My Uber drives down Main Street, and nostalgia overwhelms me as I stare out the window at the town I haven't seen since the day I left for college. Some things look the same, but most of it has changed drastically. South Grove Presbyterian Church where my older sister Adelaide and I attended preschool is still standing, and if I close my eyes, I can still see us running around the yard at recess. There's the courthouse, where my best friend Jo and I spent way too much time after she got her license paying all the parking tickets she got. Most of the restaurants have remained the same, but there are a lot more banks than I remember, and there's a CVS or a Walgreen's on what seems like every corner. Jocelyn's – the boutique I worked at in high school – is still open, but the music store Jo and I used to frequent has been turned into a trendy, hipster coffee house.
South Grove, a small suburb of Wilmington North Carolina, is a beach town and the perfect place to grow up. As a little girl I spent almost every day in the summer on the beach with my best friends Jo and Greyson. We'd build sandcastles, collect seashells, and go surfing, and before we'd walk home, we'd stop and get water ice at Ellie's at The Riverwalk. At night we'd run around in my back yard catching fireflies and roast marshmallows for s'mores in the firepit while our parents watched us from the deck. We'd ride our bikes downtown and while Greyson was reading the latest Sports Illustrated at the only bookstore in a twenty-mile radius, Jo and I would sneak into the drugstore next door and play with the make-up samples.
Things changed as we got older. Instead of Barbie's and Candyland, Jo and I would lay out and tan on the deck of her father's boat, go to parties, and spend every Sunday night dancing at Pulse – South Grove's only nightclub. That's when they had their eighteen-and-under nights. Greyson and I started dating our freshman year of high school and spent all our free time together, but when Jo got a job at Maribelle's Diner when we were sophomores, he and I would keep her company, eating all the peach pie our stomachs could handle.
The thing I remember most though is the Fourth of July party the town throws every summer. Magnolia Lane, where the three of us lived, is shut down, barricaded at both ends so cars can't get through. Music plays, people dance in the middle of the street and neighbors provide the party with food and drinks, and after the sun goes down, everyone goes to South Grove Park to watch the fireworks. My childhood was damn near perfect, but those are the nights I remember being the happiest.
We turn onto my street, and I'm inundated with the feeling that I never left. Southern magnolia trees, tall and dark, line the sidewalks. It's nearing the end of spring and their bulbs have already bloomed full, picturesque white flowers. I still remember the way they smell - like the citronella candles my parents would burn on summer nights to keep the mosquitoes away. The treehouse I fell out of and broke my arm when I was nine is still in the Reinhart's backyard. I notice Mike, the same mailman we've had for as long as I can remember, walking his route, and the corner where Jo wiped out on her rollerblades and broke her wrist has the same broken curb it had ten years ago.
"Gross," I say to myself, wrinkling my face 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?"
"Almost ten years. But it feels like much longer."
"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?"
"Mom! I'm home." I shut the door behind me and tuck my luggage into the corner of the living room. After hearing her excitement when I told her I was coming home, I expected her to be on the front porch waiting for me, but the house is silent. "Hello? Anybody here?"
I make my way through the house, checking each room as I go, until I finally look out the kitchen window and find her in the backyard. She's on her knees in the grass vigorously sanding what looks like an end table. I tap on the glass to get her attention and when I do, her blue eyes light up and a huge smile adorns her thin face. She stands and runs toward the house, knocking the table over in the process, and it's only when she bursts through the back door do I realize just how long it's been since I've seen her.
Her shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. The crow's feet around her eyes have deepened and there are fresh freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. White paint is smeared across her forehead and when I look down at the rest of her, I notice more on her forearm and on the knees of her pants. She's also skinnier than she was the last time I saw her. My mother has always been thin, but she's in a pair of navy-blue sweatpants and my father's UNC Basketball t-shirt and I can't help but notice how big they are on her.
"My baby girl is home!" she cries.
"Hi, mom." I stretch my arms toward her, and she laces her fingers with mine. "Why are you such a mess?"
"Oh." She looks down at herself and chuckles. "I'm upscaling some furniture I found at a thrift store in town. Your father's all for it because it keeps me busy."
"I'm sure he's thrilled."
