Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Nostalgia washes over me as I stare out the car window at the town I haven't seen since the day I left for college.
South Grove—a quiet suburb of Wilmington, North Carolina—is a beach town, and in every way, it was the perfect place to grow up. As a little girl, I spent every summer day on the beach with my best friends, Jo and Greyson. We built sandcastles, collected seashells, and tried to surf, always ending the day with water ice from Ellie's at The Riverwalk. At night, we'd chase fireflies and roast marshmallows while our parents watched from afar.
We rode our bikes downtown, where Greyson would bury himself in the latest Sports Illustrated at the only bookstore within twenty miles while Jo and I slipped next door to the drugstore, giggling as we tested makeup samples we weren't supposed to touch.
Things changed as we got older. Barbie dolls and board games gave way to house parties and Sunday nights dancing at Pulse—South Grove's one and only nightclub. Greyson and I started dating freshman year, inseparable from the moment it began. When Jo got a job at Maribelle's Diner, we'd visit her, splitting slices of peach pie until we couldn't eat another bite.
My childhood was damn near perfect. When I think back, all I remember is being happy.
As we turn onto my street, it almost feels like I never left. The southern magnolia trees still line the sidewalks—tall, shadowy, and in full bloom. Their white flowers are flawless, just like I remember, and I swear I can still smell them through the cracked window—faintly citrusy, like the citronella candles my parents used to burn on summer nights.
The old treehouse in the Reinharts' backyard—the one I fell from and broke my arm when I was nine—is still standing. Mike, the same mailman we've had for as long as I can remember, is halfway through his route. And the curb where Jo wiped out on her rollerblades and tore up her knee? Still cracked. Still waiting to be fixed.
"Gross," I say to myself, wrinkling my nose in disgust. "The Falcone's painted their house pink."
"What's that?" my Uber driver asks.
"Oh, nothing. Sorry."
"Taking a trip down memory lane?"
"Something like that."
He slows the car and turns into our driveway. "How long have you been gone?"
"A long time," I admit.
"Well, I hope you enjoy your stay." Our eyes meet in his rearview mirror and a smile stretches across his round face. "Let's get your luggage. Shall we?"
The air shifts the moment I step out of the car. The front yard looks the same – freshly trimmed hedges, beautiful yellow rose bushes, a wind chime swaying gently near the porch – but something about it feels different now. Smaller. Quieter.
"Hello! I'm home." I shut the door behind me and drop my luggage on the floor. After hearing her excitement over the phone, I expected my mother to be on the front porch waiting for me, but the house is silent. "Anybody here?"
