I tried to ignore it but the knocking persisted. Growling, I marched to the front door and flung it open.

For a brief moment I thought I’d opened a door to the past-- the same disheveled brown hair, the adorable sticky-outty ears that seemed to complement, rather than contrast, the line of a strong jaw and set of broad shoulders. But then I blinked and I was back in the present. The man standing on the doorstep had hazel eyes, not green, that looked into mine from a height not too much greater than my own. The almost-familiar broad cheekbones were illuminated by a completely unknown lopsided smile.

“I come in peace,” the too-familiar stranger said. His voice was the most different, a lighthearted baritone instead of that furtive bass. I glanced at my own, suddenly shaking, hands to see that I still carried the frying pan with the smoking chicken remnants. I must not have looked like I believed him because he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I was driving by and saw smoke. Just wanted to make sure everything was OK.”

“I put it out,” I said, finding my voice at last.

“Well, nearly there,” he said, his eyes landing on a curl of smoke drifting traitorously up from my pan. “Maybe I could be of some help?”

Without consciously meaning to I pivoted in the doorway, allowing him entry. He seemed to know the way without my direction, and I followed him into the kitchen. The smoking, spilled ruins of my gratitude dinner were on full display and I grimaced. He nodded in approval at the sliding door I’d thrown open, but then did a double take. He sprinted over to the stove, grabbing the discarded oven mitts then raced back to the porch while I was still trying to figure out why the hell I’d just let a stranger inside. He returned holding my cookie crisps, setting the tray down gingerly on the stove top.

“We found the source of the smoke,” he said. I wandered towards the back and realized I’d created a cookie-tray shaped burn on my best friend’s porch.

“It’s, ah, not the best idea to put hot metal on wood,” the stranger said, trying to not directly call me stupid. I growled up at the ceiling.

“Everything was smoking and then the alarm started to go off and aren’t kitchen supposed to have fans? Isn't that like, a fire department code or something? There should be a fucking fan!”

The stranger bit his lip like he was trying not to laugh, which only added to my frustration. He pointed at the microwave, a sleek new stainless steel number over the oven that hadn’t existed the last time I’d nuked a meal in this kitchen. He fiddled with the buttons on the bottom and suddenly a fan came roaring to life, sucking up the rest of the offending smoke.

“How did you-- I was looking for a fan the whole time!”

He pointed out a button, the one that clearly said ‘fan.’

“I thought it was, like, a fan for the microwave. Inside it.”

“Easy mistake to make,” he said. “You don’t expect a set up like this in an older home. I heard Rose had done some remodeling, but wow. The place looks great.”

“You know Rose?” I said.

He grinned. “I’m in her softball league. Girl has a wicked curve ball. Plus we’re neighbors, I actually live next door,” he said, gesturing in the direction of his home. As usual, the kitchen windows only revealed more trees. I felt more than a little stupid-- I was from a small town, almost like this one, and I’d lived in this town before. But… had I really? I’d slept in this house, and sometimes went out to the bar for a drink, but that was more of less the sum total of my engagement with this place. My friend had clearly done a lot more than a home makeover job; while I’d been city-hopping, she’d joined a community.

As the sense of disorientation washed over me, I continued to stare at the strange man in Rose’s kitchen, though I wasn’t fully seeing him. He immediately noticed my silence.

“Sorry, I’m Reid, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. I stared down, awkwardly switching the frying pan to my left hand before reaching out.

“Harper,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Harper,” he replied easily. “How do you know Rose?”

“I’m her best friend,” I said. “I uh, I actually used to live here with her. When she first moved to town. And... now I’m back.”

“Welcome back, then,” he said. He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to go, but if you need anything, just let me know. I could probably help you get that burn out.” We walked back towards the front door and he paused, throwing me another lopsided grin over his shoulder. “Send up a smoke signal?”

“Oh excellent, I’ve met the town clown,” I grumbled at him as he opened the front door to let himself out. He laughed as he made his way down the steps.

“Hey,” I called, just before he reached a small black truck parked in the empty driveway. “What’s your last name?”

He looked at me a little curiously, then shrugged it off. “Decker,” he said. “Reid Decker.” As he hopped into the driver’s seat I slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it. The frying pan finally clattered from my hand, scattering blackened chicken bits all over the hardwood floor. My heart thumped against my ribs.

Decker. There was no convincing myself the resemblance was a coincidence now. He was a Decker, living in this town, making him a definitive relative of the man who’d broken my heart and sent me running in the first place.