Since my breakdown in the bathroom at Manhattan Mocha yesterday I've kept myself together surprisingly well, but the second my mother wraps her arms around me and I feel the warmth of her familiar embrace, I burst into tears.
"Shh," she whispers. She steadily drags her hand through the hair on the back of my head. "I know, honey. I know. Just let it out."
"I can't believe this is happening." My voice shakes as I try and speak through a sob. "He doesn't love me anymore, and it's all my fault."
"Let's go sit down."
She leads us into the living room, handing me a box of tissues as I sit down on their brand-new, white, microsuede couch. She told me when she bought it that my father wasn't pleased, and now I understand why. I don't even want to go near it, afraid I'll get a smudge on its alabaster perfection.
"Why would you think any of this if your fault?"
"I don't think it is," I say. "I know it is."
"Did Will tell you that?"
I shrug my shoulders. "In so many words, yes."
"Delaney, he cheated because he's a coward. Not because of anything you did." She tucks a chunk of my blonde hair behind my ears and wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of her thumb. "Were you a perfect wife? Hell no, but no woman is. We learn as we go. You may have made some mistakes, but he made the decision to be unfaithful. None of this is your fault."
"Yes, it is!" I shout. "If it weren't for me, I'd be in New York, and we'd be together right now. I made him feel like our marriage isn't important to me – like he isn't important to me. I was too focused on my career and being the perfect employee to that asshat of a boss, and I spent way too much time with Nico and Sloan. I left his thirtieth birthday party early because Nico needed me to assist him backstage at a fashion show, and it wasn't even for his own line!" I let out another sob and wipe the snot from my nose with the heel of my hand. My mother wrinkles her nose in disgust and hands me a tissue. "I put everything and everyone ahead of my own husband, and then I have the nerve to be surprised when I find him in bed with another woman? I brought this on myself. I deserve every bit of pain and heartbreak I feel right now."
"Those are his words, aren't they?" I keep my focus on my hands in my lap as I nod slightly. "Well, he's wrong. Just because your partner doesn't put you first all the time doesn't mean you go out and sleep with the first person you come across. If he felt slighted, he should have talked to you about it. That's what a real man does. You do not deserve to be treated this way, okay? I don't ever wanna hear you say that again."
"You're wrong. I'm a terrible wife."
"Stop it, Delaney! I'm serious. Stop making excuses for him. Stop blaming yourself for his behavior, and most of all, stop talking badly about yourself. Just...stop all of it. Okay?"
"Fine." I sigh and drop my head into my hands. "I just...I don't know how to get through this. I don't even know where to start."
"It's not going to be easy, sweetheart. Breakups never are, but you are so strong. You're gonna be fine."
"Yeah?" I ask. I pull a fresh tissue from the box and blow my nose loudly. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I'm your mother, and I didn't raise weak women."
She stands from her cushioned armchair and sits down next to me, rubbing my back softly. I've always admired her ability to comfort others. She's been a teacher at the Montessori school located in the basement of South Grove Presbyterian Church since I was a child. Adelaide and I attended as toddlers, and it's where I met by childhood best friend, Josette Wilde. I'd heard from my mother during one of our weekly phone calls months back that Jo had enrolled her two-year-old daughter in the program. A daughter I knew nothing about.
I don't know where her patient, compassionate nature comes from – definitely not her parents – but I guess years of keeping twenty-one whiny, crying children under control has taught her top-notch soothing skills.
"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've been home. I could sit here and come up with a million different excuses, but in all honesty, I just didn't want to come back. I didn't want to face what I left behind."
"I know, honey."
"I'm really glad to be home now, though."
She smiles and cups my cheek with her warm hand. "And your dad and I are so happy you're here. You stay as long as you need."
"Thanks, Mom." I wipe my eyes with a tissue and rest against the back of the couch. "Where is dad anyway?"
"He's down at the McKinnie's but he told me to call him the minute you got home. Take your luggage upstairs and I'll make you something to eat. You're skin and bones."
I carry my luggage to my room, and as I do, memories of my childhood rush back. School portraits of Adelaide and I hang on the walls. Embarrassing dance recital photos and honor roll certificates decorate a table at the top of the stairs. The stain in the wood where I spilled nail polish remover down the steps is still visible. Pencil lines of Adelaide and my growth over the years are still etched on the doorframe of the space that used to be our playroom, but is now filled with a bunch of workout equipment that looks like it's never been used.
