Every Road Leads Back To You
Songs To Stories Volume I
Inspired by: Our Song and Tis The Damn Season by Taylor Swift
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Willa Barrett never thought she’d come back to Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania. Not after she left twelve years ago with nothing but a dream and a heart full of reckless ambition. Not after she abandoned the only boy who ever truly loved her, chasing a future that never turned out the way she imagined. But life has a cruel way of pulling you back to the places you swore you’d never return to, and now, with nothing left in Los Angeles but broken promises and an Instagram-perfect life built on lies, Willa is back where she started—standing on the doorstep of the home she once ran from.
Her father greets her with open arms, but the years have left their mark on both of them—estrangement and grief pressing in like ghosts in the walls. And then there’s Tyler Dawson. The boy she left behind. The boy who was supposed to be her future until she threw it all away. Willa never let herself wonder what became of him, never let herself think about the life they were supposed to build together. But Tyler is still here, still in Jim Thorpe, and the look in his eyes tells her he never really forgot either.
As Willa navigates the fractured pieces of her past—her father’s quiet sadness, the town’s watchful eyes, and the undeniable pull of Tyler’s presence—she’s forced to confront the choices that led her here. The girl Tyler fell in love with all those years ago no longer exists, and the woman Willa has become isn’t sure she deserves a second chance. But the road she’s spent so long running from has led her right back to him. And maybe, just maybe, she was always meant to find her way home.
A story of love, loss, and the relentless grip of the past, Every Road Leads Back to You is a breathtaking journey of rediscovery—of what it means to return, to rebuild, and to ask if the one thing you left behind is the only thing that can ever truly make you whole.
Excerpt From Every Road leads Back To You By Britt Wolfe
The icy Pennsylvania winter greeted me the moment I stepped off the bus, its sharp chill biting at my cheeks. I’d hated this cold growing up—hated how it crept into every crack and refused to let go—but now, it felt like an old, familiar embrace. My breath rose in soft, billowing clouds, carrying with it memories of a simpler time: building lopsided snowmen in the front yard, twirling under the glow of the winter carnival lights, stringing Christmas bulbs around the porch with frozen fingers, and baking in our cramped little kitchen with Mom.
Being back now, after all this time, I felt close to all that had been. Still, those moments also felt impossibly distant now, like a snow globe I could still see but would never quite touch again.
I hadn’t come home for Mom’s funeral. Instead, I spent that week—just as I had so many weeks before and after—in the company of my closest companion: alcohol. I drank until the edges of my pain blurred, until I felt nothing at all. And while I numbed myself, Dad bore the weight of it alone, facing her loss without me. Now, after all this time, I’m finally on my way back—to his home, to the scene of so many hurts and the place I left him to grieve alone.
A taxi pulled up to the curb, the driver rolling down his window as I climbed inside. His face stopped me mid-motion—he was my age and looked vaguely familiar.
“Willa Barrett?” he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and, maybe—just maybe—a hint of excitement.
I met his gaze in the rearview mirror, my blank expression betraying the gap in my memory, the years that had stolen the name and story behind his face.
“Blake Bailey,” he prompted gently, and suddenly, the memories fell into place all at once, like scattered puzzle pieces clicking together. Blake Bailey, young and handsome, thrower of many debaucherous parties and close friend to my high school sweetheart.
“Of course,” I said, forcing a smile—the kind I’d perfected in Hollywood, polished and practiced but never quite reaching my eyes.
“You here for the holidays?” Blake asked as he pulled away from the curb. “Heading to your parents’ place?”
He was already navigating the familiar turns toward the small rectangular house I grew up in. As a kid, it had never felt like enough—too small, too ordinary for the dreams I carried back then. But now, it called to me with an irresistible pull, as though it were the only place left where I could catch my breath.
“Yes, and yes,” I replied, pulling a small compact from my leather carry-on—the only luggage I’d brought with me from Los Angeles. I flipped it open and began primping in the tiny mirror, though I wasn’t sure why or who I was doing it for. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was just that flicker of superficiality I’d always carried with me, no matter how hard I tried to keep it in check.
“Wow. I can’t believe the Willa Barrett is back in town. How have you been?” Blake asked, his voice carrying that mix of curiosity and admiration I’d come to recognize—and rely on.
“Good,” I replied, letting my eyes lock with his in the mirror. Slowly, I blinked and batted my lashes, tilting my head just enough to give him a small, shy smile. I’d already noticed the wedding ring on his finger, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about him. It was about knowing I could still draw that look—the one that said I was wanted, that I could take what I wanted if I chose to. I wouldn’t, of course. But it was the wanting that mattered, the fleeting power of it. That’s all it ever was with me.
Beauty has always been my currency, a passport that carried me far away from this place. I’m tall, and I’ve always carried my height with an ease that feels like second nature. My hair is a pale gold, the kind of blonde that shifts with the light—sometimes soft and warm, other times sharp and bright. People often comment on my eyes, pale blue and piercing, the kind that seem to hold secrets or perhaps invite questions. My face is striking, balanced in a way that draws attention without trying. My looks have opened doors, carried me places I never imagined. They took me right out of this town I always felt too good for.
“How long are you in town for?” Blake asks, his flirty smile mirroring the one I’d just given him. With it, I’ve already gotten everything I need from him.
“Just until Monday,” I reply, turning my gaze from his eyes in the mirror, dismissing him without a second thought. My attention drifts to the window, where Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania, slides past in a blur of familiar streets and landmarks. Each one carries a piece of me, fragments of the girl I used to be, shaped and worn by this place.
“Just the weekend,” Blake confirms, ignoring the silent wall I’ve put up between us. “Tyler know you’re in town?”
The name hits me like a jolt, pulling my eyes back to the rearview mirror before I can stop myself. Blake catches it—catches the flicker of emotion that flashes across my face before I can wrestle it back into submission. He smiles, satisfied, like he’s just unearthed a secret I’d never wanted to share.
