Chapter 8 Now
Now
The moment I step through the front door of my childhood home, I realize how lucky I am that my parents still live in the same place I grew up in.
I can’t imagine coming back to my parents and not being home.
I know home isn’t always a place necessarily.
It’s a feeling. But if home were a place, it would be here in the foyer of our two-story colonial-style redbrick house, which my parents painted white in their most recent renovation.
The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and my mom’s favorite vanilla bean candle.
It’s a combination that’s as much a part of this house as the bricks that hold it together.
I breathe in deeply, letting the familiar smells blanket me.
I’ve missed this place more than I realized.
Dad sets my luggage down near the staircase with a soft thud, and before I can even think of picking it up and bringing it to my room, my mom appears, as if she was summoned by the sound. She wraps me in a long, tight hug that seems to squeeze all the sadness and stress out of my bones.
“Honey, will you bring Ainsley’s suitcase upstairs for her?
” Without another word, she takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen, her favorite place in the house, where it looks like she’s cooking for an army.
“I made a chicken Caesar salad with your favorite garlic sourdough,” Mom says with a smile.
“Guess what? I finally mastered baking it from scratch! My loaf pictures have been a hit on Facebook!”
“Yeah, I saw,” I lie, unable to recall the last time I logged in to my account. “This all looks amazing.”
“Okay, well, let’s dig in! We don’t have much time before we need to start getting ready for your book signing tonight,” Mom says, her voice a mix of excitement and that subtle, tight-lipped worry she thinks she hides well.
“Thanks,” I say, sliding into my usual seat.
It’s quiet for a few minutes as we enjoy our lunch, until my mom decides to bring up the elephant in the room.
“So, honey,” Mom starts gently. “How are you feeling about the breakup?”
I look up too quickly, smile already in place like a reflex. “Um,” I say, pretending to think, even though I’ve rehearsed this. “It’s been hard, but I have the book tour to keep me busy. It’s honestly been a blessing and keeps me from sitting around feeling sorry for myself.”
She studies me, like she knows me better. “I just worry that when you get back home and all the publishing excitement is over, that’s when it might really hit you,” she says, brushing an invisible crumb from the table.
She’s not wrong. I keep daydreaming that once the tour is over, I’ll walk through the front door and find everything just as I left it.
Cole in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, reheating leftovers.
Winston circling his feet, waiting for scraps.
Maybe Cole pours me a glass of wine, kisses me like he still knows me, and asks how my trip was like nothing ever changed.
Like I didn’t lose all of it—the plans we made, the friends who chose him, him.
Oddly enough, even Savannah has reached out, her text about brunch sitting unanswered on my phone.
Part of me wants to go, wants to believe we could slip back into the easy rhythm we had, but another part knows it’s too soon.
Seeing her again might only pull me closer to the very thing I’m trying to survive: him.
And I’d never say any of that out loud, especially not to my mom, who already worries about me enough. So instead, I keep it simple.
“I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her. “I’m actually kind of excited to reset, you know? New chapter and all that.”
That word—reset—tastes like cheap vodka. I hate how it sounds. But even more so, I hate how much I’ve used it lately.
She nods slowly, clearly unconvinced. “And your friends? I know things got a little messy.”
I shrug, trying to come off as casual. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think it’s all for the best. It’s been kind of freeing, not worrying about anyone else’s drama for once.”
Another lie. I’ve been adjusting to the quiet, but that doesn’t mean it feels good. And I know that if I let that show, she’ll worry, and if she worries, I’ll lose it. And I can’t lose it. Not tonight. This is my one shot to look like the daughter who has her life together.
Elizabeth wouldn’t fall apart like this.
She wouldn’t lose her boyfriend, her best friends, and wonder if she still has what it takes to do her job.
Elizabeth is steady. Predictable. The one who never drops the ball.
If my parents knew how close I was to unraveling, I’d go back to being the one they check on constantly, not the one they brag about.
“Well,” Mom says after a beat, reaching across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze, “whatever happens, just know we’re proud of you. Tonight is going to be amazing.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, squeezing back. “I’m really excited.”
