As if on cue, I spot the "Welcome to Mammoth Lakes" sign ahead.
Someone’s added a little wreath beneath it, a red bow hanging lopsided like someone had tried to be festive but got lazy halfway through. The wreath looks hand-made, its uneven sprigs of pine jutting out at odd angles as if the person had wrestled the branches into submission with more enthusiasm than skill. A few red berries are scattered unevenly, and the ribbon tied at the bottom hangs limp, frayed at one edge. It’s probably been used one too many seasons. The faintest dusting of snow clings to the edges. It’s imperfect, humble—and for some reason, it makes my throat tighten. There’s something achingly genuine about it, like the person who made it cared more about heart than polish. In San Francisco, I would’ve scoffed at something like that—small-town kitsch. But here, it hits me in the gut, a reminder that this place has a pulse, a warmth I can’t find in any high-rise apartment or backstage venue.
“Back to where it all began, huh?” I murmur, my voice barely audible over the low hum of the engine of my Ferrari. The words come out before I can stop them, and a strange tug pierces my chest, a mix of resentment and longing.
2
SOPHIA
The gravel scatters around as I pull into the familiar driveway, the cabin-style house nestled against towering pines and surrounded by thirty inches of snow. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my gaze lingering on the place I used to call home. The structure looks almost the same—a mix of dark wood, stone, and panes of glass. The scent of pine needles hangs heavy in the air. The only difference now is the thick layer of snow blanketing the roof and the icicles hanging from the eaves, glinting in the pale winter light.
Before I cut the engine, the front door flies open, and my mom appears, a flurry of energy and warmth that makes the cold night feel alive. She barrels down the steps, her arms wide, a radiant grin lighting up her face like the glow of the Christmas lights strung around the house. Her auburn hair is styled in a sleek bob that looks effortless yet immaculate. She looks every bit as I remember—graceful yet undeniably vibrant. Her presence fills the space like the hum of a favorite song, her rich brown eyes alight with a mix of joy and determination. Even in a moment of unguarded excitement, she’s the picture of poised elegance, a woman who somehow manages to make everyone feel seen and loved without losing her commanding presence.
Behind her, my dad follows at a slower pace, a steadying presence amidst her whirlwind energy. His white hair catches the soft glow of the porch lights, and his gray eyes, framed by thin glasses, land on me with a warmth I haven’t felt in years. There’s no dramatic rush, no overwhelming display of emotion—just a quiet intensity that feels like home. He crosses his arms as he steps down the last few stairs, his movements deliberate and grounded, the kind of calm that says he’s seen life’s storms and knows they eventually pass. My younger sister and brother are on the porch, watching me like I’m some long-lost treasure they’ve finally reclaimed.
I step out, and before I can close the car door, I’m engulfed in warmth—my mother’s arms wrap around me, squeezing me so tightly it’s like she’s trying to glue all my fractured pieces back together. She smells like sugar and cinnamon as if she’s been baking nonstop since dawn. The scent stirs a storm inside me—a bittersweet swirl of nostalgia and guilt I don’t have the energy to unpack.
“Finally!” Her voice carries that soft but no-nonsense tone I grew up with. She steps back, holding me at arm’s length, her hands firm on my shoulders as her sharp stare scans me from head to toe. Her hair frames her face, which hasn’t lost its beauty despite the years. My mom’s brown eyes catch every detail like they’re cataloging secrets. She looks like the woman I remember, refined yet warm and welcoming.
“Look at you, Sophia,” she says, her lips curving into a smile that doesn’t hide her concern. “You’re even skinnier than the last time we saw you. What are they feeding you in that big city? Air?”
I force myself to smile, trying to smooth out the uneasy knot tightening in my chest. “I’m fine, Mom. Just… busy, you know?”
Busy. It’s a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. But what else can I say? The truth—that I’ve buried myself in work to keep from drowning in the past—feels too heavy for a doorstep reunion. Life’s been a chaotic blur of tours, contracts, and late-night shows. Returning to this postcard-perfect scene of Christmas lights twinkling against the snowy backdrop feels like stepping into a memory. And like all memories, it is comforting and foreign, as if I’m a stranger visiting a memory that belongs to someone I used to be.
My dad finally steps forward, his arms still crossed, but his softness makes the air feel lighter. His white beard shifts as he offers a small smile, the kind that doesn’t need to fill the silence to say everything. “Good to see you, kid.” His deep voice, steady and even, carries a weight that settles over me like a blanket—equal parts love and relief. He doesn’t say more, but he doesn’t have to. The unspoken message is clear: I’m here, I’ve missed you, and I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to feel the same.
