
24. CHAPTER 24
25. CHAPTER 25
26. CHAPTER 26
27. CHAPTER 27
28. CHAPTER 28
29. CHAPTER 29
30. CHAPTER 30
31. CHAPTER 31
32. CHAPTER 32
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
Also by Nicole Reeves
About The Author
For every heart whose journey didn’t go as planned—
may the twists and turns lead you to a love that feels like home.
CHAPTER 1
There’s a fragile sliver of time between sleep and waking—when the world is quiet, your mind is still soft with dreams, and the lie you’ve been trying not to believe almost feels true. It’s a fleeting illusion, that warmth, and it’s gone the second reality starts to creep in. And when it does, it leaves you cold. Alone. Grasping for pieces of something that never really was.
Still, I chase that moment every morning. Maybe that makes me a fool. Or a masochist.
Whatever it makes me, one thing’s for certain: I am not a morning person. And it’s far too early to be wrestling with existential dread.
When my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through the windows, I gently stroke the head of brown curls resting against my stomach. My neck is stiff, head too high off the mattress. Last night, our little trio piled into the master bed for our end-of-summer movie night tradition. It’s something we’ve done for years—one last hoorah before the school year starts.
Alayna climbed in the middle, and we made it through two, maybe three, movies before I passed out. I remember laughing until popcorn flew everywhere, covering the sheets and the floor. I’ll have to strip the bed later, put on fresh linens. The whole house could use a clean slate, now that summer’s over.
It felt so natural, the three of us like that. Comfortable and familiar. We laughed like we hadn’t in months. And yet now, with morning creeping in and my muscles protesting, I’m trapped. Caged like a wild animal in a life I used to dream about. One I once prayed for. So why is that happiness suddenly slipping through my fingers?
Despite the pretty picture we paint, something’s changed. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve changed.
Alayna’s soft snores continue as I stroke her hair. She hasn’t curled up against me like this in ages. The weight of her, the warmth—it tugs at something deep and aching. Tomorrow she starts high school. And it’s not only the end of our summer. It’s the end of an era.
She’s standing on the edge of something big. I can feel it. And while I’m excited for all that’s ahead for her, I’m terrified of what that means for me—for us. For this little family we’ve patched together over the years.
Gone are the days of scraped knees and magic Band-Aids, of dolls and sticky Lego traps in the hallway. Now it’s sleepovers and mascara tutorials and late-night calls with boys I pretend not to hear. The tiny tears over spilled juice have morphed into full-blown teenage heartbreaks. She’s growing up too fast, and I’m not sure I’m ready.
These next four years will shape her future. College. Dreams. Independence. And I don’t know where I’ll fit in once she gets there.
“You awake, Keke?” Clay’s voice is groggy, thick with sleep.
I shift slightly, realizing his arm is the lift beneath my pillow. A pang stabs behind my eyes, sharp and sudden. Too early for tears.
“Mmhmm,” I mumble. “What time is it?”
The bed shifts as Clay moves. His arm slips out from under me, and I drop flat onto the mattress with a soft exhale.
“Few minutes after six,” he says after checking his phone. “You heading into the store today?”
I groan. Inventory won’t count itself. “Yeah. Already late.”
I ease out from under Alayna, careful not to wake her. I press a kiss to her forehead and tuck the comforter around her. In sleep, she looks just like me—a carbon copy, minus the few lines and wrinkles I’ve earned over the years. Sometimes it’s like looking into a time machine.
“Make her some breakfast?” I ask Clay.
He nods. “Go shower. I’ll make coffee.”
He gives me one of his lopsided grins, rubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw. His sandy blond hair sticks up on one side, boyish and endearing.
“You’re the best,” I murmur, escaping to the bathroom.
Hot water and strong coffee. That’s what I need before I think too hard.
Under the shower spray, I try to convince myself that this morning is like any other. That everything’s fine.
But it’s not. Something’s shifting. Has already shifted. And no amount of rinsing can wash that feeling away.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my Hale Hardware tee and faded jeans, hair pulled into a damp ponytail. I rush into the kitchen, wet strands soaking the back of my shirt.
Alayna is perched on a barstool, bleary-eyed, curls wild, and arms cradling a pancake-loaded plate.
“Morning,” she says as I pluck a popcorn kernel from her hair.
Clay hands me my purple travel mug. “Figured you’d want yours to go.”
The kitchen looks exactly as it always has—brown laminate counters, blue tile floors, scarred wooden stools. We upgraded the appliances four years ago, but the soul of the place hasn’t changed. My grandmother’s kitchen. Now ours.
“What would I do without you?” I ask, sipping cautiously.
“Die a slow, uncaffeinated death,” Alayna says, deadpan.
“Such a cheeky child.”
Clay laughs. “She’s not wrong. You’d live on energy drinks and takeout.”
“You’re both insufferable,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “But I really do have to go.”
“At least take a pancake,” Clay says, wrapping a sausage in one and pinning it with a toothpick. He hands it to me in a paper towel. “Can’t have you hangry all morning.”
