Chapter 4
FRIENDS FROM ANOTHER LIFE
A true home isn’t a place, but a feeling of belonging
Della
The door swings open before I even drop my hand from the doorbell.
“Della!”
Jane’s voice spills out, bright and warm—just the way I remember. She doesn’t hesitate, just pulls me into a real tight hug. Her familiar scent wraps around me and, for a second, I feel safe.
“God, look at you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length, eyes sharp but kind. “Still as beautiful. Maybe even more.”
I clutch the gift bag a little tighter, trying to smile.
“Jane! It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you. A lot.”
She grins and hugs me again.
“I’ve missed you too, Della.” After a few moments she lets me go and waves me inside. “Now, come in. I can’t wait to hear everything about you. We’ve got years to catch up.”
I step inside, and it’s almost too much, how familiar everything feels. It’s like time just folded up and let me walk right back in. The same soft glow lights, the faint trace of something delicious cooking in the kitchen.
The air wraps around me like a memory—warm and comforting. Safe.
Nothing has changed here.
But I have.
“I brought you something,” I say, lifting the gift bag with a smile. “It’s a brand from back home I found at a little specialty shop. Thought of you the moment I saw it—I know how much you enjoy a good red.”
Jane’s face lights up as she peeks inside. “Oh, Della, you didn’t have to.”
She pulls out the bottle, grinning. “We’re opening this tonight.”
I follow her out to the back patio. Dinner’s already waiting, simple and homemade, like always. The table sits under a string of lights, with a little breeze drifting in from the lake.
We sit down, and for a moment, it feels so easy—like no time has passed at all.
Jane pours the wine, smiling.
“Now, tell me everything. I should be really mad at you for those rare, short emails. So, how are you, really?”
I take a slow sip, stalling more than savoring, letting the warmth of the wine steady me.
“Busy,” I say, staring into my wine. “Work’s been… intense. I’m managing some of the biggest campaigns now. Youngest manager in the agency.”
Jane’s eyes sparkle with pride.
“Of course you are. I’m so proud of you, Della.”
“Thank you.” I let out a quiet breath, half a laugh.
“I did work very hard for it—but it pretty much owns me now.”
Jane raises an eyebrow as she sets down her glass. “Sounds like you’re missing a life.”
She pauses, studying me for a moment longer than comfort allows. “Is there anything left of you, Della? Outside the job, I mean.”
There’s no judgment in her voice, only concern. The kind that lingers gently in the spaces between words.
I look down, turning the stem of my glass slowly between my fingers.
“Not really,” I admit, voice quiet. “Work fills up everything. It’s just easier that way, I guess.”
Jane leans in slightly. “And your family?” she asks, softer now.
I hesitate. “My dad moved to the countryside,” I say, picking my words. “After Mom… he wanted the quiet.”
Her face softens immediately. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Della. Your mom sounded amazing. I never met her, but from your stories… I know she was.”
“She was,” I say, barely above a whisper. “She held us all together.”
Jane doesn’t push. She just reaches over and rests her hand on mine—no words, just understanding.
After a while, she asks, “Your sister?”
“She got married and moved to Spain with her husband. They have a daughter now—Eleni.” I answer with a soft smile tugging at my lips. “She’s one. A beautiful little angel I hardly ever get to see. Everyone says she looks like me, especially when she gets her way.”
Jane beams. “That’s wonderful, Della. I’m happy for you both.”
Jane looks me in the eyes, and I can tell the next question will go deeper than the ones before.
“What about you? You were so in love back then. What happened to Dorian? You never mentioned him after you left. Did you two… keep in touch?”
The words land gently, but they hit like a stone to the chest and I can feel my throat tighten.
“Some distances are just too wide to cross,” I say quietly. But even as the words leave my mouth, something wavers inside me.
I'm not sure I believe it anymore.
I fall silent, tracing the rim of my glass with a finger. Then, voice low but steady, I add, “I don’t trust easily anymore.”
I look up and meet her eyes, offering a faint, wry smile.
“But I guess we all have our reasons.”
Jane watches me for a moment longer, her expression softening — but she doesn’t press. She’s always known when to hold silence instead of filling it.
I can’t bring myself to say more—not tonight. Not about what was lost, or about the things I still can’t face.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done—sidestep the pain and steer the conversation toward safer waters.
I ask about her sons and her documentaries.
