Chapter 2 #2
Tears flood my eyes and I throw the ticket stub as hard as I can, like distance might save me from it.
The paper only flutters down near my dresser, pathetic and stubborn, refusing to become anything other than what it is.
My heart thunders against my ribs, loud and furious and helpless. Why do I do this to myself?
A sharp rap at the door slices through my spiral of memories and misery, dragging me back to the present like a drowning woman yanked from stormy waters.
“Sarah, honey? Can I come in?” Mom’s voice drifts through the door like a gentle wind, soft but impossible to ignore.
“Yes.” The word escapes me, small and fragile.
The hinges give off a long squeak as Mom enters, and the moment she sees my tear-streaked face, understanding flashes across her face. She crosses the faded blue carpet without a word and settles beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under her, her warmth pressing close.
“You okay, sweetie?” Her fingers catch a stray golden lock and smooth it back behind my ear.
I nod, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. “Just…unpacking.”
Her eyes sweep the battlefield of my floor, landing on the scattered Polaroid and stub. “I know it’s not easy coming back to all these memories,” she says softly, “But you will get through this.”
That word—memories—constricts around my chest like a python, squeezing tighter with each breath.
“Love will find you again when you least expect it.” Mom’s voice carries the calm certainty of someone who’s weathered emotional storms and come out the other side. “You just have to let it.”
A bitter laugh punches its way out of me as I yank a tissue from the Kleenex box on my nightstand.
I scrub it under my nose like I can wipe away my feelings along with the snot.
“Love?” I scoff. “Mom, seriously?” The words come sharp, ugly.
“All guys are the same, selfish jerks who whisper sweet nothings and then leave without an explanation.”
Mom doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t argue. She just looks at me with that patient, knowing expression she’s earned through years, the one that says she understands this is grief dressed up as anger, that it needs a voice before it can fade.
Then she gathers me into her embrace, firm and safe, and my chest aches with how much I’ve missed being held like this.
“Not all guys, Sarah,” she whispers. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
As long as you remain open to it, love will come knocking again. ”
I sigh and melt into her shoulder, letting her steadiness hold me up.
She’s right, even if I’m not ready to say it out loud.
This is my fresh start. Jake Matthews doesn’t get to come with me unless I open the door and invite him back in.
And if I were to do that, it would only be for the purpose of throwing him out the window.
“Dinner is done. Come down when you’re ready.” She presses a kiss to the crown of my head, then rises and walks out. The door swings nearly closed behind her.
I push myself off the bed and cross the room to where the crumpled ticket stub lies near my dresser.
I pick it up, my fingers tracing its worn edges one last time.
Then I tuck it back into the shoebox with the other memories, sealing them away for good this time.
The cardboard lid settles with a soft thud.
I shove the whole box deep into the closet, into the shadows where it can’t stare back at me. Out of sight, out of mind.
Downstairs, the kitchen greets me like an old friend. The walls still sport their chaotic collection of chicken bobbleheads, red-spotted mushroom jars, and rooster magnets, a mismatched menagerie straight out of my childhood, stubbornly unchanged.
As I slide into my chair, my fingers drift over the familiar red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth, the pattern as ingrained in me as any childhood rule.
The napkins are folded into perfect triangles, just the way Mom likes them, and the silverware sits prim beside gleaming plates like we’re about to host a banquet in the eighteenth century.
Around me, the soundtrack of home hums to life: dishes clattering against countertops, the microwave timer chirping its victory, the sharp hiss and pop of Dad cracking open his nightly soda.
Mom bustles around the kitchen in her vintage rooster apron, the one I mocked relentlessly in my teenage years and now find endearing. With a little flourish to her step, she sets a steaming plate of meatball spaghetti in front of me, the red sauce glistening under the warm kitchen lights.
“Here you go, honey,” she announces, pride evident in her voice. “I made your favorite.”
My mouth waters on instinct, garlic and basil curling up with the steam, beckoning me to dig in.
Four years of Manhattan’s best restaurants couldn’t replace this.
Those chefs have technique, sure, and menus that read like poetry, but Mom has what they never will.
Recipes passed down through generations, cooked by feel, by memory, by love.
I’ve never had a spaghetti sauce that tasted better than hers, and one bite is enough to make me squirm with pleasure.
That first bite floods my tastebuds, and I make another embarrassing noise. The sauce is tangy and bright, the meatballs seasoned just right, the pasta firm yet soft. It’s perfect. Pure delight. Not new, not improved, not reinvented—exactly as I remembered.
“So, tomorrow is the big day?” Dad asks, twirling pasta around his fork with surprising dexterity.
A boulder forms in my throat at the mention of tomorrow’s interview. My fingers tighten around my fork until my grip feels clumsy. “Don’t remind me, Dad,” I manage, forcing a thin smile. “I’m super nervous.”
“You will do great tomorrow,” Mom says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “They know how creative you are. That’s why they asked you to interview.” Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “If you ask me, the interview is just a formality.”
Her words settle over me like balm, smoothing the churn in my stomach until I can breathe a little easier. But the image of tomorrow still snaps bright in my mind, me standing before a panel of judging faces, and my pulse rockets all over again.
“Go get ’em, tiger!” Dad chimes in, his booming voice filling the entire kitchen.
With encouragement like that, how can you not believe in yourself. “I will do my best,” I say.
“I found your brown lipstick in the bathroom,” Mom says, changing subjects with whiplash-inducing speed. “Do you want it?”
“Did you not see my graduation picture?” I ask. “That color did nothing for me.”
“You looked like you’d smeared chocolate all over your lips,” Dad adds, eyes twinkling gleefully.
We dissolve into laughter, and I duck my head toward my plate to hide the sudden glimmer in my eyes.
After countless solitary meals in my tiny New York apartment, sitting at this table with my parents feels like stepping into warmth I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
It fills a hollow place in me, a void I hadn’t fully acknowledged until this moment.
These tears aren’t heartbreak. They’re happiness, bright and stinging and good. The best kind.
After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes, then head upstairs, bone-deep exhaustion rolling over me from my travels.
I yawn and flop onto my old bed, and the springs creak beneath me in a familiar, lullaby rhythm.
Let my beauty sleep commence. Tomorrow isn’t just an interview.
Tomorrow will decide the trajectory of my career.
***
The next morning, sunlight slips through the curtains in slender golden bars.
I swing my legs over the edge and pad to the bathroom, still half asleep. The shower bursts over my skin, cold at first, then hot, steam curling around me as it washes away the post-slumber drowsiness. Not the jitters, though. Those stay put, humming through my veins like live wires.
My black pencil skirt hugs my hips as I button my crisp white shirt with fingers that won’t stop trembling. Black tights. Heels. If I assemble the outfit correctly, maybe it will transform me into a marketing professional instead of nervous wreck.
After I apply makeup, I drift downstairs, and Mom hands me buttered toast on my favorite blue plate, a childhood comfort served up like a charm.
My body doesn’t care as the butter melts into the bread.
Nerves twist my stomach tight, and after two bites, I’m full, as if anxiety has taken up all the space meant for hunger.
“You’ll do amazing,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder.
Mom nods firmly. “Show them what you’re made of.”
I clutch my leather portfolio to my chest before stepping out the door, holding it like it can keep my heart from vaulting clean out of my ribcage.
The morning air meets me, earthy and crips, and I force my feet onward.
This is it, the culmination of everything I’ve worked for these past four years.