"I have one rule while I’m here," I say to my parents as we load the car with my luggage.
“Hit us,” dad replies, slamming the trunk shut.
"No one is to mention that man’s name. He is ancient history, and I’m here to focus on myself. If any of you know any suitable candidates to take me on dates, I’m ready and willing." I’m partly joking, but the other part of me wants to eventually try dating.
Are there any eligible bachelors in Grangewood?
Will anyone here be able to sweep me off my feet?
Doubtful.
I’ve never even been on a real date before.
The type where you’re not officially dating, but still getting to know each other.
The type where you ponder what to wear, nervous about what he’ll think.
Where he picks you up at your front door and knocks instead of texting “here”.
Where butterflies swarm your stomach the moment you lock eyes over the dinner table.
I want to go on a datelike that.
Or, you know, any type of date will do.
I refuse to let my story end with my heart in a million pieces.
Am I ready to fall in love again?
Absolutely not.
I haven’t fallen out of it yet.
Just thinking about it makes me feel violently ill. But getting back out there may not be the worst thing.
"You know, they’ve turned the old Maxwell farm into a winery estate. It’s been completely knocked down and rebuilt from the ground up. They kept the old barn and turned it into a lovely space for weddings. Mrs. Bishop says they’re on the lookout for a new event planner. Maybe you should pop in there and pay them a visit," mom says casually, looking out her window, as we drive through the quiet suburban streets.
Of course, Mrs. Bishop, the town’s self-proclaimed gossip queen, has already informed my mom of a potential job.
Finding a new job isn’t a priority at the moment.
I called my boss, Frankie, on the way home from Megan’s wedding, told her about everything that had happened, and that I would be quitting immediately. She didn’t take it well, and I understood why.
As my friend, she was supportive and knew I was doing what I had to do, but as my boss, she wasn’t thrilled to be losing the best event planner in L. A.
As my parents’ car pulls into the driveway, I’m met with a'Welcome Home' sign displayed in the front windows, making my insides feel all warm and fuzzy. Our house I grew up in is your typical, small town, family home, and I love that there aren’t any traces of change.
My mom still has her rose garden out the front, and the light blue swing is still in the same spot it always had been on the white wrap-around porch.
Dad’s beat-up red truck still sits in the driveway, even though it doesn’t start. He claims it’s his 'next project', but I don’t even think he has a current project that he’s working on.
Stepping out of the car, I breathe in an unparalleled freshness that California air just doesn’t have. It smells like freshly cutgrass and blooming flowers, with no hint of an ocean breeze anywhere.
Opening the front door, mom has obviously spent all morning baking when the smell of fresh, chocolate chip cookies smothers my senses.
The one smell that always reminds me of home.
That, and the smell of the same vanilla coconut candle that she has burning all year round.
