Chapter 4
POE’S brIGHT STARE GAZED back at me as my eyes fluttered open. I sat up, and a sharp pain shot down my neck, rudely jolting me awake.
“Agh,” I groaned, my hand flying up to my neck. I’d fallen asleep at a funny angle on my couch last night, and while it might not have been a huge deal in my college days, my late twenties were telling a different story.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and found my phone to check the time. My eyes caught a familiar name on my home screen: Steven Caldwell. Despite my many attempts to convince my dad to text me, he refused to use such a method of communication. An email from him sat in my inbox. I groggily opened it.
To: itsjanecaldwell@
Jane,
Hi, honey. Hope you’re doing well in the Big Apple.
I heard you’re getting nicer weather than we are.
It’s been snowing nonstop over here. Brr!
One of these years I’d love to have a Thanksgiving that isn’t white.
Did you do anything special? Anyway, I’m writing to remind you that you’re invited to your mom’s birthday next week.
I sent an email a few weeks ago but didn’t hear back.
I bolted up. Was it already almost her birthday? This past Thanksgiving had centered around a book deadline. I’d completely forgotten to respond to him. His email continued:
Seventy is a big one, and it would mean a lot to her if you came. I know you’re busy. But it’s been a few years since you’ve been home. It would be nice to see you again. Let me know. Love you. Praying for you.
Dad
My mind flipped back through the last few years like a photo album.
That couldn’t be right. There was no way it had already been “a few” years since I’d last been in Avila Falls.
I counted on my fingers, sifted through where I’d spent my last few Christmases, birthdays, and Thanksgivings.
Images of Carmichael manuscripts that were due soon, Mara’s townhouse, the Hamptons, and dimly lit, pricey restaurants with prefixes popped into my mind.
My throat tightened as it dawned on me that my dad was right. It had been five full years since I’d last set foot in Avila Falls.
I hadn’t exactly meant for this to happen. It was partially the pandemic’s fault.
Come on, Jane. Be honest.
Okay, fine. Much more than partially my fault. Avila Falls was the place I’d escaped. The place I couldn’t go back to until I had something to show for myself. I might be working for one of the top publishers in the world, but nothing I’d done yet had felt like enough.
My eyes lingered on my dad’s email. Praying for you, it said. As his correspondence often did. I’d never totally understood what he meant by that, though.
My parents had taken me to Saint David’s, the teensy local church in Avila Falls, every Sunday growing up. But we didn’t really talk about God. Sunday school and dutiful, faithful church attendance were the extent of my relationship with religion.
I could only assume that his prayers centered around bringing his daughter back to Colorado every now and then. Another prayer God hadn’t answered. Add that to the list.
My thoughts dashed around in every direction.
Flying home was the last thing I felt like doing, so much so that my stomach twisted at the mere thought of it.
And yet, as my parents’ only child, what I felt like doing was usually overridden by the fact that their every hope, dream, and desire rested upon my shoulders—especially considering I was the miracle baby who had come along after years of devastating fertility issues.
Everyone assumes you get showered with attention as an only child.
But more often than not, being the only Caldwell child was lonely.
My parents’ work hours were long, and their efforts were mostly focused on paying the bills.
The few hours they did have each evening were spent on the couch, a simple TV dinner in front of them as they watched whatever was on.
I’d sit in the living room with them, reading.
I turned to books for companionship early on, finding solace in stories. Fictional characters were the closest thing to friends that I had. While other girls my age were staying up late to message boys secretly, I was staying up late to finish the next chapter of another Bronte.
My parents had assumed my love of books was a passing phase or a nice pastime.
They hadn’t expected me to stick to the declaration I’d made at eight years old: that I was going to be a novelist when I grew up.
There was a time when they suggested I think about becoming an English teacher, what with my love for the classics, but I insisted that I didn’t just want to read books—I wanted to write them too.
They weren’t totally unsupportive, but there were more than a few years when my mom would casually leave a few nursing school pamphlets in my room, or mention a work friend’s daughter who was going to school to become a nurse like her mother, or invite me to drop by her work at Saint Teresa’s Hospital.
