Page 17 of Falling Back to You

Mama D walked me to the front door, and I hesitated in the doorway of the warm, inviting house. It’d always been a refuge when I needed it. One more thing I was leaving behind.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mama D pressed, forehead puckered. “You can talk to me, hon.”

Smile, don’t fail me now. “I’m fine.” Throwing my arms around the woman, I inhaled her comforting aroma—jasmine perfume and fresh bread. She was the best hugger, and that meant something coming from someone who wasn’t crazy about hugs. Cal took after his mama in that department.

“Thank you,” I whispered with a final squeeze, “for everything.” Slipping away, I hurried into the summer twilight. I’d timed everything perfectly. I’d get in my car and drive. Cal wouldn’t know. No one would until it was too late.

My suitcase was already stashed in the back of my trunk. This was it. My last goodbye.

Three hours later, I crossed the border from Idaho into Utah. Next stop: New York City.

Cal and my life in Serenity Springs were in my rearview; the future was ahead.

Tears streamed down my face. God, help me. But He was silent. Just like He had been ever since I’d found my mom in the arms of another man, and she’d flung the acerbic, poisoned barbs my way.

“You don’t have what it takes to last,” she’d sneered.

I’d left the man I loved best in the world because I was drowning without a life preserver. The suffocating feeling in my lungs had lit a fire under me. I was the family glue, the secret keeper, the fixer, the therapist. But I couldn’t hold on. Not any more. If I couldn’t get help, I needed to get out. To breathe. Before it killed me.

Midlife crisis? Ha, I was nineteen and on the run.

How far would I have to go to forget him?

Chapter five

Noelle

I slept until ten, when Ruby’s chipper knocking woke me up. Eleven hours of sleep and I still felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, then dragged through potholes for a mile. Every joint in my body screamed as I peeled myself from under the covers and half shuffled, half limped to the front door. Mornings were not my friend.

Unlike me, Ruby was a big believer in early hours. But she came bearing gifts—a coffee and Danish from Bean There, Done That—so I couldn’t be too mad. Except that the pastry looked amazing, and I couldn’t eat it.

“You’re allergic?” Ruby asked aghast, like a gluten allergy was akin to wearing white after Labour Day (something I learned she had big opinions about). My sister was fashion conscious and I . . . was not.

“Yup.” I sipped my decaf coffee—how I missed the real stuff—clutching it while bedecked like a cave troll in ratty sweats and an old hoodie with holes cut into the cuffs for my thumbs (it was a phase).

Meanwhile Ruby wore cropped olive jeans and a black-and-white checkered pullover sweater. She was girl-next-door adorable. I could be mistaken for Oscar the Grouch finally emerging from his trash can. Not properly washing my hair and forgetting to wear my bonnet to bed last night had done nothing to improve the state of my naturally feral curls. The ’80s called and wanted their frizz back.

“You poor soul.” She patted my hand with such a comically pitiful expression that I burst out laughing. It was cleansing, like summer rain after a drought.

Ruby joined in, and it was nice. This. Us.

“How are Olive, Phoebe, and Quinn?” I asked carefully. We’d only talked briefly about our sisters in the past. And yes, my parents really had decided to name us in alphabetical order.

“Oh, you know.” Ruby waved a hand before ticking each sister off on her fingers. “Olive’s living the solo life, teaching at Juilliard and competing in competitions in Europe. Pheebs finished her PhD at Northwestern, and she’s teaching now while refusing to admit she’s crushing on a fellow professor, and Quinn got married a few years ago and lives in Boise.”

“So you’re the only one left in town?”

Ruby grinned. “Not anymore.” She took a bite of the Danish and dug through the basket on the counter. The movers had come and gone, leaving Box-aggedon in their wake. “Oh my gosh, what is this?” she demanded, holding up a miniature hockey stick.

“It’s a letter opener.”

She eyed it doubtfully. “Hate to break it to you, but that blade isn’t sharp enough to cut butter.”

I grabbed it and lightly pulled the stick handle away, which acted as a sheath, revealing the blade underneath.

“So . . . you’re still a hockey fan?” she asked slyly.

“Hardly. It was a gift.” From one of the junior hockey players I’d had as a patient—Jake McNally. He’d been involved in a bus crash on the way to a game, and I’d been one of the nurses on shift in the emergency room. I fought tooth and nail to save that kid. Something about him reminded me of Cal. And against all odds, he made it, and we’d struck up a friendship.