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After leaving my luggage by the stairs and smoothing down my plane-creased dress, I creep towards all the noise coming from the back of the house. Anticipation bubbles in me as I see the first colorful garlands pinned across the kitchen. Champagne bottles are tucked into buckets of ice and cream cakes have been piled onto a stand on the island.
Everything else is just where I left it: the family photographs on the walls, the neatly arranged magnets on the fridge, even the stained-glass vase I got on sale a few years ago. The world outside is scary and moves so quickly I can’t breathe, but here, everything is the same. I’m home.
Grabbing a champagne glass and pouring myself a drink, I look out of the open patio doors. Everybody is outside, drinking and laughing in the sun. I soak in the peace, tears pricking my eyes.
Footsteps echo behind me, and I spin to find Roman coming back in, slipping his phone into the pocket of his trousers. He stands beside me, looking slightly more downcast than he had when I arrived as he pours himself a whiskey.
He inspects me casually from his periphery, and I scowl. “Yes?”
He shrugs. “Brandon wasn’t sure you were ever coming home, is all. Italy looks to have treated you well.”
I almost laugh. If anything, it was the opposite. Instead, I sip my champagne and maneuver past him. “It’s not like you to hand out compliments, Roman. Are you feeling unwell?”
He rolls his eyes, but he has no time to retort — my name is squealed from outside, high-pitched and excited. My best friend Chloe has found me and dances on the spot before rushing into the kitchen to engulf me in a tight hug.
“Maddie!”
I’m so happy to see her that I don’t even question why she might be here, instead grinning into her tanned shoulder as emotion rises into my throat. “Hi, Chlo!”
“I had no idea you were coming home today!”
“Well, I cut my trip a few weeks short.” I tug gently on her glossy, platinum-blonde curl as I pull away. “I missed you too much.”
Her hazel eyes fill with sparkly tears, but something in her smile falters. I frown, but there’s no time to ask what’s wrong. I’m yanked into another bruising hug. The tall, muscular frame and the scent of fresh cologne signal it can only be my older brother.
“Brandon.” I sigh, content as warmth fills me for the first time in months.
“You’re home.” His chuckle vibrates from his chest. “Mom and Dad are going to be over the moon!”
“Well, I won’t make them wait.” I nudge his ribs, catching a glimpse of Roman, who is watching us with an indecipherable expression. I almost want to make a snide remark about how this is how you’re supposed to greet people, but if he ever acted happy to see me, I might have a stroke. Even with Brandon, he rarely shows any sort of emotion — or even any interest in anything that doesn’t include a dollar sign.
Together, we amble down the garden, the fresh grass whispering beneath my shoes. Mom is talking to the neighbors while Dad helps himself to a plate of triangle-cut sandwiches. He’s the first to spot me, and his mouth drops open to reveal mayonnaise and soggy bread.
He chews and swallows quickly as he rises from his outdoor lounger, a surprised laugh falling from him. “Hello, stranger! What are you doing home so soon?”
“I missed you guys too much.”
His embrace is brief, but I expect as much. He isn’t a big hugger, unlike the rest of us, and for that, our relationship has always felt slightly more distant. I love him, but Mom is my person.
She proves it when she lets out a gasp, shoving Dad out of the way to get to me. “Madison, darling! You’re here!”
“I’m here, Mom.” Finally, my tears begin to spill. “I’m here.”
“You must tell me how Italy was. I want to know everything!” Mom sidles beside me on the picnic blanket, a stack of cakes and sandwiches in her hands. She instantly thrusts upon me, and I pick up a plain cheese though I’m not all that hungry.
Almost everyone in the garden is ready to listen, Brandon joining us on the ground while Chloe and Dad take seats.
Roman lingers on the edge with his whiskey, leaning against the tall fence with a hand in his pocket as though he’s bored. I decide to ignore his presence.
“Well, it was nice.”
Mom lets out a laugh. “Nice? Darling, it’s Italy! It must be more than nice!”
My cheeks ache from forcing smiles, and I pretend to be interested in the fizzy champagne bubbles to avoid anyone’s gaze. “It was lovely. The food was amazing.”
“Oh, I bet!” Donna, one of Mom’s closest friends, begins telling us about her own trip to Venice last year, and I thank God for talkative middle-aged women. As they get lost in tales of gondolas and art museums, painting a picture of Italy I never got to experience myself, I slip off the picnic blanket and move to the edge of the group.
Our chocolate Labrador, Arthur, comes to greet me, sniffing at my legs and wagging his tail when I pet him. I swallow the lump in my throat.
