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“I’m not sure. Maybe do some house hunting like we talked about last night.”

I’ve never lived alone, it’ll be nice to have a space all to myself.

“There’s no rush to find a house. You can stay as long as you want.”

The nights are quiet here, I’m sure. These last two years had to have been lonely.

“Thanks,” I reply, pouring myself coffee.

The house is cold and feels awfully empty. Growing up, I was either walking on eggshells twenty-four/seven or feeling complete loneliness. Now it’s sort of peaceful. The big window that covers most of the wall has a perfect view of the backyard. It’s half an acre of well maintained grass, with one large white oak tree by the back of the fence. The swing that he built for me when I was little, hangs on one of the branches and is starting to break off.

It’s a beautiful sunny morning, which is a rare sight for November. It’s normally raining.

My dad catches me staring out the window and smirks. “It’s been unseasonably warm this year. It was still in the 80s in early October. It’s supposed to be pretty nice out today, chilly, but maybe one of the last sunny days for a while,” he says matter-of-factly, sipping from his mug.

I breathe in the fresh cup I have in my hands.

“Maybe I’ll take a walk through town then, see what’s changed.”

I stare back at him sitting in his chair. I really did miss him.

4

Present Day

After a long shower and taking the morning to unload my essentials into the house, I take my first steps back into town.

Lakewood is one of those places where you’d expect everyone to know each other. It’s not quite—but enough that if I walked into the grocery store, I’d see someone I know requiring me to duck behind some produce.

Small talk is not my friend.

I grew up walking up and down Main Street—it’s part of the small town charm. The long road lies with single storefronts and larger buildings filled with shops. They have a new coffee house with outdoor seating where moms sit with their kids. Their little feet are running around the gated lawn, bundled up in big puffer coats while the women sip on their coffees.

The traffic slows to five miles an hour when a sign displaying Good Vintage in bright lilac lettering makes all the blood in my body drain.

It’s the antique shop—Sean’s antique shop.

I don’t know why the recollection of this place slipped my mind.

My recollection of him.

I was so focused on the fact that I had to see my dad, the memory of Sean almost slipped my mind.

The high school is just across the street—where we first met. It’s funny thinking back on my juvenile self. I cared about so many things that weren’t important. I tried so hard to be perfect. Now, if I look in the mirror, I’m far from it.

I’m currently wearing thrifted Levi’s, a plain grey sweater, and white sneakers. My seventeen-year-old self would have kicked me in the shins—while in heels.

My therapist would tell me I cared so much back then because it stemmed from my childhood issues of never feeling good enough. Having a drug addict for a mother and a stepmother who showed very little affection toward me would be the source.

I didn’t like the therapist very much. She wasn’t exactly put together herself; her hair was a disaster every session, and she wore sandals where her nasty uncut toenails would be on display.

I went for six sessions right after the divorce and the one thing she might have done good for me was encourage me to come home.

I park in the first available spot a block away and find my feet walking to the glass metal door with the red open sign.

The street feels so familiar, yet unfamiliar all at once. I don't even know if it’s his mom that still owns the place. I know he used to say that she didn’t think she’d keep it forever.

I pull the door open, sending the same old bell clanging against the wood. There are endless shelves that layer the walls, full of random antique trinkets. To the right is a rusted out typewriter. Next to it, an old Tiffany lamp with blue and rust-orange flowers. The surrounding furniture has dust colle-cting on the edges.