And then there’s my mom, who’s already on the porch with a smile on her face before we’ve even come to a stop.
I’ve never been so happy to get out of a car, and yet so hesitant to do so at the same time. On one hand, my old life is beckoning me home. Opening her arms and promising to keep me safe. On the other, the life I have always dreamed of is still there, begging for me not to give up. Whispering in my ear that if I just keep going, I can still make it come true.
But the time for dreaming is done. I tried and I failed. There’s nothing left to do now but mourn the loss of the life I so desperately wanted and will now never have and move on.
With that sobering thought at the forefront of my mind, I swing open the door and climb out of the car, having to stretch out my leg as soon as my feet touch the earth. It’s been almost two years since the accident, and it still gets painfully stiff when I sit for too long.
“There she is.”
I’ve barely had time to close the car door before my mom is standing in front of me, tugging me into her arms.
“Hi, Mom,” I murmur into the crook of her neck, breathing in a scent so familiar it’s etched into the very fabric of who I am.
“How was the flight?” She finally releases me before giving me a once-over, assessing.
I don’t blame her. The last time she saw me, I was in much worse shape. Mentally and physically exhausted, fighting against a body that no longer worked the way I needed it to. I don’t blame her for being worried.
“Long.” I cross around the back of the car and grab my bags from the trunk that Chet kindly popped open for me.
Mom takes my suitcase, extending the handle before dragging it toward the house.
“Thanks, Chet,” I call out, offering my driver a little wave as I pass by his door.
His tires once again crunch against gravel as he pulls a U-turn, and by the time I reach the front porch, he’s already at the bottom of the driveway and out of sight.
I would have hoped for a less chatty driver, but as far as humans go, he wasn’t the worst. I’ll be sure to leave him a big tip, on my parents, of course. It was their money that paid for my trip home after all. Otherwise, I’d be lying on a park bench somewhere, hoping not to get offed in my sleep.
Stepping into my childhood home is almost as surreal as driving through town. It feels so familiar, like home, only it hasn’t been my home in a very, very long time.
I don’t know why I never visited. Why my parents always had to come to New York to see me because I was too busy to make the trip. To be fair, Iwastypically very busy, but that’s not the only reason I never came home. I think a part of me was afraid to face what I’d find once I got here.
Even I can admit that I left a trail of destruction in my wake. Most notably, the life of a boy who loved me too much to stop me from dropping an atomic bomb on the relationship we had spent four years building. Then again, it’s not like he fought for me either...
“Are you hungry?” My mom pulls me from my thoughts and for once, I’m more than grateful for the distraction.
“Famished,” I admit. I can’t remember the last time I ate a real meal. Two days. Three maybe. Unless you count what I could afford out of the vending machine at the airport. And let’s not forget about the pretzels I ate on the plane.
“Well, you’re in luck.” She smiles, revealing a row of imperfectly perfect teeth.
My mom has always been a beauty. Unfortunately for me, I look nothing like her. She’s all tall legs and slender body, where I’m shorter—five foot three, to be exact—and have more of an athletic build, thanks to two decades of dancing and gymnastics.Where her hair is so blonde it’s nearly white, mine is dark with natural waves like my dad’s. The only physical characteristic I got from her is my eyes. A soft blue—the color of a cloudless sky, she always used to say—though I prefer to refer to them as the color of the sea.
“Your father requested beef stew for dinner. It’s been simmering on the stove for hours.”
I stifle the groan of hunger as I drop my bags by the front door.
“Where is Dad, anyway? Shouldn’t he be home by now?” I glance down at the cell phone in my hand, realizing it’s a little earlier than I was thinking as I follow my mom down the hall to the kitchen that sits at the very back of the house.
It’s dated and a little run-down, exactly as I remember it. In this case, I’m glad to see some things haven’t changed.
“He should be here soon.” My mother grabs a bowl from the cabinet and ladles the stew into it. “He had to do a hull repair on one of the Kades’ fishing boats. We had a really bad storm move through last week. Damaged more than a few vessels.” She turns, setting the steaming bowl onto the table before uncovering a basket of freshly baked bread. My mouth practically waters.
“Good to see Henry is still at it.” I take the seat she pulls out for me, stretching my bad leg out to the side. It takes me longer than it should to recognize the way her facial expression has shifted as she takes the seat across from me. “What?”
“Henry passed, London.” The soft wrinkles around her mouth become more pronounced as she frowns.
For a moment, I feel almost removed from my body. Confusion sweeps over me in a deep wave, a fog that I have trouble finding my way out of.
Henry Kade died???
