Page 6 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice
It’s been rough. After leaving Jay’s parents’ house on that evening, three months ago, I couldn’t bear returning to my own. The house where memories waited in every corner, sending flashbacks of catching him with Marissa piercing through my heart with a dull force equivalent to a barely sharpened pencil. A dull kind of pain that hits with force, fighting to pierce the skin and making it all the more painful.
Lauren took me in. Like a stray puppy abandoned in the streets after the new owners decided the Christmas present was too much effort. She drove me home, tucked me tightly into a blanket, fed me pizza and kept my glass full with vodka-mixers throughout the evening.
And then the next day, she picked me up like the big sister I’d always wished for and didn’t let me continue the pity party any longer.
“You know what? Maybe we both need to get out of here,” she said, spoon halfway to her mouth, piled with what was definitely our third tub of ice cream and absolutely no longer dinner adjacent.
“That sounds wonderful,” I’d replied through a tight throat and burning eyes, still swollen from all my crying the night before. “I could really use a new start.” Preferably somewhere far away from the celebrity hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.
Because there is no way I can go back to acting. I retired because I was ready for a new chapter, to enjoy the results of my hard work and plan my wedding or spend time with my family.
Well, that fell through.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m done with that chapter of my life. Maybe for good. Maybe in five or ten years I might revisit it, but right now, I need something new. Something that helps me find out who I am, aside from Nicola Duncan, world-famous actress.
“As do I.” When I lifted my gaze up to her, it was to find her with a faraway expression on her face. A different kind of pain reflected in the tightness of her eyebrows.
“Hey, I’m sorry for this mess. Fuck, I’m a bad friend. Is everything okay?”
“You’re not a bad friend. And it will be.” She turned to me with a sad smile. “Let’s do it. Let’s disappear. Or at least, dramatically relocate.”
We clinked our glasses together as if we were sealing a pact with cocktail-based magic.
And damn it if I didn’t fall in love at first sight with the lake house she showed me. It has a cute wraparound porch and the most stunning view of a lake with mountains in the distance.
Next thing I knew, although in reality it took a few weeks, it was a done deal, and we owned two houses in a small town that is home to a bookstore, a café, a flower shop, and an antique shop that might or might not have a ghost problem.
“I could see myself having extremely meaningful morning coffees out here,” I said, squinting at the porch like it had just whispered life advice to me. “And you know what, maybe I need more early morning romance. Let’s romanticize the fuck out of life,” I’d said solemnly, and we clinked glasses one more time. Only that time felt more charged with determination.
Next stop: spontaneous life decisions disguised as self-care. A.k.a. the hair salon.
She’d been joking about a breakup haircut and honestly? I was three seconds from cutting my own hair with nail scissors anyway, so this felt safer.
I was more than ready for a change. I’ve been dying my hair darker for work—my manager insisted my natural blonde would only get me “dumb blonde” or sex bomb roles—but I’ve had enough of it.
I told the stylist to take out the extensions, bleach out the dye, and bam - now I’m back to blonde. Golden blonde. The real me kind. Now it brushes just past my shoulders, my natural waves breaking free, like it knows things are changing.
And weirdly? There’s a weight off my lungs. I can finally breathe again.
Oh, how much lighter life can become when you’re not surrounded by people trying to tear you down. As torn down as I was right after my breakup, now that I’ve blocked my family and Jay, I feel so … light.
No more scrutiny over what I decide to spend my money on. No more snide comments over my purchases or how much I’m spending on a hairdresser.
Turns out, when you take the emotional vampires off your invite list, life gets a whole lot shinier.
And quieter.
Andmine.
And I intend to do exactly as I said: Romanticize the fuck out of it. And reclaim it. I’m not sure how yet, but I’m excited to find out.
Now here I am, driving down a winding road lined with trees that hide the sky, toward my new home, my new life. And, hopefully, my freshly assembled furniture. If I get there and it’s not built the way I’d asked and paid handsomely for, only a mountain of IKEA packages mocking me, I might just burst into tears.
There was no way I was bringingthatbed with me. The one my ex probably fucked my sister in. No fucking way. It’s cursed, and it filled me with way too much satisfaction to watch it fall down the landfill.
I hide a yawn behind my hand, glancing at my GPS.
Less than thirty minutes to go. God, I can’t wait to flop on my new mattress and have a nap that would make sleeping beauty jealous. Hours of driving are more taxing than I remembered—one of the few advantages of having a job that requires regular travel and a schedule so tight that you can only manage it with private jets.
