I always thought people who enjoyed road trips were insane. Stranded in a car for more than a day. With enough motivation and willpower, anyone can certainly do it.
I can see everything from the top of the hill. Even though I would need binoculars to see the small town, there is one view that pops out, and that is the bright blue ocean and the white waves crashing in. When I look over the town, I can see all the houses scattered like little dots.
I can hear the waves crashing to the surface if I concentrate hard enough. If I take a deep breath and focus on the scents, I can be taken in by different smells: fresh flowers, newly sprouted tree leaves with fresh redbud, and a hint of saltwater.
Closing my eyes, I face off with the sun, and I soak in this peaceful moment before getting back into the car and driving into town.
I try to remember the last time I’ve felt this at peace. The last time, it wasquiet. I’ve gotten used to the consonant sounds in the city. Trains, car horns, people yelling. My own mind has become chaotic, never giving me a moment of silence. If it wasn’t the city being loud, it was my own thoughts about work crashing around in my head. The next dish, the next review, the next event.
But I don’t want to feel trapped or anxious. I’ve been extremely lucky to do what I love–creating dishes that draw people from all over the world at a prestigious restaurant called The Red Table. It’s a dream come true, and I made it happen. On top of that, the restaurant owner has presented me with a lifetime opportunity, one I still haven’t decided how to approach or told anyone about.
After two years of culinary school, I decided to stay for another two years to continue my education with some of the great culinary chefs. Thecrème de la crèmeof the pastry world. I couldn’t pass up the chance when I was given the choice. Either graduate or continue with the best. So, I stayed.
Leaving Dove Point behind was the hardest decision I had to make. I went back home for a couple of weeks to talk to my parents about it because their opinion meant everything to me. I wanted to make them proud, and they were one hundred percent supportive of it all. Even my brother, August, and our friends.
But the one person who mattered the most would make or break the decision. Rowan. The boy I fell for at sixteen. The boy who finally asked me out when we were seventeen. The person that I planned on being my forever.
I still remember the conversation like it was yesterday. I try not to look back on that day. There was a moment I thought he was going to say, ‘fuck it’and come with me. Start a new life together in New York. Instead, he nodded his head after I told him everything. He didn’t look me in the eye.‘I understand’was the only thing I got from him.
When I came back to New York, I fought with myself, wondering why I wasn’t the one who told him to come with me. I just thought he would be the one to make that decision, and I regret never building up my own courage to ask him. I always wonder if he would have said yes and what would have happened between us.
We’ve stayed friends. Close friends. We didn’t want to lose that part of our relationship. At first, it was hard, and we didn’t speak to each other for a year. Two years after living in the city, I went back home for the holidays, and there was Rowan.
He looked…different. Grown. A man and not a boy. He had scruff all along his cheeks and jaw. His shoulders were broader, and his arms were covered in tattoos. Riley threw a holiday party, and when I saw him across the room, it felt like the world stopped spinning, my breathing escaping me.
We both stood still, looking at each other. It took a lot of liquid courage to finally talk to him and to my surprise, our conversation was easy, like we never stopped talking. Picking up right where we left off.
I pass the welcoming sign reading,Welcome to Dove Point Est. 1801. Population 10,000.
Slowly entering the town, I look around at the familiar buildings that I grew up shopping or hanging out with friends when there was nothing else to do.
The brick sidewalks come together with the storefronts. White light poles are snuggled between trees going down the curb. The town is small, and everybody knows everybody, no matter how hard you try to keep your life private.
I pass all the connected shops: small square buildings, chalkboard signs displayed out front, doors propped open, inviting anyone in.
The coffee shop tables outside were filled with people enjoying the weather or working on their laptops. A group of people nod their heads to the beat of a guitar being played by a man.
I stop at Ashburn Road and see my favorite little ice cream shop with a sign across the top of the roof that saysOllie’s. It’s an A-line shack with a yellow roof, white body, and painted ice cream covering the walls.
They have the best hot fudge sundaes. Homemade vanilla bean ice cream. Hot fudge zigzagged across it, a tower of whipped cream sprinkled with nuts, and a cherry on top.
When I was a little girl, I was excited to do my chores because, after I received my allowance, I would skip my way straight to Ollie’s, rewarding myself. There’s no indoor seating–just the workers behind the counter. Customers place their orders at the window, standing outside. I used to have to stretch up on my tiptoes just to peer over the ledge to place my order.
While I look at the line of people getting ice cream, I hear a woman call out my name. Before I pulled into town, I folded down the soft top of my car, turning it into a convertible. I was willing to risk people stopping me to talk, even though I’ve got no energy and no coffee.
Dove Point isslightlygossipy.
“Ellie! Oh my gosh, is that really you? I can’t believe it’s been so long! How have you been? Are you back in town for a visit?” Beatrice, Mrs. Anderson, exclaims.
She’s a vibrant artist who owns Art Fusion, the local gallery. With her spiky gray hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and mango-colored overalls paired with Dr. Martens, she somehow pulls off a look that defies age. At sixty, she’s as unapologetically herself as ever, embracing her passions with every step.
“Hi, Mrs. Anderson.” I nod before saying, “Yep, I’m here for the summer. I just got in.”
“Oh, how wonderful! I just saw your mom a couple of days ago, and she didn’t mention anything.”
And that’s because I didn’t tell her,
Or my dad. Or my brother August. No one knew I was coming home. I can only hope that word of my arrival doesn’t reach my parents before I have a chance to tell them myself. I should have kept the damn car top on.
