Chapter 1
Vivienne
“Sweetie!” I’m pulled forward into my mom’s enthusiastic embrace before I can offer any resistance, every muscle in my body clenching at her tight hold.
I don’t want to be here right now. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere else.
My father arrives a moment later, his booming baritone frightening a pair of robins nesting under the eaves and sending them skyward in a frantic flutter of wings. “Welcome back! How was traffic? That construction right off the exit can really slow things down. Sometimes cars are backed up all the way—”
She swats gently at him. “Hon, Vivienne is home. We don’t need to worry about road conditions.” Glancing over my shoulder, I see her brows knit with confusion at the empty driveway. “Where is this mysterious boyfriend of yours? I can’t wait to meet him.”
My stomach twists. Richard and I decided that my parent’s anniversary party was the perfect opportunity for him to meet them. He was supposed to be here with me, and I thought it was a step in the right direction for us.
Now . . . there is no us.
There is only the rental car I parked across the street, which is practically bursting with everything I own.
“Ah, he’s not—I don’t think—”
After a few awkward moments, understanding smooths the disappointed creases running across my mother’s forehead. “Maybe another time then.”
I manage a jerky nod. “Yeah. Another time.”
“Let me help with your things,” my father says, jumping in.
I lift the small overnight bag in my hand. “No need. I’m all set.”
He suppresses a frown. If there’s such a thing as past-lives, I’m convinced my father was once a Sherpa. He’s always happiest when he’s carrying groceries or suitcases or simply moving enormous pots of flowers around the backyard. “Well, all right then. Let’s get you inside.”
I cast a last, longing look down the street for a man I know isn’t coming, or maybe for the life I’ve somehow lost. Yesterday, I had my dream job, lived in an amazing apartment, and was wildly in love with a man who made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Today I’m jobless, homeless, and single.
Neither of my parents have any idea that I’m not just here for the night, or even the weekend. The prospect of moving back into my childhood bedroom feels like admitting failure. It is admitting failure. But I don’t have a choice.
I step inside their house, postponing the conversation I know I need to have. Tomorrow is soon enough. “What time are you expecting everyone?”
My mom checks her watch. As an event planner, she approaches every party like a general going to war. “About forty-three minutes. The invite said seven, but I’m sure the Russells will be here at least ten minutes early, and the Millers will arrive just afterward. Everyone else should be here by half-past.”
Pausing, her eyes skim over my messy bun, frayed jean shorts, and the tank top I slept in last night. As she does, a thought bubble takes shape over her head, the question clearly visible. You’re not wearing that, are you?
I save her the trouble. “I’ll just go get cleaned up. Be down in a bit.”
The stairs creak in all the same spots I remember from years ago, the polished wooden bannister warm and familiar beneath my hand. Nothing in this house has changed.
Nothing except for me.
The doorbell rings just after I slip into the living room. While my parents greet their first guests—the Russells and Millers, I’m sure—I head for the bar arranged on a sideboard spanning the length of the far wall. It’s styled to perfection, of course. Apothecary jars filled with bright, unblemished lemons, lit candles flickering from mercury glass votives, and neatly labeled decanters of liquor and mixers. Before influencers on Instagram (before Instagram, actually) raked in thousands for turning their homes into product placement ads, my mother mastered the art of precisely organized closets and enticing tablescapes.
It’s probably where I got my love for interior design. Our house isn’t very big, or particularly fancy, but it is always inviting and elegant. There’s a place for everything and everything in its place.
It’s perfect. On the surface, at least.
I fill a highball glass with ice and vodka, adding cranberry juice more for color than anything else. The strong cocktail splashes over my lips and down my throat, leaving a welcome burn behind.
At the sound of footsteps falling on hardwood floors, I make a last-minute decision to take my cocktail to the pantry, a small alcove tucked between the living room and kitchen. I could pretend I’m just checking out my mother’s impeccably curated collection of snacks, staples, and sparkling appliances.
But that would be a lie. The truth is, I’m hiding. Not from my parents, or their friends—most of whom I’ve known since I was riding around the neighborhood on a hot-pink ten-speed with skinned knees and a mouth full of braces. It’s their questions I’m avoiding. How’s your job? Where’s your boyfriend? What are your plans for the summer?
On second thought, maybe it’s my own answers I’m avoiding. What job? What boyfriend? Your guess is as good as mine.
The bell rings a few more times, more voices joining the chorus now assembled in the living room. When there’s nothing left in my glass but ice, I exhale a resigned sigh and open the door of my hiding place.
“There you are. I was about to go looking for you.”
“Savannah!” For the first time since arriving home, a genuine pulse of joy flares inside my veins. Savannah grew up just down the street, the two of us practically inseparable until we left for college. “Oh my God, what are you doing here?” I wrap my arms around Savannah’s back and squeeze. We both live and work in Manhattan, but I don’t see my oldest friend nearly as much as I’d like. As a research assistant for a true crime writer, her schedule is almost impossible to pin down.
But I’m just as much to blame. I get absorbed in my work, too. Buried under fabric swatches and wallpaper samples and furniture catalogs. Sometimes the rooms I’m imagining feel more real to me than the ones I’m in.
“I stopped by Mom and Dad’s on my way out east for the weekend. They said your parents were having a party and that you would be here, too, so I decided to crash.” She adds the last bit with an irreverent smirk, knowing she’s always welcome. “I called you a few times today, but you never answered.”
My shoulders drop, a wedge of tension settling between them. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all night.” She glances down at my glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Too much. But I need another.” I pour more vodka into my glass, although this time I fill it halfway with club soda.
Savannah selects a Chardonnay from the half-dozen bottles carefully arranged in a silver ice bucket. “So, this long story—I’m guessing it begins with Richard?”
I nod, rattling the ice in my glass and taking a quick sip. “It ends with him, too. We’re over.”
Savannah blinks, but I don’t see a trace of surprise on her face. “Will that make things awkward for you at work?”