Page 20 of At First Flight
“And by hiding, I mean that your mom just texted me, and we’re to be at their house tonight for dinner.”
Ashvi holds out her phone so I can view the series of messages from my mother to my best friend.
“Who ratted me out?” I ask under my breath.
Ashvi chuckles as she hops down from the counter and slides her phone back into the side pocket of her athletic pants.
“No one, silly. But seeing a rental car in the area in non-peak season and in a non-tourist area is going to alert the neighborhood watch. You know how Mr. Werthers is.”
Mr. Werthers is a retired Naval airman who lost his wife thirty years ago. He takes it upon himself to supervise the ins and outs of all the people who reside in Coral Bell Cove. He also has a knack for spreading gossip in a way that could rival any middle schooler.
“Dang it. Did she at least say what we’re having?”
Whatever is on the family table for the night is always a hint as to how many people I can expect to see seated around the custom farmhouse table. Beef stroganoff or pad Thai, I knew that it would just be Ashvi and me. If any steak or potato is involved, then one of my brothers will be present. Fish? And my sister Hadley would be making an appearance. But Italian is the call for the entire Wright family.
“Homemade lasagna.”
Guess I’m getting an all-out welcome back.
As we pull up to the sprawling ranch-style home my parents bought when I was six, a strange mix of comfort and unease settles in my chest. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, familiar and jarring all at once. The wraparound porch comes into view, weathered now by sun and seasons but no less welcoming.
I take a moment to really look at the farm, at the way the early light kisses the tops of the hay bales, how the fence posts lean just a little from years of stubborn horses and busier days. The barn door is cracked open, and I know without looking that my dad has probably been working since sunrise, covered in dust and the kind of joy only this land can give him. It’s his pride and joy, aside from us—his kids. He’s never said it outright, but I’ve always felt it. Even when I disappointed him, even when I chased dreams beyond the fence line, he never made me feel like I didn’t belong here.
I swallow hard.
Coming home was always supposed to be a soft place to land, but today, it feels like walking barefoot over gravel. Too many memories in the soil. Too many people who’ll ask too many questions I’m not ready to answer. But even through the dread curling at the edges of my stomach, I know this place, this home, is filled with nothing but love.
My mom will pretend not to cry when she sees me. She’ll bake something absurdly sweet and fuss over how pale I look. My little sister will ask if I’m staying for good, and my brothers will act like they’re too cool to care—until they throw an arm around me when no one’s watching.
And I’ll let them. I’ll let them love me. Because for all the ways I lost myself in the past few years, this family has always been my compass. Loud, nosy, relentless, and mine.
It’s not perfect. I’m not perfect. But I’m home. And maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Reaching out, I grip Ashvi’s hand where it rests on the gearshift as she parks the car.
“Thank you for being here.”
Growing up with my clan, she knows how overwhelming they can be, especially when one of us has gone off the deep end. And running away to Scotland for two weeks after my dress fitting definitely falls into that category.
Ashvi doesn’t say anything in reply. She simply squeezes my hand and lets me know she’s here for me. And also to stir up her own brand of mischief if the need presents itself.
The walk to the front door feels like I’m walking toward my own death sentence. My siblings are probably standing just inside the house, peeking through the windows, and Mom is waiting at the door for my knock. But as I twist the knob and slowly open the door, I’m surprised to find the entryway empty. Not just empty, but quiet. And in the Wright household, quiet doesn’t usually mean something good.
Ashvi trails behind me as I pass the stairs and head toward the back of the house, where the kitchen and den all reside under one large vaulted space.
“Mom?” I call out as we approach the threshold.
“Surprise!”
The shouts and cheers momentarily stun me, and then I’m quickly taking in the balloons and streamers.
“What’s going on?” I ask and look behind me for my best friend, who has quickly moved herself closer to my siblings gathered in the den.
“Welcome home, sweetie!” Mom says as she wraps me in her arms, my stiff body still in shock from the startling greeting.
“Thanks, Mom. What…um…are we celebrating?”
I glance around the den, blinking against the bright overhead light and the soft glow of home. Something sweet bakes in the oven, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafting through the air like a warm hug. A banner that says “Welcome Home, Lila!” is strung haphazardly above the doorway, like they didn’t have time to make it perfect but cared enough to do it anyway. A lump swells in my throat.
