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HARPER
Rain slides down the windshield in steady streams, turning the house I’m parked in front of into nothing but a blob of yellow. Even blurry, I can picture the sunny structure perfectly.
White shutters. Crooked railing. Front porch swing.
The same bittersweet nostalgia of encountering any connection to childhood hits.
A feeling that’s both familiar and reassuring. Also sad. It’s looking back at a suspended remnant of time you’ll never get back, tinged with the dissatisfied realization that you didn’t appreciate simplicity when you should have. Coupled with the knowledge that everything you anticipated—adulthood, independence—isn’t as glamorous or satisfying as you thought it would be.
Wipers swipe, clearing the water steadily collecting on the windshield. For a few seconds, every detail of the house’s exterior is clear, its yellow paint and the neat row of blooming blue hydrangeas lit up by the bright glare of car headlights.
It looks friendly and cheerful.
A welcoming escape.
Proof that appearances can be deceiving.
I turn the key in the ignition, shutting off the engine. One of the upsides of living in lower Manhattan is how easy it is to navigate the city without driving a car. My ancient Jeep barely leaves the garage but runs reliably when it does, so I have no reason to replace it with a newer car that starts with simply the press of a button. Not that I would abandon this car even if it stopped running.
Metal teeth press into my palm as I grasp the key tightly, pulling in a final inhale of air-conditioning before opening my door. Damp humidity immediately seeps inside.
The wipers froze in the middle of the windshield. For a few seconds, I contemplate turning the car back on to switch them off in the correct spot, then decide it’s not worth the extra effort of doing so. All it would be is a stalling tactic.
Steady drizzle saturates my hair as soon as I step out of the car onto the clamshell driveway. My hair clings to my temples as water starts rolling down my face and the exposed skin of my arms.
The cool glide of falling rain feels good.
Cleansing.
Grounding.
I inhale deeply, trying to suffuse my lungs with the scent of Port Haven, Maine. It’s a melancholy smell. Sunny days and stormy nights. Easy flirting and unrequited crushes. Happiness and heartbreak. All mixed with pine and pure oxygen.
A growl of thunder rumbles in the distance.
I’ve always loved storms, especially in the summer. They have an energy to them.
A power.
An intensity.
My life lacks all three. Lately, it’s been nothing but dread and predictability.
Rather than head in the direction of the house—or unpack the two bags stashed in the back of the Wrangler—I start walking down the sidewalk. Clamshells crunch beneath my Converse as I navigate around the puddles that dot the driveway.
Port Haven is a tiny town. When I was a kid, traveling here from a subdevelopment in suburban Connecticut, arriving always felt like an overflow of character.
Every house I walk past is something different, not an endless stretch of cookie-cutter colonials. I’m surprised by how many of the residences haven’t changed at all from my teenage memories.
The McNallys’ cottage, three doors down, is still painted a shocking shade of red. It stands out like a shiny apple against the backdrop of a stormy gray sky. Across the street, three bikes lean against the picket fence that separates the Garretts’ front yard from the pavement. No locks in sight—another indicator that I’ve left the bustle of the city behind.
I shove both hands into the front pockets of my jean shorts, cringing at the uncomfortable chafe of damp denim against my knuckles. But the scrape anchors me in the present, which is what I was hoping for. This stop is about moving forward, not reminiscing about the past.
But just being back in Port Haven makes that nearly impossible. It transports me to a time that appeared practically perfect, but was nothing more than a pretty illusion.
This used to be my favorite place on earth. That familiarity and happiness are still here. They’re just cloaked with darker emotions that are too easy to drown in. Storminess similar to what’s swirling in the sky above me.
Maybe Port Haven hasn’t changed in the last decade.
