Becca
I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember the turns, the traffic, or the blur of streetlights against the windshield. One minute I’m standing on a dark sidewalk with my heart in my throat, and the next, I’m parked two blocks away from the house I grew up in.
I sit there with the engine off, my hands frozen on the wheel.
The house hasn’t changed. It’s the same porch light, the same cracked step, and the same wind chime that used to annoy the hell out of me when I was a teenager trying to sneak back in past midnight we were not as rich as the Hales but my parents grew up with them but I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s just wood and brick.
Except it isn’t. It’s the place I ran from without a word. The place where the people who loved me woke up one morning to find I was just… gone,
