Chapter Three
Greenstead doesn’t smell like mustard anymore.
Officially, anyway. After the cleanup efforts, our mayor changed the slogan on the town’s welcome sign from WELCOME HOME to brEATHE IN THE FRESH, CLEAN AIR OF HOME. It was the most subtle option out of the choices he proposed.
But I could still smell it, even years later.
During summer, the baking heat exposes smells that hide away in cooler seasons.
I remember eating lunch at Prime Burger one sunny Saturday when I was sixteen, sitting at a table outside with Marina, my best friend until she wasn’t.
We’d be eating our burgers, laying claim to our preferred fries—crispy for me, soggy for her—theorizing about the true identity of Gossip Girl, when the breeze would shift and we’d smell it.
A faint whiff of something sharp and sour, enough to make us wrinkle our noses and share a knowing look.
We called it the ghost of mustard past. Musty, for short.
Which wasn’t even clever, but it made us laugh.
Apparently my tendency to nickname inanimate entities goes further back than I thought.
I swear I can smell it even now, sitting in the back seat of my dad’s sedan, watching Greenstead’s expansive fields of nothingness pass by.
I’m not sure how, since the windows are up, and the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror is working overtime to fill the car with a fresh-cotton scent.
But I swear the slightest trace of mustard is hitting my nostrils.
It’s fitting for late June—unless I’m losing my mind, and I might well be.
I feel like I’ve been transported to the past. It’s strange to have shifted so suddenly in the span of three days. On Tuesday morning I was a capable professional stepping into an elevator. Now I’m an oversized child, living in my childhood bedroom, being driven around by my dad.
Up front, my dad and my stepmom, Wendy, are prattling about Greenstead’s new developments since I was last here—somehow this trip to pick up Chinese food for my first dinner back home has turned into a town tour—but I’m not sure it’s having the impact they hoped.
“The pharmacy on Rutledge takes credit cards now,” Dad says.
I follow his outstretched arm to the building in question, a lone Wright’s Pharmacy surrounded by asphalt and a patch of dirt. I try to muster some amazement at the notion of a business accepting credit cards in the twenty-first century. “Wow.”
It must not be very convincing, because my dad huffs in response.
“Show her the bakery,” Wendy suggests. Her chunky bracelets jingle as she runs a hand over her short, dark curls. She turns to shoot me an encouraging look over her shoulder, like whatever they’re about to show me is going to blow my mind.
I can’t help but return her hopeful smile.
I spent my teenage years being embarrassed about my dad’s zest for the mundane, thinking he had to be the only person on the planet who enthused over every little thing—from spotting a ladybug on his lawn gnome to seeing the time on the clock match the date.
(He sent me several texts when it was 1:11 on January 11.) But Wendy matches his energy perfectly.
Dad makes a turn for the bakery, and I go back to staring out the window.
As we pass by Juniper Park, I crane my neck to peer at it.
It’s not the lush, grassy open space I remember.
There’s a gaping hole in the wire fence around the perimeter, and the grass is neglected and overgrown.
Over by the playground, where Dad used to push me on the swings, a swing hangs lopsided, one chain broken.
In the empty parking lot, an overturned trash can spills garbage across the concrete.
I swallow and look away. Every sign of disrepair is like an accusation, a pointed reminder that I don’t get to mourn what this park used to be when I’m the one who left this town to work for the company that destroyed it.
Still, my mind reverts this park to the version in my memory, well maintained and bustling with people and activity.
This used to be the site of Greenstead’s annual apple festival, the one thing that made this town sparkle with magic, even if just for a weekend.
Marina and I looked forward to it every October.
We’d weave through crowds to browse the rows of booths throughout the park and load up on kettle corn and apple cider donuts.
We’d snag a picnic table and split a caramel apple, eating it slice by slice as we imagined what the new school year held in store for us.
We wouldn’t leave until the sun was setting and the autumn air froze our fingertips.
It was tradition. And though the crowds started to thin with each passing year as more people left Greenstead, we both believed we’d stick to that tradition like a vow.
We were too naive, then, to understand that even best friendships can end, even beloved festivals can be canceled indefinitely, and traditions and towns can fall apart like anything else.
“Here we are!”
I push aside the thought and look up to see a familiar tiny brick building. “You wanted to show me…Cooper Cakes?”
Dad must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if he thinks the bakery that made all my birthday cakes growing up is a new sight.
