Chapter 2
Mom turns up the gravel driveway, loose stones crunching beneath the tires like hard candy.
Two hundred acres sprawl before me, a sweep of rolling hills and green trees, sunlight caught in the leaves, space upon space upon space. The knot of anxiety in my chest finally loosens as if this land is reaching in and untying it for me after what happened at Piggly Wiggly.
“Home sweet home,” Mom says as she slows down.
I lean forward, greedy for the sight, as if I can pull it into my lungs along with the clean air.
My great-great-grandfather bought this land when it was nothing but wild terrain, untamed and relentless, and he kept it, fought for it, passed it down until it reached my father’s capable hands.
This place has been the one constant in our family, rooted and unchanging, an anchor in the middle of a world that never stops spinning.
There he is. Dad. Rocking steadily in his favorite white wicker chair on the porch, one hand lifting in greeting as we roll to a stop.
Behind him, our three-story ranch house stands proud, cheerful white shutters framing the windows and that bright blue front door glowing like a beacon, exactly as I remember.
The garden still hugs the eastern side, tucked behind the same white picket fence I helped paint the summer after eighth grade, when my world was small enough to fit inside these boundaries.
Mom hasn’t even cut the engine before I’m flinging open my door and scrambling out to meet my father.
“Dad!” The word bursts from me, raw and eager.
He stands with that same unhurried grace and holds his arms open. I crash into him. Suddenly I’m eight again, seeking refuge from scraped knees and pouncing red foxes. I’d forgotten how safe I feel in my dad’s arms, like nothing can touch me when he’s holding me.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he says with a chuckle, the sound deep and familiar against my ear.
The scent of motor oil clings to his faded T-shirt, unmistakable proof of another day spent tinkering with that ancient Buick of his.
I used to wrinkle my nose and nag him—daily—to trade the rust bucket in for something built in this millennium.
Now I inhale deeply, because I didn’t realize a smell could be a kind of homecoming.
Motor oil and cinnamon and freshly cut grass, all braided together into the scent of him that I love so much.
“I’ve missed you so much, Dad.” The tears come without warning, hot trails mapping my cheeks as four years of distance collapse into this single moment.
“I’ve missed you too, angel.” His large hand pats my back, steady and gentle.
I wipe at my tears, trying to piece my composure back together.
Dad breaks our embrace to haul my suitcase from the trunk, hefting it with a surprising ease for a man whose hair has thinned and whose middle has softened with the years.
He might not look like it anymore, but he’s always had the strength of a black bear.
We climb the stairs together, passing the gallery of Lake family history lined along the wall.
There’s tiny Sarah in a bumblebee costume, gap-toothed Sarah grinning through the absence of her two front teeth, teenage Sarah at graduation wearing that truly tragic brown lipstick, a full chronicle of awkward phases preserved for eternity.
The house creaks beneath our weight, as if it’s voicing its pleasure at having me home.
Dad opens my bedroom door, and the scent of vanilla washes over me so suddenly it steals the breath from my lungs.
“That fancy candle of yours never quite burned out,” he says, as if it’s an ordinary fact and not a small miracle.
He sets my suitcase down with a soft thud, then pauses, and says, “I’ll leave you to it.
When you’re settled, come down for dinner.
” Then he looks at me, steady and gentle. “I’m glad you’re back home.”
“Thanks, Dad. Me too.” The exchange is ordinary, but the feeling inside me isn’t.
Relief floods in. Nostalgia follows. And then that strange sense of déjà vu settles over me, like the last four years were just an extended vacation from my real life, that I’m only now returning to what I was always meant to come back to.
After he leaves, I stand there and let my eyes sweep the room.
My closet is unchanged, frozen in time: high school T-shirts folded neatly on the top shelf, homecoming bracelets arranged by size, yearbooks lined up in perfect chronological order.
There is evidence of the girl I used to be, the one who believed that if she kept everything in its place, nothing would change.
I lower myself to the floor, crossing my legs, and stare at the evidence of who I am now.
