It feels like stepping into a memory that never truly let me go.
I pause at the end of the street for a second too long, staring at the white house with dark trim and a wide porch. Jane’s house and, once, home—even if only for a little while.
I square my shoulders, smoothing the lines of my dress, and take a slow breath before walking up the familiar path. And as I press the doorbell, I breathe the words—half a prayer, half a warning:
“Don’t let the past own you tonight!”
And deep down, I know… it already does.
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.”