“My coworkers thank you,” I say. Not that I’ll see many today—just my dad and Mike. The fewer people, the better.
“Tell Grandpa he’s still my favorite,” Alayna mumbles through syrup. “And remind Dad I deserve new shoes.”
Clay rolls his eyes. “You’ll live until next weekend.”
“Take her to get the shoes,” I tell him, grabbing my bag. “It’s her first day of high school. She only gets one.”
He steers me toward the door, mock-scolding. “You’re supposed to back me up, not enable her.”
“You expect too much from me in the mornings.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
My heart squeezes. “Love y’all,” I call out, stepping outside.
The Idaho sunrise paints the sky in warm pinks and oranges. I take a deep breath of crisp air.
“Purse,” Clay calls, slipping the strap over my head. “We all know how forgetful you are.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “If only I could choose what to forget.”
CHAPTER 2
Hale Hardware has been on the corner of Main Street and 3rd since 1902, owned and run by a Hale every year since. The big steel-gray building with wide glass windows draws my eye the moment it comes into view. More than any other place in Pinewood, this store is my home.
The Hale sons have all taken their turns at running it—some longer than others. My father, Franklin Hale the Fourth, always dreamed of handing it off to his own son someday. But since he only had daughters, I—his youngest—was named Frankie and raised with the expectation that I'd follow in the footsteps of all the Frank Hales before me.
Growing up between the aisles with my dad and grandpa as my daily companions, I never resented that plan. I saw the shop a
Grandpa likely dreaded the thought of my princess-themed renovations, but he’d playfully ruffle my hair, hand me a bag of fresh popcorn from the old cart, and send me off to sort the mixed-up bins of screws and nails. I felt important every time they gave me a task.
It’s been nearly ten years since we lost Grandpa, and Grandma not long after. But when I refill the popcorn machine or find myself reorganizing those stubborn bins, I still feel him with me.
Dad handed the reins over on my twenty-eighth birthday—technically retired, though he still shows up most days to hang around. He says retirement is boring, and Mom doesn’t mind as long as he stays out from under her feet.
His old truck, a faded red that now leans more rust-orange, greets me in the parking lot when I arrive. He’s always the first one here on Sundays, probably sipping coffee and listening to old country on the radio. I hum Dolly Parton’s "9 to 5" as I grab my purse and head inside.
The double glass doors are unlocked. The familiar smells of sawdust, grease, and buttery popcorn greet me like a hug. Country music plays softly over the speakers. I toss my keys and purse near the register and call out a hello.
"Ah, my sweet daughter has finally arrived," Dad calls from the breakroom.
I pull my faded blue apron from behind the counter and tie it behind my back, stuffing pens into the front pocket. Inventory days always leave me covered in dust.
Mike rounds the corner first, a stack of mail in his hands. He’s closer in age to Dad than to me, but with his endless energy, you’d never guess it. He’s been working at the store since he graduated high school and fits in like part of the family.
“Bills and another offer to buy the land,” he says, shrugging as he hands me the pile.
Dad follows behind him, cradling his favorite "Best Grandpa Ever" mug. "Don’t bother opening it—it’s probably insulting."
“Must be a good offer then,” I tease, winking. “Still not selling, though.”
Mike shrugs again. “Didn’t even open it.”
I grin. “You know I’m only messing with you. This store’s mine now—glitter paint or not.”
Dad’s smile softens. “Someday, you might not want to run this place. And if that happens, I’d understand. You’ve spent a lot of your life taking care of the rest of us.”
The deep creases in Dad’s forehead are on prominent display, and his white hair seems to glow under the fluorescent lighting. Sometimes I forget how old he’s getting; in my mind, he’s young and strong and larger than life.
I place a hand over my heart and meet his gaze. “This is home, Dad. Dust, spiders, and all.”
He pulls me into a side hug, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I know, kiddo. I just always pictured more for my girls.”
Girls. The word lands like a rock in my stomach. It tumbles around, sharp and unwelcome. I step back and force a tight smile, jaw clenched. I’m not in the mood to think about my sister, Tasha. Not today.
Mike seems to catch the shift in my energy and slides a clipboard into my hands. “Back room’s done. I’d start up front and work your way back.”
I nod, thankful for the save. “What are you two up to?”
“Couple deliveries tomorrow,” Dad says. “Thought we’d get 'em loaded up today.”
“If you need help with inventory, say the word,” Mike adds.
I look at both of them—matching T-shirts, faded jeans, all part of my day-to-day—and smile. Dad might be taller, and more filled out, especially around the middle, but after all the years of working side-by-side, the two of them have begun to look more like blood-brothers. “Please. Let me finish in peace.”
They take the hint and disappear toward the back. As much as I love them, sometimes it’s a relief to have the shop to myself. There are things we’ll never agree on, and Tasha will always top that list.
I turn up the radio and get to work. The faster I finish, the sooner I can head out. And suddenly, that sounds pretty good.
CHAPTER 3
“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.