That quiet, unwavering presence of his—the kind that always made me feel like nothing in the world could touch me—breaks through the barriers I’ve built around my heart. For a moment, I feel safe, even if I don’t quite know how to accept it.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement on the porch. My younger sister, Cassidy, leans casually against the railing, curls framing her lovely face. She looks exactly as I remember—full of life, her bright brown eyes dancing with mischief. Even in the freezing cold, she exudes warmth, like the kind of person who could walk into a room and instantly make it lighter. Tonight, she’s dressed simply in a white knit sweater and jeans, but her presence is anything but ordinary. There’s a spark to her that’s impossible to ignore.
Cassidy pushes off the railing and bounds down the steps with an exaggerated air of confidence, her grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She gives me a once-over, her sharp, playful gaze sweeping from my boots to my face. “Wow, big city life didn’t kill you. Impressive,” she quips, her voice dripping with mock surprise.
I smirk, shaking my head as I step toward her. “Not for lack of trying.”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out to ruffle her curls, knowing it’ll drive her crazy. As predicted, she swats my hand away, laughing—a light, melodic sound that I haven’t heard nearly enough lately. “Oh, no, ma’am,” she says, brushing her hair back into place with mock indignation. “Some of us actually care about looking good. Unlike you, Miss ‘I’m-too-busy-being-urban-and-mysterious.’”
“Someone’s got to bring a little sophistication to this place,” I shoot back, but there’s no venom in my tone. This is Cassidy. Bantering with her feels as natural as breathing.
Her grin widens as she loops her arm through mine. “Well, we’ll see how sophisticated you feel when you’re elbow-deep in frosting tomorrow. Don’t forget—you’re here for my wedding, not some big city retreat.”
Her words remind me why I’ve come back—to celebrate her. Despite everything—the chaos, the distance—I’m here for her, and judging by the way she leans into me, she knows it. For now, that feels like enough.
“Yeah, becauseyou’rea regular fashion icon,” my brother Ben’s voice cuts in, laced with teasing sarcasm. He stands behind Cassidy, his arms crossed over his chest and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. At twenty-five, Ben looks every inch the troublemaker he’s always been, but with a polished edge I hadn’t expected. His tousled brown hair falls just slightly out of place, giving him an air of effortless charm, and his sharp gray eyes gleam with a mischievous glint like he’s always one step ahead of everyone else. Dressed in dark jeans and a fitted sweater, he exudes a mix of confidence and casual elegance, the kind of guy who could just as easily charm his way through a boardroom as he could through a dive bar.
Despite the teasing, his tone’s warm, like maybe the years and distance haven’t put as much space between us as I thought.
“Nice to see you too,” I reply, rolling my eyes but unable to hide my smile. The bickering feels almost normal, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket I didn’t know I needed.
They all surround me, picking up my bags from the car and shuffling me inside, their chatter filling the crisp, cold air. It’s chaotic and loud, and for a moment, warmth spreads through me, like maybe I’ve found my footing. As we step into the house, the past comes rushing back. This place looks the same—same furniture, same photos on the walls, same wooden beams stretching across the ceiling.
The living room is a picture of Christmas elegance, as Mom’s always liked it. Every detail has been thoughtfully arranged to evoke warmth and festivity. Garlands of fresh pine and twinkling lights cascade over the mantle and stretch along the tops of polished furniture. In the corner, a towering Christmas tree stands proud, adorned with shimmering ornaments in a harmonious blend of gold, silver, and deep red. Stockings hang neatly along the hearth, embroidered with names in delicate script, their rich velvet fabric adding a touch of luxury. The coffee table is a centerpiece of seasonal charm, featuring a wreath crafted from pinecones and crimson berries, encircling a trio of flickering candles. Surrounding it, bowls of perfectly arranged candies and plates of intricately decorated cookies beckon like a promise of sweetness and comfort. Every corner of the room feels like an invitation to pause, breathe, savor the magic of the season.
Mom catches me glancing at the cookies and grins. “Go on, have one.”
I grab a gingerbread cookie, half for show, half because I genuinely miss the taste of home. As I bite into it, that familiar mix of spice and sweetness floods my senses, and for a second, I’m sixteen again, sneaking cookies off this very plate before Mom can catch me.
As the warmth of the house wraps around me, I’m almost lulled into forgetting the weight I carry around all the time. Almost. But then, through the laughter and chatter of my family, something sharp edges into my mind—a memory I hadn’t touched in years.
