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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The moment we cross the bridge into South Grove, everything slows down. The roads are narrower here, the buildings shorter, the air softer somehow. I lower the window an inch and breathe in the scent of salt and warm pavement.
It smells like home.
South Grove – a quiet suburb just outside of Wilmington – is a beach town. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone and the biggest news of the week is usually who caught the biggest fish or whose kid just got into college. In every way that mattered, it was the perfect place to grow up.
As a kid, I spent every summer day on the beach with my best friends, Jo and Greyson. We built crooked sandcastles, collected pockets full of seashells, and tried to surf on waves that were usually too small to cooperate. By sunset we'd be sunburned, sandy, and begging our parents for water ice from Ellie's down at The Riverwalk.
At night we'd chase fireflies in the backyard and roast marshmallows over a fire pit while our parents watched from porch chairs, talking quietly and pretending not to notice when we stayed up past bedtime.
We rode our bikes downtown almost every afternoon. Greyson would disappear into the only bookstore within twenty miles, flipping through the newest issue of Sports Illustrated, while Jo and I slipped next door to the drugstore and tested makeup samples we definitely weren't supposed to touch.
Things changed as we got older. Barbie dolls and board games gave way to house parties and late nights dancing at Pulse – South Grove's one and only twenty-one and under nightclub.
Greyson and I started dating freshman year. From the moment it began, we were inseparable. When Jo got a job at Maribelle's Diner, we practically lived there, crowding into the same vinyl red booth every weekend and splitting slices of peach pie until we felt sick.
My childhood was damn near perfect. When I think back on those years, all I remember is being happy.
The Uber turns onto my street and the memories come faster. The southern magnolia trees still line the sidewalk, tall and heavy with glossy leaves. Their white flowers are in full bloom, and the faint citrusy scent drifts through the open window.
I haven't smelled that in years.
The old treehouse in the Reinhart's backyard – the one I fell out of and broke my arm when I was nine – is still standing. Mike, the same mailman we've had since I was little, is halfway through his route. And the curb where Jo wiped out on her rollerblades and shredded her knee? Still cracked. Still waiting to be fixed.
I wrinkle my nose.
"Gross," I mutter. "The Falcone's painted their house pink."
