The old, blue and white checked couches sit across from each other with a worn, ragged, white throw blanket on top.
The burnt out, electric stove top and oven that somehow still works, and miraculously hasn’t set the house on fire, is no doubt still warm from the cookies.
"I’m going to put my bags away and get dressed before the girls get here," I tell my parents as I head for the stairs.
Our yearly school photos hang up on the wall attached to the staircase, with each photo getting older the higher up the steps you get.
Lizzie and Olive’s bedrooms are across from each other’s, while mine is further down the hall.
Walking past their rooms, I’m hit with flashbacks of what feels like a past life. A life I’d all but forgotten about.
We all loved our own space, but we weren’t lucky enough to have our own bathrooms, and we fought over the one we did have like crazy. Come nightfall, we were always bunking in each other’s rooms, having slumber parties.
Mom always found us curled up in one of our three bedrooms. Two on the bed and one on the floor, just how we liked it.
We alternated rooms every single night, though, so the same person wasn’t on the floor each time. It was the only way to avoid arguments.
Reaching my bedroom, I step inside and close the door behind me, dropping my bags to the floor.
Changing out of my comfy travel clothes, I opt for a casual black t-shirt dress that bunches up at the waist, with a pair of black sandals.
It’s about as fancy as you can get in Grangewood Creek. I might even be a little overdressed.
Nothing about my bedroom has changed.
I’ve been back home a handful of times since I left for college, but we mostly stayed at the Anderson mansion because it was bigger. Austin’s family could afford an NFL salary-type home, and he refused to stay anywhere else.He was used to living in luxury.
Today is the first time I’m really able to sit in my room and just take it all in.
Cautiously, I approach my study desk to see photos taped to every blank surface. Photos of myself with my high school friends; ex-boyfriend included. Most of the pictures are of my then-best friend, Bea, and I, but a lot have Austin and his best friend, Harley, too.
Well, his ex-best friend.
Bea and I, posing the night before our first ever hangover, on the bleachers while we watched Austin and Harley play football.
The four of us, smiling after they’d won an important game.
Harley washotwhen we were younger. He had wavy, golden hair that he kept short on the sides, with emerald green eyes, a razor sharp jaw, and naturally pink, plump lips that I used to daydream about.
My stomach would always swarm with butterflies whenever he was nearby. Almost as if my body could sense whenever he was close, before my eyes even spotted him.
I used to paint the numberoneon my cheek, because my crush on Harley was major when I was fifteen, and Bea painted the number ten, so Austin wouldn’t feel left out.
Austin wanted to wear the number one—regardless of the rules—because he claimed to be the best, but their coach assigned that jersey to Harley, because he was the quarterback.
Much to Austin’s disapproval.
He would constantly pull the “do you know who my father is?” card, but Coach Gerard didn’t care.
He cared about stats and facts.
And Harley’s stats spoke for themselves. He was the best player on the team, and everyone knew it.
Even Max Anderson would come to games just to watch Harley, because he was so damn impressive. Especially for a high-school kid. But Austin didn’t care enough to try harder, even though it was in his blood.
He refused to be like his dad.
When Austin asked me to prom, I hesitated before saying yes. I wanted Harley to ask me, but he was so focused on football that he showed no genuine interest in me, or anyone, so I agreed to go with Austin instead.
