I’ve brought my laptop and technically been working remotely, but I’ve been half as productive as normal. Instead of my usual fourteen-hour days, I’ve managed maybe five or six hours before getting distracted by long walks with Mom, conversations with Dad about his patients, or simply sitting in the garden, allowing myself to enjoy the moment.
Dad gets up to rinse the dishes at the sink. At sixty-five, he’s still handsome with his salt-and-pepper beard and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The kitchen smells of hisfamous apple crumble—one of my favorites since I was a kid.
“Well, it’s been really nice having you home again,” he says, shooting me that warm smile that always made everything better when I was growing up. “We’ve miss you.”
I feel tears welling up again. They come so easily these days, and I don’t fight them. I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around him, not caring that his hands are wet from the dishes. “I’ve missed you both so much.”
I step back and smile through my tears. “Honestly, I’d love to stay longer, but work is piling up, and I’ve already pushed back three client meetings.”
The truth is, something else is pulling me back too. Someone. The thought of Athena sends a flutter through my stomach that reminds me of being sixteen again, writing a crush’s name in my notebook margins.
“Well, next time, don’t leave it so long,” Dad says.
“I won’t. And you two absolutely have to come to Vegas. My home is open again.”
“Careful what you say now, you won’t get rid of us.” Mom smiles. “Maybe in September for your birthday?”
“I’d like that.” I feel another wave of emotion. All these years wasted, keeping them at arm’s length, when their love was exactly what I needed.
The kitchen hasn’t changed much in twenty years—the same warm yellow walls, the collection of mismatched mugs hanging from hooks. They keep talking about renovating but never do it, both too busy to prioritize it. This house has always been a constant, even when I wasn’t.
I hadn’t planned to stay more than a day or two. Just long enough to process Athena’s confession, to find clarity in the comfort of my parents’ presence. To let them know I loved them even though I’d been absent.
But something about being home—really home—cracked something open inside me, and it’s been healing to be here. It’s been a week. A week of allowing myself to be cared for, to be loved, to revisit who I was before grief reshuffled my identity like a deck of cards.
I watch as Dad hands Mom a plate to put in the dishwasher, their movements in sync after almost forty years together. He bumps his hip against hers, and she smiles without looking up.
“You two are still so sweet together,” I observe. “I love that.”
Mom glances at Dad with a warm smile. “We’ve had plenty of practice.”
“I always thought I’d have what you two have. The forever kind.” The words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it. It sounded way too melodramatic, and I don’t want them to feel guilty for looking happy in front of me.
Mom flinches as she turns to me. “Honey, you still can. Just because it wasn’t forever with Claire doesn’t mean you can’t find it with someone else.” I know she’s referring to Athena. I’ve mentioned her a few times during my stay, though I haven’t revealed too much.
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right,” I say. I glance at the clock on the wall for an excuse to escape, then see it’s almost midnight. We’ve been sitting at the table after dinner, talking for hours, lost in conversation.
“Anyway, I should probably head to bed. Need to get up early to drive back if I want to beat the traffic.” I kiss my parents goodnight and climb the stairs to my old bedroom, now transformed into Mom’s art studio.
The walls are covered with her watercolors—landscapes mostly, scenes from their travels and the view from the backyard. My twin bed still sits in the corner, made up with fresh linens, a small concession to the room’s new purpose. An easel stands by the window, a half-finished painting of the bay at sunset.
I’ve slept in this bed every night I’ve been here, though they offered the guest room.
Each day, I’ve called Miranda to extend my absence. “Take all the time you need,” she said. “The team has everything covered.” And each evening, I’ve found myself unable to leave, caught in the warm embrace of my childhood home.
I sit on the edge of the bed and check my phone. A message from Athena waits for me, sent an hour ago.
I signed with Zara Nova today. She’s starting her residency at the Olympus in November. Wish you were here to celebrate.
I read the message twice, an unexpected twinge of jealousy tightening my chest. Zara Nova, the world-famous, beautiful, and talented Zara Nova. She has that irresistible magnetism that draws everyone to her. The thought of her spending time with Athena all week while I’ve been away makes my stomach knot uncomfortably. Zara Nova may be straight, but I imagine many women making an exception for Athena.
Did Athena find her attractive? Of course she did—who wouldn’t? I try to picture their meetings. Were they alone? Did they share drinks after discussing business?
I shake my head, taken aback by my own thoughts. I’ve never been the jealous type, but something about Athena makes me feel possessive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
I trace the words with my fingertip, trying to banish the image of Athena and Zara laughing together overchampagne. We’ve been messaging every day since I left—nothing heavy, nothing that forces me to confront my own feelings. Just light, flirtatious texts that make my heart race and my body yearn.
That’s amazing,I type back.Congratulations.