Clothes thrown without thought. A half-empty suitcase gaping open.
Shipping boxes I mailed ahead spilling their guts across the carpet like they couldn’t hold it in either.
Past-Sarah’s orderliness feels like a myth, a girl who believed she could control the world by sorting it.
Present-Sarah knows better. Present-Sarah is chaos, and the realization lands heavily in my chest.
Grabbing a box cutter, I slice through packing tape and pull back cardboard flaps on an overstuffed box. I lean against the bed frame, swiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of unpacking—both literal and emotional.
Unlike the rest of the house, which cradles only warm memories, this room is full of echoes that ache. Whispered promises. Late-night phone calls pressed to my ear in the dark. Plans made in breathless certainty with Jake…my ex-boyfriend. My ex-everything.
Our final conversation presses up from the depths, insistent, but I shake my head, fierce and frantic, as if I can rattle the past right out of my skull.
No. I refuse to give it space. I refuse to let it take root in this room again.
Moving forward isn’t just an option, it’s survival, the only direction that doesn’t carry me back to the heartbreak hotel.
Rising to my feet, I scan the room with renewed purpose. That’s when I spot it—an old shoebox peeking out from under the bed, its corners softened by time, the lid bulging slightly from years of containing things I should have discarded long ago.
Against my better judgment, I reach for it, fingers sliding the box out from the shadows. The moment I lift the lid, regret hits, swift and cold, washing through me like an early tide.
The first thing I pull out slams into me.
A Polaroid. Jake and I at a Fourth of July picnic, fireworks painting our faces in bright flashes, his arm hooked around my shoulders as he holds me tight against his side.
My chest squeezes hard, like unseen hands are wringing my heart dry.
One of our last moments together. Up on the Ferris wheel, above the lights, above the noise, right before everything shattered.
Why the hell didn’t I throw this stuff out?
My finger drifts over the glossy surface anyway, traitorous, undoing the anger I’ve been clutching like a shield. Even with the Polaroid’s signature blur, his smile is unmistakable, bright and easy, a perfect row of straight teeth that used to make me self-conscious of my metal braces.
We’d been happy. Or I’d fooled myself into believing we were, which might be the same thing, depending on the day.
His family had welcomed me with open arms, especially after I helped them strategize that marketing campaign for his uncle’s RainSafe Backpack, a waterproof, solar-charging backpack with a retractable umbrella.
I’d made flashy presentation boards and written catchy slogans.
It still never found its investors. Neither did the ending that I wanted.
So what went wrong? The question spears me all over again, sharp and sudden, just as it was four years ago, like time hasn’t dulled the pain at all. Was it me? Something I said—something I didn’t. Perhaps some elusive mistake I’d made. He never bothered to explain.
A tear splashes onto the photo, landing right between our frozen smiles. I curse under my breath and drop it to the floor as if it’s suddenly scalding, as if the past can burn through skin.
I made a vow. No more crying over Jake and his perfect teeth. And look at me now.
The resentment that follows isn’t just a feeling, it’s a living thing, coiling low in my belly, twisting like a snake gathering itself to strike.
And yet my hands betray me anyway, reaching back into the box of their own accord, fingers closing around the next relic.
I pull out another memory, and it punches the breath right out of me.
A ridiculous selfie at Granny Jo’s Diner: Jake holding up seven pancakes like it’s a trophy while the waitress watches like she’s witnessing a glutton.
He actually downed it all. I can still hear his laugh, deep and rumbling and infectious, sliding straight past my defenses.
That laugh used to run through me like wildfire, lighting up parts of me that I showed only in his presence.
And then the real gut-punch rises from the depths of the shoebox.
A crumpled ticket stub, edges softened from being handled too many times.
Our last date. 10 Things I Hate About You at the drive-in.
My fingers close around it, the paper crinkling softly, and the sound is somehow louder than it should be.
That night we laughed until our ribs ached, kissed until our mouths hurt, whispered dreams into the dark like children tossing pennies into a wishing well, certain the universe was listening.
Three days later, he broke it off like it all meant nothing.