“It makes sense, honey. It’s a good, stable living. And the world always needs more nurses. Don’t you just want to try? See if you like it?”
“Your mother has a good point.”
Eventually, she stopped. But not because she’d changed her mind, I assumed.
My parents had never quite grasped my burning desire to write, never got my obsession with finding a new book to fall in love with as soon as I’d closed the last one.
Each new short story of mine I read to them was met with a devastatingly polite, “That’s nice, honey. ”
Moving to New York was no different. They’d come out for a weeklong visit most years since I’d moved.
Each time, my dad insisted on getting a “real New York slice” at Sbarro, and my mom requested we see “one of those delightful musicals.” Making for the only occasions during my time in the city that found me in Times Square.
I’d also taken them to my favorite stretch of Central Park for a stroll, my local bodega for an egg and cheese on a roll, and my corner bookstore for a look around.
They would smile and nod, but I could tell that underneath their kindness, the city confused them. Or at least my choice to move to it.
They’d often encouraged me to do something with my life.
“We want you to move away, honey,” they had assured me.
But I think teaching English at a nice school in Denver, a little over an hour drive away, had been what they were picturing.
Not trading the Rockies for the city that never sleeps, thousands of miles away, to chase a dream they couldn’t identify with.
My mind drifted back to the last time I saw them, February of this year. I’d stopped at the Denver airport for a layover on my way to Los Angeles, where I was headed for work. They made the drive in, and we ate chicken and cheddar sandwiches.
“Don’t be a stranger,” my dad had said.
“We miss you, sweetie,” my mom had remarked.
I promised to keep calling every Tuesday, we hugged goodbye, and I hopped on my plane to LA.
I did love my parents. They were truly good people, even if they hadn’t ever understood me or my dreams. Faithful and steady, they’d given me everything they knew how to give.
Food, shelter, clothing. They hadn’t done wrong by me.
But Avila Falls was the place I’d broken free from, the place where I’d always been an outsider—the pimply outcast in the corner of the cafeteria, ignored, unknown, unseen by everyone around her.
I sighed and locked my phone, resolving to answer my dad tomorrow when I would have a clearer mind. It could wait.
The evening arrived in what felt like the blink of an eye, and my date with Logan wasn’t far off. We’d texted back and forth throughout the day. He’d flirted some, and I’d flirted back a little bit. A promising start.
I peered into my bathroom mirror and was met with my wide brown eyes. Leaning forward, I carefully swiped on my favorite deep red lipstick that I carried with me everywhere I went.
I backed up and surveyed my work. I’d done my best to recreate the perfectly imperfect blow-dried look that had gotten me a free coffee the other day and applied the whole nine yards of makeup, having been taught all the best tips and tricks by Agnes.
The pricey little black Marc Jacobs dress that Mara had convinced me to buy last month was coming in handy.
From its square neckline to its small slit on the bottom left, it made me feel like a million bucks.
My hoop earrings twinkled. My strappy black heels gave me a tad bit of extra height.
My maroon Prada purse added a little pop of color.
Was the woman staring back at me the type of woman who could date an actor? Maybe. She was chic, sophisticated, cool. And mind-bogglingly, that woman was me.
Or was she? I didn’t feel the way that woman looked, despite the expensive costume that I’d barely been able to afford.
Nerves congregated in my chest. A flutter lingered in my stomach. I hadn’t been able to eat much. Just a few cups of coffee and a bag of goldfish crackers. My eyeliner was the slightest bit uneven. My hand had been shaky all day.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, attempting to force out the anxious thoughts with each exhale.
After a few moments, I opened them back up, zhuzhed my hair, grinned, gave a practice laugh.
One thing was for certain: Logan wouldn’t be the only actor sitting at the table tonight.
As if on cue, my phone pinged. Logan.
Hey! I’ll be there in about an hour. See you soon?
I checked the time. No point in primping any longer. I could get there early, find something to do.
Yes! See you then.
With one last glance in the mirror, I gave myself a little nod of encouragement. A quick spritz of my signature Coach perfume later, I whirled around and marched out the door.