Snapshots taken of Adelaide and Jameson throughout the years remain, but all pictures of Will and I have been taken down and replaced with a decorative wreath or a cheesy sign that reads "I love you to the beach and back" and "A walk on the beach is good for the soul."
I'm thankful my parents are so considerate. I've barely been able to hold it together the past couple days, and any reminder might send me over the edge.
My bedroom is exactly as I left it ten years ago. Not a thing has been moved or touched, and had I not seen my haggard appearance staring back at me in the full-length mirror nestled in the corner, I'd swear I was eighteen again. My bed rests comfortably against the wall – the stuffed animals I collected over the years and received as gifts remain perched against the decorative pillows. The blush-colored paint on the walls still looks fresh. I picked it because it matched the paisley comforter that, even after all these years, is still draped over the mattress.
The J'adore Vogue Canvas print Jo got me for my sixteenth birthday hangs over my bed. The fairy lights Adelaide helped me hang are still up. Photos of Jo and I at each other's birthday parties and at sleepovers, and of Greyson and I at school dances, asleep on the couch in his parents' den and at Dawson's Beach decorate my nightstand, shelves, and vanity. No matter where I turn, I can't escape the memories of how my life used to be.
At least my mother had the decency to take down the embarrassing Jonas Brothers posters.
I set my luggage aside and sit down on the bed, which is just as soft as I remember.
"I can't believe I'm back here," I whisper to myself. I pick up the teddy bear Greyson gave me for our first Valentine's Day as a couple and hug it to my chest. "Home sweet home, I guess."
After dinner, I pour myself a glass of red wine – it's sweet yet acidic aroma immediately calming my erratic nerves – and take it with me as I head outside and curl up on a wicker patio chair. The front porch to my parents' home is, and always has been, my favorite place. It's peaceful and comforting. Its tall, white columns give it a historic feel – like one you'd find in a movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. A cushioned, daybed style porch swing hangs from the dark brown shingled awning that covers the length of the front porch. Thick bushes filled with beautiful yellow roses decorate our front lawn, and when the wind blows just right, I'm enveloped with their lemony scent.
As I pull my legs closer to me and sip my wine, the front door opens, and my dad comes out with a blanket. I smile at him as he drapes it over my legs and sits down next to me.
"Thanks," I say.
Crickets chirp in the distance. A light breeze whispers through the magnolia tree branches and rustles the leaves, drowning out the buzz from the row of streetlamps. Down the street, a car door slams and a motor purrs. I tuck the blanket under my legs as cool air seeps through my thin sweatpants.
"I forgot how quiet it is here."
"Not quiet enough if you ask me," he says. "I've never been able to understand how you can function with all that city noise. The constant sirens and horns would drive me insane."
I close my eyes and breath out a heavy sigh. I'd do anything to hear those sirens and horns right now. I didn't realize how much I'd miss them when they were gone.
"It takes some time, but you get used to the noise. After a while you don't even hear it. It becomes comforting."
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stares out into the night, scratching his fingertips across his bald head.
My father is a man of few words. He only voices his opinion when asked, but as he sits next to me, the overwhelming feeling he has something he wants to say unnerves me.
"You know what the only problem with quiet is?" he asks.
"What's that?"
"Your thoughts are very loud."
I nod my head and take a sip of my wine. It's all I can do. The lump in my throat keeps me from being able to speak – like I swallowed a giant pill without water.
"You didn't eat much at dinner," he says, crossing his strong arms against his broad chest.
"I don't really have much of an appetite right now."
"Mmhmm," he mumbles. He abruptly stands and walks toward the white railing that borders our front porch, resting his weight against it. "Did your mother tell you there's been a drip coming from the fridge?"
I furrow my brow and look up at him, confused at the sudden turn in conversation. "Uh...no."
"Yeah. We think it's coming from the leeks."
I huff out a laugh and shake my head at his ridiculousness. I thought I'd never laugh at one of his stupid jokes ever again, but I was wrong, and it's never felt so good to be wrong.
"We haven't been able to talk since everything happened. I mean, talk the way you and I do. So, how are you doing, honey?"
