Falling For Us Again

1. THE RETURN

Chapter 1

THE RETURN

Jenna (10 YEARS LATER)

My Prada heels make no sound as I step into Aunt Mila's living room. She looks delighted to see me, as she always does.

“I’ve decided to sell Mother's house,” I say, my voice firm.

The smile on Aunt Mila’s face slowly fades as my words sink in. She shakes her head.

“For goodness’ sake, I should have known you were up to something when you kept asking to see the papers.”

I shrug and plop onto the soft sofa, stretching my legs with the ease of familiarity. Here, no one expects me to act like an acclaimed author with millions of fans around the world. “I should have gotten rid of it along time ago anyway.”

“It’s your parents’ house, Jenna.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t have parents anymore. Do I?” The venom in my voice is cutting.

Aunt Mila looks at me disapprovingly.

“Well, it’s true.”

I rub my locket more out of habit than anything else. I haven't worn it in years, but somehow, I felt like wearing it today. I always carry it in my bag, as if keeping a tiny part of my mother with me.

Admitting this feels foolish and pathetic. My rational thoughts mock me whenever I get sentimental, as if scorning, "Stop being delusional, Jenna. She's been dead for years and is never coming back."

I push it away.

“Your mother loved that place.”

“Aunt Mila, we haven’t been there in years. No one has. What's the point of letting it continue to sit there unused and falling apart? Best to sell it and close that chapter.”

“You can’t erase your history.”

“I’d love to try.”

“Jenna—“

“You know more than anyone that everything about that house and town brings back nothing but bad memories.” I try to sound indifferent, but speaking about Hartlow and my childhood home overwhelms me with emotions that I don't want to feel.

“I don’t see the point of keeping it. You can’t even bring yourself to go there, Aunt Mila.”

“I used to go there once a year,” she says softly.

My eyes snap up to meet hers in surprise. “What?”

“I used to go there occasionally. I’ve had some of my old friends clean it every now and then and keep an eye on it. Just to make sure it's still livable and not get completely run down.”

“Why would you do that?”

“For my sister. For your mother. But I haven't been there in the past three years. Work’s been keeping me busy with travel.

A brief flash of anger crosses my face before I relent. I don't understand why Aunt Mila would do that. I thought she hated everything about that town as much as I did.

“Your mother’s eleventh death anniversary is coming up. Aren't you curious about the circumstances of her death?”

“What circumstances?” My curiosity is piqued.

One of the worst parts of my mother’s death is that I remember nothing surrounding it. All I remember is waking up in the hospital and being told that we were in an accident and she didn’t make it.

Maybe my brain blocked it out to protect me from the trauma. I tried getting information about what happened, but my father refused to talk about it. He didn’t seem to want to talk to me at all. It felt like he blamed me for her death.

Aunt Mila always avoided the topic, so I stopped bringing it up.

Aunt Mila walks over and holds my hand, her grip warm and steady. “Jenna, I know you hate Hartlow because of all the bad memories, but you have to face your demons. You’ve never fully healed from everything that happened. Selling the house is just another way to run further away."

Her words are hard to listen to. I feel exposed. Aunt Mila never talks about anything that happened in Hartlow. We’ve just continued to live without a word about that town, my childhood home, or the abuse I suffered from my father.

A depth of nausea rises in my stomach, threatening to bring bile to my mouth.

I snatch my hand from hers. “I’m fine. I have a therapist, remember? You literally took me to see one after I moved here. I don’t even think about that town. I’m happy, successful, and adored by millions of fans around the world. I am one of the privileged ones.”

The words tumble out in a rush as I pace the room as if trying to convince myself.

I am happy, though.

I truly am.

“I’ve never tried to stop you from doing what you choose. All I’m asking is that you go to Hartlow and think about this deeply before you make any decisions. There are so many things you don’t know.”

She turns and walks to the kitchen. “I just made some cinnamon rolls. Want some?”

“Yes, please,” I reply absentmindedly. The sweet aroma of the cinnamon rolls envelops me, but my thoughts are too tangled to fully appreciate it.

What does she mean by things I don’t know?

I haven’t been able to think about anything else since Aunt Mila brought up the circumstances of my mother’s death. Now more than ever, I need to know what happened to give myself peace.

The thought of returning to Hartlow, even briefly, is agonizing, but I am prepared to make the trip. One final visit to confront the ghosts of my past and to move on, for real, this time.