That part isn’t a lie exactly, but it’s not the full truth either. While there is a small kernel of anticipation in my stomach, I’m not excited. I’m terrified. But I’ve spent the past two weeks trying to fake confidence, and tonight I’d really like to believe it.
“Why don’t you settle in and get ready?” she says, smiling now.
I nod and stand up, pausing just long enough to take one more bite of garlic bread.
Dad left my suitcase at the foot of the bed, and I plop down beside it, exhaling deeply.
My room is the same as it was the last time I stayed here, though I notice a few additions—my mom’s copy of my book on the nightstand, a framed photo of us from last Christmas on the dresser.
I pick it up, brushing a thumb over the glass.
In the picture, Cole has his arm around me, his smile easy and warm.
I remember that night vividly. We’d just gotten into a huge fight on the drive over—something about how I’d been distracted with work and how he felt like I wasn’t present.
The photo goes face down on the dresser as I stand up, but the memories keep coming.
I can still see him in my parents’ kitchen, laughing at one of my dad’s corny jokes while helping him cut the ham.
My mom pulled me aside and whispered, “He’s a keeper, Ainsley.
” Later that night, after the dishes were done and everyone else had retired to the living room for dessert, Cole and I snuck upstairs to escape the chaos.
I remember the first time we said “I love you” was right here in this very room.
I close my eyes, trying to rid my head of the memories, but another surfaces—Thanksgiving two years ago, when we got so drunk on spiked apple cider that we talked about how many kids we wanted and started a list of baby names in my notes app.
“Okay, okay,” Cole slurred, his cheeks flushed from laughter and rum. “What about Luna? Cool, right? It reminds me of the moon.”
“More like something you’d name a cat,” I teased. “I prefer something classic, like Kate or Elle.”
“Elle,” he repeated, tilting his head like he was considering it seriously. “Ellie. That’s kind of cute. Okay, add it to the list.”
Now, it’s sitting on my phone buried between grocery lists and potential book title names, untouched but not forgotten.
I’ve scrolled past it a few times since the breakup, never brave enough to open it and never sure if I should delete it.
What does it mean to hold on to something like that?
Is it an anchor that keeps me tied to someone who doesn’t want me anymore?
Or is it a memento of some part of me that I should try to salvage?
I sigh and stand up, fixing my hair as I turn toward the vanity.
I remind myself that this isn’t what tonight is about.
It’s about celebrating my new book, not the ghosts of what could have been.
Still, as I catch my reflection in the mirror, I can’t help but think about how much I’ve changed since those moments. How much we changed.
Isn’t it crazy how one day you can be so sure about something or someone, and then in an instant, things shift?
Feelings morph into something else, people evolve, and suddenly, you’re sitting across the dinner table from someone who feels completely different from the person you first fell in love with.
I hang up the outfit I planned for tonight—a cream cardigan, a fitted tank, and my favorite high-waisted jeans.
It’s simple, comfortable, and casual, which is perfect for Richmond.
I shake out the cardigan and put it on before slipping into my loafers.
At the vanity, I touch up my makeup—some blush, tinted lip balm, and a flick of mascara.
Grabbing my tote bag, I hesitate for a moment at the door, my gaze catching on the framed Christmas photo lying on the dresser.
My chest tightens, but I take a deep breath and turn away.
From downstairs, I can hear my parents’ voices—the sound of home, of being loved no matter what. That’s all I need tonight.
* * *
The folding chair is surprisingly comfortable, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline.
I smooth my hands over my jeans and glance around the packed room, trying not to let my jaw drop.
Every seat is taken. There’s a small crowd huddled near the back, standing along the shelves.
Someone’s already flipping through a copy of my book in the second row.
My book.
I think the breakup has been distracting me from how insane this whole experience has actually been. Part of me is sad that it all ends tonight, but there’s another part of me that’s ready to get another story out into the world. If I can write one, that is.
A flyer behind the checkout counter reads: Tonight: sip and sign with Ainsley Green! (SOLD OUT).