“See the new roof? Tim had it replaced last year.” Dad turns to me with an expectant look.
I force a smile and try to really sell my reaction this time. “Oh, cool. It looks really good. Very sturdy.”
My dad holds my gaze, trying to evaluate my sincerity.
His brown eyes narrow behind his glasses.
As a high school history teacher, he’s skilled at sniffing out bullshit.
“Bah,” he says at last, facing forward with a sigh.
“Well, you wanna go in, since we’re here? Say hi, pick up some turtle brownies?”
“Um…” I stare absently at the bakery’s smudged glass window.
The flower-dotted sign in the corner is still the same, still advertising TODAY’S CAKE FLAVORS, still pretending the flavors aren’t the same every day.
Now that my dad’s mentioned it, I do want a turtle brownie, shiny with caramel and studded with salty pecans.
But the thought of running into anyone who knows me—even Tim, the kindly baker who used to slip me free mini shortbread rounds when I was a kid—makes my appetite vanish.
Tim, and everyone here, would know I left Greenstead to work for Ryser.
Would he call me a traitor? Would he treat me differently, offer cold disdain in lieu of his usual paternal warmth?
He’d probably punish me with a middle brownie, all gooey uniformity instead of chewy-crispy edges. The ultimate slight.
“No thanks,” I say finally. “I’m not hungry.”
Dad frowns. “Then why are we getting dinner?”
I let out a small laugh. “Not hungry for dessert .”
“Let’s just go to China Garden,” Wendy says. “Lauryn’s too cool for us.”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“Oh yeah?” Dad retorts, putting the car in reverse. “You haven’t been home in how long?”
And, yes, I have to pause to do the math. “Three years isn’t that long.”
I had my reasons. I didn’t come home for Christmas last year because that was the year Dad and Wendy traveled to San Antonio to see her relatives for the holidays.
The year before, when it was their turn to host, I got a cold.
I may have exaggerated the symptoms a little, but better safe than sorry.
And before that, it was another year when Wendy’s relatives were hosting.
It’s not my fault that I’d rather lounge on the couch at home watching Christmas movies and eating frozen Trader Joe’s gyoza than drive to Greenstead and watch my hometown fall apart.
Or travel to San Antonio to see Wendy’s family for the first time since she and my dad got married six years ago. Gyoza and Home Alone it was.
Besides, I see plenty of Dad and Wendy as it is.
They come to DC fairly regularly—to visit the Smithsonian museums, attend the Cherry Blossom Festival, stroll around the National Mall.
It’s no surprise they find themselves in DC so often when DC actually has life, activity, air that smells nothing like mustard in all four seasons.
The real mystery is why they—or anyone—would choose to stay in Greenstead.
And yet. When Wendy and I stay in the car while Dad heads inside China Garden to pick up our lo mein and sesame chicken, I’m struck by the way the man behind the counter greets him, with a two-handed handshake and a warm smile.
I watch through the window as they chat in the empty restaurant like old friends, and I have to admit there must be something nice about walking into a restaurant and having the person behind the counter know who you are.
I try to remember the last time someone besides Selma at work greeted me like they were truly happy to see me, and I draw a blank.
If I run into anyone who knows me here in Greenstead, it’ll be nothing but disappointment, betrayal, or—in Marina’s case—anger.
And there’s a strong possibility of running into her, too.
I know from my occasional social media stalking that she still lives here.
She works down at the elementary school as a fourth-grade teacher.
But that’s fine. I won’t be anywhere near the school anyway, because I’ll be busy at Ryser Cares.
My first day in my new role starts Monday, and I’ve got everything figured out.
In the time it took to pack up my things and make the three-hour drive south to Greenstead, my mood shifted from disheartened to determined.
I may have been demoted, salary halved, and banished to a lifeless land, but I have a new mission: be impressive.
Take initiative. Lead a new fundraising campaign, boost Ryser Cares’s conversion rate, double their monthly donations, something .
Make a memorable impact that isn’t accidentally threatening an executive.
Amanda will hear about all the work I’ve done at Ryser Cares and hire me back by the end of the summer.
After going twelve weeks—one full quarter—without me, she’ll be clamoring to get me back on her team in time for the start of Q4.
And my brief stay in Greenstead will be nothing more than a blip.
I’ll go back to my apartment, my life, my eight-years-left plan.
And I’ll be happier for it. Surely.