"Are you sure? I don't want them to think I'm unreliable or—"
"Julian," I interrupted gently. "They're going to love you. One delayed arrival isn't going to change that."
The drive through my hometown was a study in contrasts. Julian's pristine black sedan—driven by a professional chauffeur in a pressed uniform—moved through streets I'd ridden my bike down as a child. Past the diner where I'd had my first job, the high school where I'd graduated valedictorian, the park where I'd had my first kiss with Tommy Willoway during senior year.
Everything looked smaller than I remembered, but also more precious. The tree-lined streets, the front porches with rocking chairs, the careful pride evident in every maintained lawn and painted mailbox. This was home, even if it didn't feel like home anymore.
"This is it," I told the driver as we pulled into my parents' driveway.
The house looked exactly the same—white clapboard siding with blue shutters, front porch with hanging baskets full of my mother's flowers, the swing where I'd spent countless summer evenings reading. My father's truck was parked in its usual spot, and I could see movement through the kitchen window that meant my mother was probably cooking enough food for a small army.
"Shall I bring your bags in, miss?" the driver asked politely.
"No, thank you. I have everything I’ll need in my purse, and Julian said you could take the rest to the hotel once you dropped him off."
As the sedan pulled away, I stood in the driveway for a moment, gathering my courage. The concealer I'd applied that morning had done its job—the bruising around my eye was noticeable but not shocking, more like a sports injury than anything sinister.
The front door opened before I could reach it, and my mother appeared with the radiant smile that made her look at least a decade younger.
"Vivienne!" Linda Ellis was sixty-two years old with silver-streaked brown hair and a warm energy that had made her beloved by thirty years of elementary school students. She pulled me into a fierce hug that smelled like vanilla and home. "Oh, sweetheart, we've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too, Mom," I said, breathing in her familiar scent and feeling like I was twelve years old again.
My father appeared behind her, tall and graying but still with the broad shoulders and gentle smile that had made me feel safe my entire childhood. Tom Ellis was a man of few words but deep feelings, and when he hugged me, I felt the unconditional love that had shaped my entire worldview.
"There's our girl," he said simply, but the emotion in his voice was unmistakable.
It wasn't until I pulled back from his embrace that I saw their expressions change. Mom's eyes had found the bruise on my face, and Dad's concerned frown was immediate.
"Vivienne, honey, what happened to your eye?" Mom asked, her teacher instincts shifting into protective mode.
"Alarm clock incident," I said with a rueful smile. "Julian was trying to turn off my alarm so I could sleep in, and it got away from him. Completely accidentally hit me in the face."
I watched their faces carefully, looking for signs of concern or suspicion. But my parents had been married for thirty-five years—and I knew they’d experienced their share of domestic mishaps.
"Oh, honey," Mom said sympathetically. "That must have hurt. Is it serious?"
"Just a bruise," I assured her. "No concussion, no lasting damage. Just poor coordination at six in the morning."
Dad chuckled. "Sounds like something I would do."
"Remember when your father gave me that concussion trying to kill that spider?" Mom said with fond exasperation. "Come inside, sweetheart. I've got dinner ready."
As we walked into the house, I noticed something in their expressions that I couldn't quite identify. They seemed happy to see me, excited about the visit, but there was also something... careful about their reactions. Like they were waiting for something.
"So where is this famous boyfriend of yours?" Mom asked as we settled in the kitchen. "I thought you said he was coming with you."
"He had a work emergency," I explained. "Conference call that couldn't wait. He'll be here soon."
I caught the look that passed between my parents—quick but unmistakable. They didn't quite believe me.
"Work emergency on a Thursday afternoon?" Dad asked, not unkindly but with the skepticism of someone who'd worked shift schedules his entire life.
"He's in fashion," I said, as if that explained everything. "International time zones, manufacturing schedules. Things come up."
"Mm-hmm," Mom said, in the tone that meant she was reserving judgment.
I felt a familiar frustration. They thought I was making excuses for a fictional boyfriend again, the way I had in college when I'd invented dates to get them off my back about my social life.
