1
Everett
MARCH
Los Angeles always felt temporary, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise. The boxes stacked along my apartment wall say what I’ve been avoiding for months.
I’m done pretending this is home.
I’ve been in LA for almost twenty years. I moved here when I was eighteen. Long enough that it should have felt permanent, like it was home. But something was missing. I would try to fill that with new hobbies, advancing my career, going on dates, and settling down. Nothing felt right; it never felt like it was enough. I came here trying to prove something to myself and my family back in Lavender Creek, that I didn’t have to follow in my family’s plan for me to be successful and happy. I could accomplish that on my own.
My life was mapped out the second the ultrasound technician told my parents they were having a boy.
The Callahan ranch has been in our family for three generations. It’s always been understood that it would be passed down to the eldest son. Me. Unfortunately for everyone involved.
I kept it to myself for years that I never wanted the ranch. Never wanted that life. I’m not a rancher; it was certainly not my dream. Henry, my younger brother, always loved it. The early mornings, the animals, the land. It made sense for him to take it over.
I still remember the day I told my parents. It was the year before I graduated from high school. I informed them that once I had my diploma, I was moving to LA to see what life outside of Lavender Creek had to offer.
I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face.
Pure disappointment. Like I’d failed him.
After that, things between us were strained. I stopped talking about my plans, my excitement, the hole-in-the-wall apartment that became my first real taste of independence. My mom tried to mend the gap, giving each of us updates, but my conversations with my dad stayed surface-level.
I never regretted leaving. I was happy. I built a life for myself, with no assistance from anyone. Still, maybe moving back home will help fix what I broke.
Lavender Creek always felt too small when I was growing up. Everyone knew everyone’s business. No privacy. The constant question of “is this it?”
I had to find out what was beyond Lavender Creek.
I stayed for the summer after graduation, doubt creeping up late at night, wondering if I could make it on my own without a plan already laid out for me. In the end, I left. LA became home, or at least I thought it would be my forever.
I’ve been a stage manager since I arrived. Indie films and theater productions. Long hours behind the scenes, coordinating actors, props, schedules, and rehearsals. I loved it until a couple of years ago.
Limited creative control has a way of wearing you down. Following other people’s visions when you know you are capable of so much more.
A few months ago, Henry, my younger brother, called telling me that the old theater in Lavender Creek was for sale.
The place we snuck into movies, where we took dates, where our parents threw our birthday parties. A town staple.
I took it as a sign.
Maybe life wasn’t pushing me away from home; maybe it was leading me back to it.
My last day in LA starts with a baseball game.
Riley and I met almost right after I moved here, two guys sitting alone at a dive bar with sticky floors and cheap beer. He took the seat beside me, ordered a drink, and somehow became my family.
That same year, he signed his first professional contract. Pitcher for the LA Vipers. He was unreal in his rookie season. He bounced around a few teams after that and somehow found his way back here again. Full circle moment.
He’s pitching today, so I am at the stadium sitting in a box suite full of people I don’t know. They are friendly enough, but I am just here to watch Riley.
Being in a VIP suite is a luxury. Companies will rent them out for their employees. You have your own waitresses making sure that the food is refreshed. Today, there are chicken wings, nachos, hot dogs, a few different dips, and a whole bunch ofchips, popcorn, and almost every snack you would want. On top of the copious amount of food, you can walk a few feet to our own bar, fully stocked with liquor, beer, wine, and soda.
I feel like royalty here. I could get used to this. Today I am here with friends and family of the LA Vipers. There are the team’s wives, kids, friends, and parents. I have met most of them over the years.
Baseball season has just started, so everyone is excited to see each other and catch up. The wives are all in their little circle off to the side. The kids are stuffing their faces with chips and chocolate; their parents eager to see their sons play on the field; and there I am, sitting there, supporting my friend.
