Hearts on Broadway (Book 2)

Chapter 11 - At Home, But Not Whole

Georgie woke to the soft light of dawn creeping through the curtains of her childhood bedroom. The familiar walls, decorated with faded posters and framed photographs, greeted her with a sense of comfort she hadn't felt in a long time. It was strange—being back here after all these years, after everything that had changed.

She sat up slowly, letting the quiet wash over her. The bed, softer and warmer than she remembered, had cradled her through her first deep sleep in weeks. But as soon as she opened her eyes, the familiar heaviness settled in her chest, a dull ache that reminded her of all the reasons she had come back.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she glanced around the room. There, on the dresser, was a photo of her and her dad, Hank, taken the summer before he passed away. In the picture, she was wearing her favorite cowboy hat, her face lit up with the kind of carefree smile that seemed like a distant memory now. Hank had his arm around her, grinning at the camera, the pride in his eyes unmistakable.

Georgie felt a lump form in her throat as she stared at the photo. Her father had always believed in her, even when she doubted herself. He had been her biggest cheerleader, the one who told her she could conquer the world if she set her mind to it. But now, looking at the photo, all she felt was the weight of her own failure.

I'm sorry, Dad, she thought, her heart heavy. I'm not the person you thought I would be.

Pushing the thought away, Georgie stood up and made her way to the window. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the morning breeze, the leaves casting dappled shadows across the yard. It was peaceful here—too peaceful, almost. The kind of quiet that left too much room for the thoughts she was trying so hard to avoid.

She wasn't ready to face the day, but she knew she couldn't hide in this room forever. With a deep breath, Georgie headed downstairs, the familiar creak of the old wooden steps beneath her feet reminding her of the countless mornings she'd spent in this house.

In the kitchen, Joan was already up, the smell of fresh coffee filling the air. She turned when she heard Georgie enter, offering her a gentle smile.

"Morning, honey," Joan said, her voice warm. "I made you some breakfast."

Georgie nodded, though she wasn't hungry. She sat down at the kitchen table, the same table she'd eaten at for years, but today it felt foreign, like she didn't quite belong here anymore.

Joan placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her, sitting down across from her with her own cup of coffee. The silence between them was heavy, but Joan didn't push. She just sat there, waiting for Georgie to speak, to open up.

But Georgie didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to explain the tangled mess of emotions inside her—the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming sense of failure.

Joan broke the silence first, her voice soft and filled with concern. "How are you feeling?"

Georgie stared at her plate, her appetite nonexistent. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like... like I should be better. Like I should have it all figured out by now."

Joan reached across the table, placing her hand over Georgie's. "Honey, healing doesn't happen overnight. You've been carrying so much on your own for so long. It's okay to feel lost right now."

Georgie shook her head, her throat tightening. "But I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to go back. What if... what if I never get better? What if I never figure it out?"

Joan's eyes softened, and she gave Georgie's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You will. It's going to take time, but you will. And you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here, and Morgan... he's there for you too, whenever you're ready."

The mention of Morgan made Georgie's heart ache. She missed him, missed the way he made her feel safe and loved. But the thought of going back felt impossible. How could she face him, after everything? How could she go back and pretend like things could ever be normal again?

"I don't know if I can go back," Georgie said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "What if I just make things worse? What if I can't be what they need?"

Joan was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You don't have to have all the answers right now, Georgie. You don't have to be perfect. Morgan loves you, and Jackson... he loves you, no matter what. They don't need you to be perfect—they just need you."

Georgie felt the tears welling up again, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her chest. "But I'm not enough. I've never been enough."

Joan stood up, moving around the table to sit beside Georgie. She wrapped her arm around her daughter's shoulders, pulling her close. "You are enough. You've always been enough. You're just hurting right now, and that's okay. It doesn't make you any less."

Georgie leaned into her mother's embrace, the tears spilling over as she let herself cry. Joan didn't say anything more—she just held her, letting her cry until the tears finally subsided.

Later that afternoon, after Joan had left to run errands, Georgie sat in the living room, staring out the window. The quiet of the house felt suffocating, the walls pressing in on her as her thoughts spiraled.

She didn't know what she was waiting for—some kind of sign, maybe, something to tell her what to do next. But all she felt was confusion, a deep sense of not belonging anywhere. Not here in Gatlinburg, and not in Nashville, either.

The sound of the front door creaking open startled her. Joan stepped inside, holding a small envelope in her hand. Her face was somber as she walked over to Georgie and sat down beside her.

"This came for you," Joan said softly, handing her the envelope.

Georgie looked down at the envelope, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Morgan's handwriting on the front. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers trembling as she held the letter. She wasn't sure if she could handle reading it, but a part of her needed to know what he had to say.

With a deep breath, she carefully tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

Georgie,

I know you needed space, and I'm not writing this to push you or ask you to come back before you're ready. I just want you to know that I'm here.

I miss you every day, and Jackson misses you too. But I understand why you had to go. I understand that you're hurting, and I want you to take all the time you need to heal. We're not going anywhere, and when you're ready—whenever that is—we'll be here.

You don't have to be perfect, Georgie. You don't have to have all the answers. I know you're struggling, and that doesn't make you any less of a mother or a wife. You're enough, just as you are. I believe in you, and I know you can get through this.

I love you. Jackson loves you. You're not alone in this, no matter how far away you feel.

Whenever you're ready, we'll be waiting for you.

Love,
Morgan

Tears blurred Georgie's vision as she read the letter, her heart aching with both love and guilt. Morgan's words were so full of understanding, so full of patience, and it only made her miss him more. But at the same time, the weight of her own fears held her back, keeping her from going to him.

She folded the letter carefully, holding it against her chest as she stared out the window. Part of her longed to go back, to be with Morgan and Jackson, to try to make things right. But another part of her was still afraid—afraid that she wasn't enough, that she would only hurt them more if she returned before she was ready.

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow across the yard. As Georgie watched the sky turn shades of pink and orange, she felt a small flicker of hope. She wasn't ready to go back yet, but Morgan's words had stirred something inside her—a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could heal.

It wasn't much, but it was a start. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.