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Holding on to the steering wheel a little tighter when I drive past the sign welcoming me to Gooseberry Ridge, I try to remember the last time I was home. Christmas two years ago, maybe? I know it was right before Johnathan asked me to marry him. He had flown out for a few days while I was here and performed the outdated tradition of asking my dad for my hand in marriage. Something my dad did not give him enthusiastically.

From the beginning both my parents made it perfectly clear that they were not his biggest fans. Sure, they were nice to him because they love me, but neither of them liked him much. My dad thought that he was too egotistical, and my mom just straight up thought that I could do better.

I, of course, ignored the two of them. Dad has never liked any man I’ve dated since I was old enough to date. And Mom, well, I just totally brushed off her concerns on the matter, even though her opinion of Johnathan should have given me pause since she has always supported every single decision I’ve made and never questioned my judgment.

But like they say, there is a lot of clarity in hindsight and not much you can do about it when everything is said and done.

After exiting the highway, I take a right into town. Everything looks almost exactly the same as it did when I was growing up, like time has stood still in this little town in the mountains.

There are still only two stoplights in the center of town, the streets are still quiet, and Cali’s Diner still advertises its world-famous gooseberry pie in big, bold lettering that is painted on the diner’s glass window, even though no one outside Gooseberry Ridge has ever heard of Cali’s Diner. The Bucking Bronco bar in the middle of Main Street is still the busiest place in town any given day of the week—except for Sundays, when it closes its doors to give the local church a chance to bring all its flock in to repent for their weekly sins.

I pass my parents’ real estate office, where I spent my summers working while I was in high school, and take a left onto Heartsong Road. I drive past the city library; the sheriff’s office, where two cruisers are parked out front; and the grocery store, which appears mostly empty. After taking a left toward my parents’ property, I pass the Lucky Lad River, where I shared my first kiss with Thomas Tanard, the cutest boy in school. It’s also the place where he broke my teenage heart two weeks later when he told me that I just wasn’t the girl for him. Really, he broke up with me for Ali Sherton because she had way bigger boobs than I did.

As I drive toward home, I’m reminded of all the ways Gooseberry Ridge is woven into layers of my life, into every piece of who I am today, the good and the bad.

When my cell phone starts to buzz and I see that it’s my mom, I accept the call.

“Hey.”

“Hey, just checking on your ETA.”

“I’m about two minutes away.”

“Two minutes,” she repeats, sounding surprised, worried? For sure not happy or relieved like she should be. Neither of my parents was happy when I told them that I was going to drive halfway across the country with my car instead of selling it and buying something when I got here. And since I left Chicago, they have made it a point to call me every hour on the hour unless I was safe and secure behind the door at some highway motel for the night.

“Is that okay?” I frown at the road ahead of me.

“Of course.” She clears her throat. “We’ll see you soon.” She hangs up before I can even say goodbye, and I shake my head. Either that was really weird, or I’m just really tired.

I take a right past my parents’ mailbox and start down the long dirt road that leads to their house. My parents still live on the property that was owned by my grandparents and great-grandparents on my mom’s side before them. The fifty-five acres are covered in lush forest, with just enough green space for the barn and pasture where my mom keeps her two horses, Cinnamon and Magic, who she’s had since I was sixteen. The moment my parents’ two-story brick house and their large front porch come into view, the exhaustion I’ve been fighting for the last few hours washes over me.

You wouldn’t think that driving would be tiring, but it is—all my muscles ache—and I would kill to sit in a bath for a couple of hours with a glass of wine.

Once I’m parked next to my dad’s truck, I get out, not even bothering with grabbing anything other than my purse from the passenger seat. I’ll ask Dad to come help me with my things after I stretch my legs and use the restroom. Surprisingly, Mom doesn’t greet me as I step onto the porch, and neither does my dad, which gives me pause. Stopping at the screen door, I look into the shadowy interior of the house, swearing I hear the whisper of voices as I reach for the handle.

“Mom, Dad,” I call out, pulling the screen door open.

“Welcome Home,” dozens of voices sing in unison, stunning me into silence as the lights are flipped on.

“This was all your mom and Anna’s idea,” Dad says, taking my purse, which slips from my shoulder when Mom wraps me in a hug so tight I can’t get air into my lungs.

“I know that you might not be up to seeing everyone, but we thought it might be nice to give you a proper welcome home,” Mom whispers before she lets me go. The moment her arms leave me so that Dad can give me a hug, her words register, and so do the dozens of eyes I can feel warming my skin. Without a doubt everyone in this room knows about Johnathan’s affair and the fact that I failed horribly at making it on my own, and that’s just . . .

Well, it’s honestly humiliating.

Dragging in a tired breath after Dad lets me go, I turn around to face my brothers, Gunner and Kolter, and a few of my aunts and uncles, along with some of my cousins. Mrs. Whitmore, who taught me piano for years, my old science teacher Mr. Hamon, who is a good friend of my dad’s, and more than a few of my friends from school. Scanning through all the faces, there is only one person I notice is missing.

“Welcome home, sis.” Gunner steps forward and holds out a beer to me.

“Thanks.” I take the bottle from him and eye it skeptically. Around the time he learned to walk, I learned that he could not be trusted. “Did you spit in this?”

“Maybe.” He laughs, lifting me off the wood floor.

After shaking me like I’m a rag doll, he drops me to my feet, and Kolter’s heavy arm drops across my shoulders. Where Gunner is tall and lanky, with dark-brown hair and brown eyes like our dad’s, Kolter is tall and built like a linebacker, with the same dark hair but blue eyes like mine.

“I’m glad you’re home, Barbie.”

“Don’t call me that.” I elbow him in his ribs hard enough to make him grunt, then turn when I hear the screen door open.