Page 1 of Come Break My Heart Again

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Bright rays of sunshine stream in through the windshield. Warm air flies in through the open window, whipping strands of brown hair across my face. They get caught in my sunglasses and stuck to my lips, but I don’t roll the car window up or use the elastic on my wrist. I press the gas pedal down harder, watching the speed tick higher and enjoying the small burst of adrenaline that accompanies the thrill of going too fast.

It’s a perfect spring day, the sort that makes hope blossom in your chest, no matter what mood you happen to be in. The sun shines down, blinding and relentless, not a single fluffy white cloud visible in the sky. The air tastes fresh, like it was in hibernation all winter and has returned rejuvenated.

I flick the right blinker and tap on the brakes, spinning the wheel slightly as I coast off the interstate’s exit ramp. A pile of road salt sits on the corner next to the stop sign that marks the start of the intersection, the gray a few shades lighter than the asphalt. It was a long, harsh winter, today’s temperature tropical by comparison.

Lana’s distinctive voice is easier to hear now that I’m off the highway, the bittersweet lyrics and ethereal melody my favoritesong on the playlist Juliet calls my “sad girlmusic.” She asked me to send it to her once, in college, after a breakup.

I doubt she’s listened to it since. Because that’s what normal people do. They heal from heartbreak and move on.

Another left, then a right.

The wheel turns without me even having to think about it. This route is so familiar; I could drive it blindfolded.

I wish it were foreign.

I wish I’d been brave enough to turn my back on this town.

I wish I were normal.

Home is such a strange concept when you think about it. How we assign importance to one place based on familiarity or its proximity to certain people. How our perception of it shifts as we grow older. How it doesn’t.

The trailer park isn’t a prettier sight in the sunshine. It sits like that heap of salt—bland yet obvious. Unchanged by shifting surroundings. The brightness beaming from the sky casts a harsher spotlight on the general state of disrepair.

Five years ago, the dirt road was paved. Since then, there’s been little, if any, maintenance to the asphalt. The suspension bounces with each pothole I hit. They’re impossible to avoid, more crevices than smooth and flat surface.

I park alongside the second-to-last trailer, right next to the tiny porch that is barely big enough for two people to stand on. Grab the orange box off the passenger seat and climb out of my car.

“Must be the second Saturday.”

My fingers comb the tangles away from my face until my eyesight is cleared. Mrs. Nelson is reclined in her beach chair. It’s the first appearance the striped mesh seat has made this year. My last visit was in March, and a thick layer of snow covered the ground that was mostly grass worn down to its roots.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Nelson,” I tell the broad brim of her straw hat.

She’s never shared her first name with me in the years I’ve been coming here. She’s also never asked me why I continue to show up here each month, an unexpected kindness from the woman who appears unbothered by herbusybodymoniker.

“You’re more reliable than my calendar, dear,” she comments, tilting her head back so I can see more of her wrinkled face. Her eyes are shaded by huge sunglasses shaped like daisies.

My lips curve at the cheerful sight, the first upturn that hasn’t felt forced all day. I dread these trips as much as I look forward to them. As much as I need them.

“Bella bought them for me,” Mrs. Nelson explains, noticing my amusement. “I don’t know where she gets her absurd fashion taste.” She sighs, then sips from the glass in her hand. Judging from the strong smell emanating, I don’t think it’s water.

I have a good idea where Mrs. Nelson’s granddaughter inherited her flair for flashy accessories, like flower sunglasses—today’s outfit a prime example: neon-pink capris, paired with a flowing turquoise top—but I don’t say so.

“I like them.”

Mrs. Nelson sniffs. “I’ll tell Bella.” She glances at the trailer looming behind me, nearly identical to her own. “Nina’s been waiting for you. Curtains keep twitching.”

“There was some traffic.”

There wasn’t. The freeway was wide open. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, anxious about today, then overslept because I don’t normally set an alarm on Saturdays.

“What’s in the box?”

“A gift,” I answer.

Mrs. Nelson shakes her head, the motion making her straw hat wobble. “You’re a sweet girl.”

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