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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I wake up to rain hammering the window. The sky is heavy with storm clouds, and the dogwoods in the yard whip so violently I'm half afraid their trunks will snap. It's the kind of day that begs me to stay in bed. In New York, I'd pour coffee, snuggle under my favorite throw, and rewatch Sex and the City from the beginning. But not today. Today I have to decide my next step: am I staying in South Grove, or going back to Manhattan?
The real question is - is Manhattan still home?
When I think of my first day back here, I remember the fear. I didn't want anyone to know I was in town. Not the neighbors, not Greyson, not Jo, not even Mr. Mike, the mailman who's been here since I was a kid. I imagined protestors, an angry mob with pitchforks and torches demanding my head for breaking Greyson McKinnie's heart—my arms locked in a pillory while the whole town threw tomatoes before the final blow.
Greyson and I had planned to split our lives—wherever he was drafted, then South Grove—but New York was always my dream. And now that I've lived it, I don't know if I'm ready to let it go. At the same time, I'm not sure I can walk away from what's here. My parents. Adelaide and Jameson, who rarely make it to the city. Jo and Hannah. I've only just gotten Jo back, and I hardly know the little girl who already calls me "Aunt Waney."
What about Mr. McKinnie? If he's sick again, he may not have much time left. He was a second father to me for twelve years—how could I just walk away knowing any day could be the last I have with him? And then there's Greyson. I spent the past decade convinced he hated me, dragging that weight everywhere I went. But he doesn't. We've been given this unexpected second chance—whatever shape it takes—and if I leave now, I'll throw it away. What if we never get another?
Can I really do that? Walk away again? From all of this? From him?
For the first time since I came back, I don't feel like an outsider. I feel like I'm home.
I roll over, unplug my phone, and the screen lights with a video message from Nico. Timestamp: 2:45 a.m. Long after I was asleep.
"Delaney!" he shouts, his face too close to the camera. Fireworks explode through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, his voice slurred over the noise. Their annual Fourth of July party—another one I've missed. "Girl, you should be here! Why aren't you here? Oh, right, because you ditched us for boring, honky-tonk North Carolina. Do your cowboy boots still fit? Have you hit the rodeo yet? Got yourself a pair of assless chaps? If so, can I borrow them? I met this guy and—wait—your clothes won't fit me. You're Polly Pocket and I'm The Rock, minus the baldness, of course, but—"
"What he means," Sloane cuts in, stealing the phone with a smile, "is that we miss you, we love you, and we want you to come home. When are you coming home, Del?"
That's the question, isn't it?
"Yeah, sprout," he whines, pouting into the phone. My heart twists at the nickname. "Come back! If you're worried about Will, don't be. You need to show Needle-Dick-the-Ginger-Fucker you don't give a shit about him or his slutty intern. Unless you're not over him—in which case, we'll totally support you as long as you need."
