Chapter 1
Clean air. The first breath I draw beyond the sliding doors of Maplewood Springs airport tastes like something I’d forgotten existed, crisp and earthy and nostalgic. Four years in New York’s concrete jungle taught my lungs to expect fumes and garbage and occasionally smelly crowds, so this sudden rush of freshness feels like emerging from hibernation, like stepping back into a body I once knew.
My hometown sits tucked into the valley of the Ouachita Mountains, where the air comes sharp and clean, carrying wildflowers and sunbaked earth. I draw it in deep, letting it fill my chest until it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in years. Compared to this, Manhattan feels impossible: smog, sirens, that perpetual tang of garbage simmering on hot sidewalks, all of it blurring into a fevered haze. And yet, I’d be lying if I said I don’t already miss the way fresh bagels and street-cart pretzels sometimes cut through the city’s uglier scents.
I stand beside my embarrassingly overstuffed suitcase while the summer breeze toys with the lacy hems of my floral dress, brushing my skin like it has every right to. I expect relief but get none. Instead, something else—a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with the quality of air and everything to do with memory. My body remembers Maplewood Springs in a way my stubborn heart never wanted to admit, no matter how fiercely it tried to forget.
I never imagined I’d come back here. Not after Jake Matthews razed my heart and walked away while the wreckage still smoked. But when Lanter Bridge Agency calls with an opportunity that would make my former New York classmates weep with envy, even old heartbreak has to be shoved into the backseat. Careers don’t wait for scars to stop aching.
The screech of rubber against asphalt slices through my thoughts, sharp enough to make me flinch, and I pivot toward the sound. Mom’s ancient blue Volvo swings around the corner at a speed that suggests she’s auditioning for Fast and Furious: Suburban Mom Edition, the tires protesting the whole way. Behind the windshield, she’s a blur of bright grin and frantic waving, her arm pumping so enthusiastically I half expect it to detach and keep greeting me all on its own.
My stomach plummets when the front wheel mounts the curb with a solid thunk, and the car settles there, awkwardly straddling sidewalk and street. Mom’s driving hasn’t improved in the four years I’ve been gone. Which is a problem, considering I’m about to get in that car and trust her with my continued existence all the way home.
“Sarah!”
Mom doesn’t so much get out of the car as burst from it, arms already wide, feet barely bothering with the ground as she closes the space between us. We collide, and her hug knocks the air clean from my lungs, squeezing me against her like she’s afraidI’ll vanish if she loosens her hold. I don’t mind. I’ve missed all of it, the softness of her cardigan against my cheek, the warm trail of vanilla and lavender that’s clung to her since my childhood, the way she embraces like she can pour love straight into my bones through osmosis.
“It’s so good to have you back,” she says, and the last word catches in her throat like it can’t quite make it out intact, her shoulders trembling as happy sobs break free.
“I know, Mom,” I manage, but my eyes betray me anyway, tears spilling over before I can blink them back. “Next time,” I add, voice thick, “I’m taking you with me.” The lump in my throat swells until it’s a fight just to get the words out. Because how many nights had I lain awake in my shoebox apartment, staring at the ceiling, aching for exactly this, for her arms around me, for the way she can make everything feel right again with a single squeeze.
Her sobs melt into watery chuckles as we finally peel apart, both of us wiping at our eyes and smiling too bright, too wide. She reaches for my suitcase, and I’m surprised by how little she struggles as we wrestle it toward the trunk, the lid yawning open to reveal a familiar chaos: reusable grocery bags stuffed into every corner and what looks like three separate emergency kits.
“How was your flight, honey?” she asks, and then yanks us off the curb with a violent little lurch that puts my seatbelt to the test. I grab the door handle on instinct.
“It wasn’t bad. I got through half a romantic comedy before the guy next to me started snoring on my shoulder.” I tug my dress into place over my knees. “After that, it was rehearsing interview questions on repeat and me trying not to spiral about starting over.”
“We’re here for you. And you’ll get the job, I know you will.” Her certainty is comforting in the way only her faith can be.“They’d be fools not to snatch you up immediately,” she says, like it’s not an opinion but a fact. “We’re so glad you’re back.”
And my chest tightens again, not with fear this time, but with the aching sweetness of being wanted.
I wish I had even half her confidence in me. Still, beneath the churn of interview nerves, something brighter bubbles up, a sharp little spark of excitement at the thought of reconnecting with the people I’ve missed. My parents. Old friends. And especially Maisie, who, according to the updates I’ve been getting for Claire, has been busy dating local-boy-turned-superstar Logan Humphries while I’ve been away. That Logan. The one who once ate paste in our third-grade art class like it was a delicacy. Funny how gossip magazines never bothered with that detail.
“How’s Dad?” I ask, fingers clamped around the door handle as Mom changes lanes without a turn signal to overtake a slower moving sedan.
A horn blares, angry and sharp enough to slice straight through the car. I sink back against the seat, hoping to avoid the nasty glaring of the driver in the car that we now pass.
“Still at work,” she answers, utterly unbothered by the horn’s angry bellow and the chorus of offended drivers around us. “But he can’t wait to see you.” Her voice softens on the last part. “He should be home by the time we get back.”
A pickup truck rockets past us, close enough that the rush of air rattles the window. Its driver, a guy about my age, throws his hands up in furious pantomime, mouthing a stream of curses that I’m fairly sure includes a full curriculum on learning to drive.
“Young kids these days,” Mom mutters, shaking her head, as if she isn’t the catalyst for the road-rage performance we just witnessed. “No manners at all.”
“We’re drifting,” I say, teeth clenched as the solid white line vanishes under us. “You should stay in your lane.” My hand tightens on my purse strap until the leather dents beneath my fingers.
Mom waves off my concern with a flick of her wrist, the same casual dismissal she reserves for expiration dates and weather warnings. “We’re getting off here, anyway.” Thank God. She signals, actually signals, and takes the next exit, and the tight band around my ribs loosens as my death grip on my purse finally softens. “I thought we’d go shopping,” she adds, breezy as ever, “before we move you to your new apartment tomorrow.”
Five minutes later, we arrive at a Piggly Wiggly, and the sight of it pricks something in my chest I wasn’t prepared for. The automatic doors sigh open, and we step into the bright, humming belly of the store. I draw a breath and taste my childhood in it, the warm sweetness of baked bread, the savory pull of rotisserie chickens turning in their cases, the clean, sharp sting of floor cleaner that has always smelled like Saturday errands and Mom’s list. Some scents are immutable.
“They’ve remodeled,” Mom says as I snag a cart, the front wheel letting out a shriek that turns heads. Apparently, the renovation budget didn’t stretch to the carts.
The steady clatter of shopping carts fills my ears as we head straight for the produce section.
“Look at these,” Mom calls, holding up an avocado with the reverence most people reserve for gemstones. “Perfectly ripe today.” Her eyes gleam like she’d found buried treasure. “You always loved my guacamole.”
No argument there. Mom’s guac is unrivaled. I toss three avocados into the cart and follow them with bell peppers, zucchini, and a carton of strawberries so thoroughly red they put New York’s half unripe fare to shame. The color drags up a memory I didn’t ask for: summer picnics at the lake, my feetin cold water, Jake feeding me berries like it was the simplest, sweetest thing in the world. His fingers stained crimson, matching the sunset behind him.
“Earth to Sarah,” Mom waves another item before my face. “English cucumber?”