My parents and I have always been close. They love Adelaide and I unconditionally – as every parent should. They've supported me through each trial, tribulation, and utterly stupid decision I've ever made and celebrated with me in my successes. My mother is my best friend. Some even say we're clones of each other, and she's always there for me when I need her most, but the relationship I have with my father is different. He taught me how to ride a bicycle and climb a tree. How to figure out the basics of algebra and play chess. He calms me when I begin to spiral, and even though my mother is my go-to, my father is the one I seek out when I need advice. Where I feel like my mother listens to respond, my father listens to understand.
"I'm okay," I lie. "Tired, but mostly okay."
"Don't pretend with me, Delaney. A lot of shit has happened to you in the last week. Shit I've never wanted you to experience, and I'm gonna be here for you whether you like it or not. But I need you to be honest with me so I can help you. So, how are you actually doing?"
I sigh. "Not good, dad. It's been really hard. I married Will with the belief that it would be forever. When times got hard we would just...I don't know, figure it out. I never thought this would be my life at twenty-eight years old. I mean, I'm an unemployed, soon-to-be divorcee who's sleeping in the same bed she did when she was twelve. Could I be more of a loser?"
"You're not a loser."
"Yeah, well, I feel like one."
"You're a lot of things, but a loser isn't one of them." He pushes himself off the railing and sits next to me, placing his large hand on my knee. "You're strong and smart and beautiful. You're better than him, and resilient enough to get through this situation he's put you in. You're my daughter, and you're perfect."
"Thanks, dad." I force a smile and rest my hand on top of his. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I want to make him believe I'm fine. I need to. "I just don't know where this all went wrong. I thought we were in love."
"Sometimes love isn't enough. But I..." he trails off. He clears his throat and rubs his hand along his chiseled jaw.
"But what?" I ask.
"I've seen you in love before, Del. I've seen you recklessly, hopelessly, and unapologetically in love and the way you look when you talk about Will is not the way you looked when you talked about...him. Greyson made you happy. Even when you were just friends, you two brought out the best in each other, and from what I've seen over the years, Will doesn't do that. He doesn't treat you the way you deserve. He doesn't meet your needs. He doesn't make you laugh that deep belly laugh I love so much. He doesn't make you happy and he doesn't bring out the best in you. And I'm not sitting here trying to force a Greyson and Delaney reunion. I know you've both moved on. I just want you to remember what it feels like to be in love. Really in love. It might clear up a few things for you."
My lips part and I exhale a shaky breath, wiping my tears with the heels of my hand. My father wouldn't know this, but I've compared every aspect of my relationship with Will to my relationship with Greyson since the moment we met.
Will keeps me satisfied. With him, I'm comfortable. But comfortable is far from happy.
"Did you tell him I'm home?"
"No. Do you want me to?"
I shove my fingers through my hair and shake my head. "I rather he not know."
"Okay. If that's what you want." He stands from his chair and presses a kiss on the top of my head. "I'm gonna head inside. Make sure you lock up behind you."
"I will," I say. "I love you, dad."
"Love you too, sweetheart."
An hour later, I'm still sitting on the porch in the same position I was in when my father went inside. I was a sensitive, fragile woman on the verge of tears when he was out here, but now – as the weight of his words sink in – I'm angry.
Did Will ever love me the way I thought he did, or was I just an attractive convenience until the next best thing came along? He slept with another woman. Had it happened once I could probably pass that off as a mistake, but he's been sleeping with her for months, and someone who truly loves me wouldn't do that. And how many times did he have sex with her, then come home and have sex with me?
Will and I used protection for the first couple months of our relationship, but I've been on the pill since I was in high school, and we haven't used it since. He used a condom with her the day I caught them, but did he use one every time they were together?
Stars light the sky like tiny snowflakes in the night, and as I tilt my head back and get lost in its vast beauty, I think back to Will's behavior over the last few months. Like the nights he didn't come home until after midnight and wouldn't let me near him until he took a shower – or the nights he didn't come home at all. There were a few times I caught a light scent of perfume on him, but he works with women, and I never thought to be suspicious. He stopped asking me to go to work functions. He started taking his phone with him everywhere he went and there were a few times I'd overheard him on the phone, but he'd quickly hang up when I'd enter the room.
I'm angry at Will for what he did, but I'm angrier at myself. All the signs were there, yet I didn't see them.
How the hell could I have been so blind?
Thanks for reading!