***

My car glides gently into town, the colorful "Welcome to Hartlow" sign looking slightly different than I remember. I guess somethings can’t remain the same forever.

My palms are sweaty as I drive through the familiar streets towards my childhood home. I don't know how I still remember the route, but it seems imprinted in me.

I take in the scenery. The roads and houses are modern and quaint, with some unchanged from a decade ago. The church is exactly as it was back then, and I quickly look away from it.

New supermarkets, restaurants, and apartments have sprung up everywhere.

When I left Hartlow ten years ago, it was at dawn before anyone woke up. Now, I return as the morning is starting.

My sleek Mercedes attracts curious glances from the few passersby, but I’m comforted to know that with its tinted windows, no one can see who is inside.

I sensed my childhood home before I even saw it—an onslaught of memories crash into me, triggered by the familiar scent of lavender and dried peonies.

I grip the steering wheel tightly as the house comes into view. If I hadn’t spent years learning to control my emotions through therapy, I might have had a panic attack right then and there.

I hate everything about this place.

The house stands as a haunting relic of the past, its once-bright exterior now faded and weathered by time. The paint is peeling, revealing the bare wood beneath, and the grimy and cracked windows, offer a glimpse into the forgotten life within.

Overgrown ivy snakes up the walls, its tendrils weaving through the gaps in the shutters, which hang askew on their hinges.

The front yard is a tangle of wild grass and weeds, nearly swallowing the crumbling stone pathway that leads to the sagging front porch. An old swing, rusted and creaky, sways gently in the breeze, a ghostly reminder of happier times that I can barely recall.

But I know, as a child, there were happier times before everything went to hell.

As I look on, a sense of abandonment and melancholy settles on my shoulders, I feel so prominently that the very soul of the place has been left to languish in the absence of its owners.

I take in a deep breath before I step out of the car. The familiarity of everything is a little staggering. At that moment my phone pings. It’s a text from Aunt Mila.

“By my calculations, you should be in Hartlow now. If it gets to be too much for you, call me, and I'll be there immediately.

I love you, x.”

A reluctant smile creeps onto my face as I read her message. What would I do without Aunt Mila?

I open the trunk of my car to take out my luggage. An uncomfortable feeling of Deja vu sends chills down my spine, flashing back to that day I put my bags into Aunt Mila’s car as I bade farewell to this town.

I haul the luggage to the front porch and find the keys in my bag. The door creaks slowly as I push it open. My hands instinctively reach for my locket, which I’m wearing around my neck today as I step in. I switch on the flashlight in my phone until I find the light switch by the door because being in the dark gives me anxiety.

To my surprise, the living room is well-kept, a stark contrast to the exterior of the building. It looks exactly as we left it years ago, with furniture draped in white sheets. It’s like stepping into a forgotten time capsule. This is the room where my father first threw a plate at me in anger.

I can still see it all in my mind as I instinctively run a hand through my blonde hair. The way the plate slammed into my head, the look of sheer horror on his face before I lost consciousness.

It was a few months after my mother had died. Physically, I was recovered and was beginning to accept my partial memory loss from the accident. I still didn’t know much about what happened, but I could tell my father blamed me for her death.

It didn’t take much to set him off. Lately, he always seemed to be angry with me.

That morning, I made breakfast: toast, bacon, and eggs. But the toast got burnt as my mind kept wandering. I set the food down on the table in front of him. He didn’t look at me. It feels like he hasn’t really looked mein the eye since Mom died.

His voice thundered, “Could you be any more useless? You can't even make a goddamn piece of toast?”

He had never yelled at me like that before. I knew he and my mother had issues. I could hear her crying late at night when she thought I was asleep.

He was abusive to her, it had gotten worse the last few years of her life, but she had always been there to shield me from his wrath.

Then, in a split second, he sent the plate reeling at me. I didn't see the collision, but I felt it—a sharp pain that mirrored the one in my heart.

I remember his eyes widening in shock at his action and mine rolling to the back of my head as I collapsed. That was the beginning of his abuse.

Like a prodigal son, he was apologetic the first few times. After that, he stopped caring, finding ways to hurt me that could be hidden, and not result in having to go to the hospital, where we had to answer questions about what happened.

With Mom gone, I had to deal with his bitter words, his cruel actions, and finally, blessedly, his absence.

A light flickers in the living room, pulling me out of my reverie.

I hate it here.