But I found out quickly.
I finished the last week of high school with a broken heart — broken from my mother, from Tyler, from my expectations on life — and I walked across the graduation stage in a numb trance.
One week after that, I left my New England hometown on the first day of summer.
I promised myself I’d never go back.
And that I’d never talk to Tyler Wagner again.June 6th, 20207 years laterOutside the car that drove me through the small town of Bridgechester, New Hampshire, nothing had changed.
The colorful colonial houses and small businesses still peppered the brick streets, gold plaques boasting the historic significance of each one along the way. The air that blew through the open windows still smelled like a New England summer — fresh and clean and woodsy, the humid summer heat seeping in and frizzing my long, freshly bleached blonde hair. Bridgechester Prep still had the same mascot, the same crimson and gold lettered signs congratulating the recent graduates, and the same castle-esque brick build.
The town still centered around Lake Tambow, its cool, clear waters drawing tourists from all over during the summer, and the colorful turn of the leaves drawing them in all through the fall.
Outside the car, that town was exactly what it had always been.
But inside the car, there was me.
And I was nothing like the girl who’d left seven years ago.
My chest was tight as the Uber drove through downtown and then out toward the west side, each street and turn so familiar even after all these years. I watched the White Mountains in the distance as we climbed the steep street that led to the long and winding drive I never thought I’d see again, the one that led to the house I swore I’d never step foot inside of after that night.
But after all this time, Morgan was still my best friend.
And last week, she’d called me to tell me she’s getting married.
In two weeks.
I chuckled to myself, because only Morgan would announce a wedding with less than three weeks to plan it.
Of course, she’d given me the title of Maid of Honor, and I knew I’d have my hands full trying to help her pull off a Wagner-worthy wedding in fourteen days. No doubt she’d want the very best, and I was thankful that at least the majority of my time would be occupied with wedding tasks.
Because at the root of everything, there was a gnawing pit in my stomach being back in my hometown — one I promised myself I’d never return to.
It’d been easy up until this point — relatively so, anyway. Aunt Laura had always come to visit me in Oakland, assuming that Bridgechester held bad memories for me because of my mom. And that was part of it, though not the most pressing, if I was being honest. Morgan had obliged, too. She loved any excuse to travel to a warmer climate and see the west coast. Of course, she had begged me a few times to come visit her, especially when we were in college, but I’d somehow managed to avoid it.
Until now.
When your best friend is getting married, you do whatever she asks of you — no arguments, no excuses.
I pushed down the selfish part of myself that wanted to throw a tantrum at being back, at the fact that I’d likely be in close contact with the one person I’d spent the last seven years avoiding, reminding myself that this was about Morgan.
And it had been seven years, for Christ’s sake. We were kids, and maybe when I was younger, it had hurt to even think about coming back here. But, I was twenty-five now, a young woman with a promising career and a full life out in California just waiting for me to come back. I could handle being in my hometown for a couple of weeks. I could handle being around the boy who broke my heart when I was a teenager.
Besides, I had a boyfriend now.
A handsome, accomplished, perfect boyfriend.
Tyler Wagner couldn’t affect me anymore.
That was the final thought in my mind when the Uber turned into the long drive of the Wagner house, cruising slowly through the elaborate black-and-gold gate and coming to a stop in front of the large, white columns of their estate.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling up the app on my phone to tip him as I opened the door. “If you just pop the trunk, I can grab the bags.”
“Are you sure?”
The words were barely out of the driver’s mouth before I heard the distinct squeal of my best friend, and I turned, watching a flailing Morgan fly down the stairs and sprint toward the car.
I smiled — genuinely — for the first time.
“I’m sure,” I said, shaking my head at her. “Trust me, I’m about to have a dozen hands waiting to help.”