Page 1 of Chasing Stars
1
JENNA
“This can’t be it…” I mutter to myself, squinting through the front passenger window at the dilapidated Craftsman bungalow before me. It’s not how I remember the house on Monarch Street, but then again, I haven’t laid eyes on it since I was nine years old.
I reach for my oversized tote bag and rummage around for the paper that my mother’s lawyer gave me. I toss out sunglasses, lip gloss, my wallet, my mother’s checkbook, a folder of important papers, and a mess of crumpled receipts. Finally, I find it at the bottom of my bag. The address is scribbled in smeared gel-inked chicken scratch, but it is legible:503 Monarch Street. Cape Property Management. A barely legible phone number is scrawled beneath it.
I exhale sharply causing the impulsive trauma bangs I just got to fall into my eyes. I brush them out of my face, cursing myself for running to my stylist last week when I lost control ofliterallyeverything in my life. “Not my hair, though. Nope. I’ve got control of my hair, and to prove it to myself, I want bangs,” I told her. Ten out of ten do not recommend doing that.
I groan and squint out the window again. The lawn is cut, thanks to the property manager I guess, but the garden is way overgrown. The cedar fence is rotting and broken. Some of the siding is coming off. The exterior is not promising. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” I force optimism into my self-talk, throwing open my driver’s side door more aggressively than I intend. It catches in the late September sea breeze and bounces back at me, hitting my calf. “Ow!” I shout as I get out of my teenage Toyota Camry. “Stupid car.” So much for optimism. I slam the door shut and stomp up to the sidewalk, shading my eyes as I take in the house up close.
It’s possible it looks more promising from the front yard than the front seat of my car. I squint. The outside definitely needs some work and curb appeal, but I think I can make it look decent for listing photos. Lord knows I can’t pay anyone. I have to use my inheritance money very wisely now that I’m no longer gainfully employed—hence, the bangs.
I spent five years as a personal assistant at a high-end interior design firm on the Main Line in Pennsylvania, hoping to break into actual design work. But my entry-level job remained entry-level. Last week, after returning from bereavement leave following my mother’s funeral, my boss called me into her office and told me she no longer had use for an assistant.
“People just aren’t hiring interior designers like they used to—not with all of the online platforms that they can use to DIY,” she said.
She had to let me go. I understand it, I really do. The design industry is hard, and she needs to keep every penny she earns. Times are tough, but now what am I supposed to do? I packed up my desk, went out to my car, and screamed into the abyss. And then I got bangs.
I pull my tote bag higher up on my shoulder and trek across the front lawn, the dried yellow grass crunching beneath myChelsea boots. I don’t have a key—I didn’t know this house still existed until last week—but I wanted to have a look at it for myself before going over to the property manager’s office. I walk up the concrete front steps, holding the rotting wooden railing while carefully avoiding a splinter.That would be the icing on the cake.
The small porch is really just a stoop, large enough for a couple of people to stand on while they ring the doorbell. A memory flashes in my mind—my mother, in this very spot, helping me tie my shoes before I ran off to catch lightning bugs. It’s a heady mix of grief and nostalgia. I close my eyes, letting the feelings wash over me. I shudder and blink my sadness away.
Focus on the task in front of you, Jenna.
The front door is a faded brick red with stained glass windows on either side, caked in dirt and grime. I use the cuff of my shirt to wipe away some of it and attempt to peer in, but it’s dark inside. Just for kicks, I try the handle. Locked, of course.
I turn and walk around to the side of the house. The gate to the weather-worn fence takes no effort to push open. Immediately inside the gate is a side door with paned windows, offering me a view inside of a narrow hallway with an ancient stackable washer and dryer beside a large sink basin. A little girl’s bathing suit is draped over the side of the sink. My heart sinks.
My bathing suit...from twenty-five years ago.
I had wondered where that one went; it was my favorite. The brightly colored print looks like a Lisa Frank folder design. I lean against the buckling aluminum siding and catch my breath. For years, my world of possibility was reduced to pill bottles, insurance calls, doctor visits, and ‘how-are you-doings’ that I never could quite answer. In the blink of an eye, all of that’s over and here I stand—no job, no plan, nothing but a Lisa Frankbathing suit that made me feel like a mermaid all those years ago—in front of a house that once held so much promise.
I sigh and close my eyes as grief for the last twenty-five years without my dad consumes me. And now I have lost my mom too. I’m all alone. My eyes well up and soul-crushing sadness almost envelops me when the sound of someone clearing their throat brings me back.
“Can I help you?” a curt male voice asks, startling me.
His voice abruptly pulls me from my private moment. I whirl around, unable to formulate words, my jaw hanging open. Standing before me is an attractive man about my age, and he doesn’t look happy. He is tall and lean, with a mop of curly hair falling over his forehead and sinewy forearms peeking out from the rolled sleeves of his pale blue button-down.
“What are you doing walking around my yard?” he asks again, squinting at me, arms folded across his chest.
“Your yard?” I scoff.There we go. There’s my voice.I put my hands on my hips and frown. “This ismyhouse.”
The man smirks, a small chuckle escaping. “No, it’s not.”
Frustration bubbling, I take a step toward him. “Yes,it is. And who areyouanyway?”
He ignores my question. “This isn’t your house, lady, and we’re not in the business of allowing squatters, okay?” He cocks his head in the direction of the street. “If you don’t mind, I’d kindly ask you to exit the property.”
Now I’m frustrated, and I suck in a shuddering breath, fighting back the sting of tears threatening to betray me. This is the last thing I need.
“Thisismy house!” I fold my arms across my chest indignantly. “I haven’t been here in nearly twenty-five years, but it is.” I open my tote bag and rummage for that folder of important papers, pausing to turn off Mom’s med reminder app on my phone. I had forgotten to delete the app and now it’sblaring, reminding me once again that I don’t have a mother anymore. She’s gone. Once again, the wave of grief crashes into me and I pause, closing my eyes to collect myself.
The man waits patiently for me to regain my composure. I’ll give him that.
My hands tremble as I continue to fumble through the black hole that is my bag. “Aha!” I shout when I find it. I thrust the folder into his hand. He might be good-looking, but I’m not sold on kind yet.
The man offers me a tight smile as he opens the folder, eyeing me as he reads. Then he closes the folder, his expression more somber after reading. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he offers with sincerity.
