Coming Home

Chapter 1

10 years, Cheyanne thought for the millionth time since boarding the plane in L.A. 10 years since she had stepped foot in her little Podunk town.

The shop fronts passed by her window as her eyes darted around, trying to absorb all that had changed and those things that had not.

The old hardware store still had the same sign outside it, "Mi ha l's Ha dwar ," letters missing to finish the words that had been there when she left town, Michael's Hardware.

She pictured old Mr. Michaels standing behind the counter waiting for customers, the man had been around 75 when she was here last, and it made her wonder if he was still standing there. His long grey beard swaying as he walked around the store straightening things that didn't need to be straightened. His cheeks that glowed red when as talked about a new product or whatever shenanigans his grandchildren had gotten into that week.

She smiled as she remembered his booming voice filling that small space that always smelt of ant killer and horse feed.

The little clothing boutique that she had never shopped at was closed now, a big foreclosed sign slashed across the door, letting everyone know the money problems Miss Janice must have run into. So many dull colored building whizzed by her as the cab moved toward her home.

Just as they stopped she turned, her eyes settling on the old picket fence that was missing pieces, the gate swinging in the slight wind. The weeds around the fence were tall enough to make Cheyanne assume it the lawn had been unattended for some time now.

"You can do this," she whispered as she reached for the door handle, it had been her mantra from the moment she stepped out of her apartment.

Gravel crunched under her stilettos as she swung out of the cab to face her childhood home. The house was the same as the day she left. White paint, peeling away to leave the brown wood underneath exposed. The blue shutters faded and ravaged by the weather barely hung on and that damn green door, only slightly hidden by the screen door that desperately needed to be replaced.

Slamming the taxi door behind her she thought, yep still the same old house.

The stairs creaked and groaned under her weight as she made her way to the door, they'd always protested her size.

The screen door screeched as she pulled it open and she knew that the green door would stick just enough that she had to use her shoulder to get it open.

She took another deep breath before stepping over the threshold, the smell of laundry and grass filled her head and she almost choked as she stood just inside the door, debating with herself to stay or go.

Her suitcase thudded to the ground; the sound echoing throughout the house as the memories came flooding back all at once. A dark stain graced the wood floor no more than two feet from where she stood, Clint had dropped an entire gallon of brown paint there when they were twelve, she smiled at the remembrance of her brother's worried face.

"Momma's gonna kill me," he had cried.

"No she will not," Chey had argued, while scrubbing up the paint hoping that maybe her mother would not even notice.

"Yes she is Chey," he paced as she scrubbed and she had thought to tell him to help if he was so concerned.

"What were you doing with the paint anyway?" she asked instead of demanding his help.

"I wanted to paint," he shrugged his shoulders as he continued his pacing.

"Paint what?" she asked, hoping the he would calm down by the time their mother got home from work.