Jane lights up immediately, her face animated as she talks about her latest film project and how busy the boys are—Andrew working abroad with his new girlfriend, Thomas completely immersed in his arts studies.
And just like that, we slip back into something easy. Familiar.
I listen, grateful for the reprieve, even as guilt prickles at the edges of my heart.
I should tell her more. I owe her that.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Some doors, once opened, never close again.
* * *
We linger at the table after dinner, the last bit of wine swirling in our glasses. The lake breeze slips in, gentle and cool. Jane leans back, watching me spin my glass between my fingers, her eyes soft and searching.
And then I say the words I meant to say from the beginning.
“I don’t think I ever truly thanked you for everything you did for me that year. Thank you, Jane!”
A gentle smile comes across her lips and her warm eyes are shinning.
“Oh, Della. You were part of this family the moment you walked through that door. You still are. You don’t owe me any thanks.”
I shake my head, something tight curling in my throat.
“I owe you more than thanks, Jane.” My voice softens. “It was my first time away from home. I was missing my family so much. Everything was so different, so overwhelming. And you… you made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I had a family here, too. I’m very grateful for that, Jane.”
Her eyes warm, but there’s something else there too—understanding. She sets her glass down, leaning her elbows on the table.
“I remember,” she says softly. “Those first months here. You tried so hard to be strong, to adjust, to make friends with the other students in the program, to keep it all together.”
I let out a quiet laugh, the memory tugging at me now.
“I didn’t even know what a ‘movie night’ really was,” I say, smiling despite myself. “At home, we didn’t do that. No popcorn, no sitting around together in front of the TV. It just… wasn’t a thing.”
Jane laughs, full and bright, her head tipping back slightly.
“Oh God, yes! You looked at me so confused. Like you didn’t know what to do with the idea.”
“You lit candles and pulled out all those blankets,” I murmur, my voice drifting. “Popcorn. Coke. And The Sopranos.”
She grins, eyes twinkling. “Best therapy there is. Gangsters and carbs.”
We both laugh this time, the sound light and easy between us.
“You made me feel like I belonged,” I admit, my chest tightening.
Jane’s smile softens, something tender flickering behind her gaze.
“And look at you now,” she says. “You’ve come so far.”
Silence settles for a moment, but it’s not heavy. It’s comfortable. Familiar.
Then she stands, stretching slightly, her grin returning.
“You know…” she muses, glancing toward the living room, “I still believe in the healing power of a good movie night.”
I chuckle. “You do?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
She picks up the remote from the coffee table, aiming it at the TV with a dramatic air. The screen wakes up, bathing the room in a soft, blue glow as the streaming app loads. “I’ve already got the ‘Top Crime Picks’ category pulled up. I say we keep the tradition alive.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I follow her to the sofa.
She scrolls through the rows of posters, and finally, stops on a thumbnail and taps it, the trailer instantly swelling with tension.
“This is the one,” she says with a playful smirk. “It has it all—drama, betrayal, and very stylish crimes.”
“Perfect,” I reply, amused.
Jane pauses the screen and heads for the kitchen.
“Now let’s make some popcorn and open another bottle of wine.”
“Do you happen to have any parmesan?” I ask, following her to the kitchen.
Jane glances at me, puzzled.
Before she can ask, I grin and explain.
“I came up with my own version of popcorn during all those nights I kept up the therapy you taught me—popcorn, extra butter, and… grated parmigiano. It’s perfect for Italian gangster movies. Though honestly, I think Italians would kill us for using parmigiano like this.”
She laughs, delighted. “Let’s do it!”
Minutes later, as she sets up the movie, she glances back at me over her shoulder.
“You’re staying tonight, of course,” she says simply. “Your old room’s exactly as you left it. It’s still yours.”
Something in me unclenches. I nod, smiling.
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse,” I say, giving her a playful look.
She laughs, shaking her head.
“Still quoting mob movies at me, huh?”
“Some habits die hard,” I grin. “But really — thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to that hotel room.”
I really needed this safe place tonight. Away from the peonies and… everything else.
“Please. I love having you here. I’m really happy you came.”
A little later, curled up on the couch, she pops a handful of popcorn into her mouth and grins.
“Yum… this is actually really good. I’m definitely making it again next time.”
I smile, watching her, warmed by how effortlessly we’ve fallen back into this rhythm.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like home again — light, familiar, safe.