Page 18 of Unravel Me

“Ugh. Yes. And I’m driving and I can’t pick around them anymore. They’re so gross. I honestly don’t know how you love those things.”

“Can’t help ya, babe. Maybe you should just start eating them like a normal person?”

“Nope. Can’t do it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“How far out are you? You’ve got to be getting close, right?”

“Uhm. GPS says another hour. I’ll text you when I get there.”

“K. Drive safe.”

“Love you.”

My belly is full of butterflies as it hits me that I’m almost to Aspen Ridge. The nervous ones, not the fluttery excited ones. I can’t believe I’m really driving back to my hometown. I’m fine until I think about it, then I start to feel so anxious that I could throw up. The butterflies quickly change to an angry swarm of hornets as an overwhelming terror starts to take root at the prospect of running into people that I used to know. The peoplethat I used to love and never said goodbye to. That self-loathing part of my brain creeps in and tells me that I wasn’t all that memorable to begin with and they’ve all moved on with their lives just fine without me present.

I know I’m overthinking all of it, but why would they welcome back someone who caused harm to their loved ones? Again, the negative thoughts balance the optimistic ones. Maybe I didn’t cause any harm at all. Maybe I did everyone a favor by leaving. And by everyone, I mean one boy in particular. Maybe he felt trapped by me and is much better off without having to focus on me like he always had. My thoughts and feelings war with themselves for the rest of the trip until I take the exit for my hometown.

Aspen Ridge is a small town that hides away west of Olympic National Forest. Tucked away and hidden from the rest of the world, it’s a gem if you love the outdoors, nosey neighbors, and one restaurant option. The air is different here. Cleaner. Fresher. It makes your body hum with liveliness, but also coats you in a comfortable peace. I blame the constant cloud cover that blankets it, the mountains that cocoon it, and the coast it backs up to.

I pull the Boston Bruins hat down that I impulsively stole from Zoe in hopes of looking more like an out-of-towner, and sink deeper into the driver’s seat as I slow my speed and approach downtown. I use the term downtown loosely. It’s a two-lane road with brick buildings lining the street on cobblestone sidewalks. Beautiful flower baskets hang from every streetlamp, shop windows are decorated with lively displays. I can’t helpbut wonder if Ms. Nettie still sits outside of her coffee shop and reports speeders to the police station. Bean Haven made the best apple cinnamon muffins and my mouth waters at the thought of them. They were my favorite thing on earth. I tried to recreate them on more than one occasion, but could never get the recipe perfect. I keep my head low, maintain my speed, and pass through the strip unscathed. I release the breath I was holding and continue to drive to the other side of town.

Pulling onto Lupine Lane, a long gravel drive that leads to a small cul-de-sac, I easily navigate toward my childhood home on autopilot. My hands shake as I drive down the long dirt road and pull into the driveway of the old house, overwhelmed with nostalgia.

And not the good kind.

Rather, nightmares that escaped from the depths of hell to haunt me.

Memories that I’ve long since buried.

Even though I haven’t returned to this place since I was a teenager, somehow it’s managed to remain the same, only older. The cul-de-sac still sits with one house on either side of the circle and miles of woods behind them both. The picket fence that frames the front yard is whitewashed and aging, the paint peeling and chipping away due to the changes in weather and neglect. The house is a large arts and crafts style home that’s usually found in this part of the Pacific Northwest. It’s simple but charming.

In an eerie kind of way.

I put my perfect beater of a jeep in park and take a moment to gather my thoughts.

It’s just a house.

It’s just a house.

It’s just a house.

It shouldn’t matter that it was really more like a cage.

Or that it’s the place where my mother spent my entire childhood depressed and alone, grieving the life she gave up and the love she never got in return.

Some days I wished that I had been enough for her. But I realize now that it’s hard to trade the life you dreamed of for yourself for something else and be grateful for it when what you have is actually all smoke and mirrors. She was okay giving up everything she wanted for herself to have a fairytale life with the man she fell in love with. But she didn’t have that. And it killed her long before the car accident did. My heart hurts at the reminder.

My phone buzzing in the seat next to me pulls me out of my head. I pick it up only to be greeted with my best friend’s face.

“Calm down, Zo. I literally just pulled into the damn driveway,” I say, not bothering with greetings.

“Babe, you should have called me the moment you arrived in that town! I worry about you.”

“I told you I was fine. I can do this.”

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