* * *

Lauren has already posted the first sneak peek of the bridal group shots. I swipe through the carousel, noting how gussied up I look beside Brody's cousin, Vin, and how unbearably handsome Brooks looks next to Angela. I smile at Lauren and Brody front and center.

I swipe farther down the page, bookmarking a pineapple smoothie recipe, and watching a reel about ginger cats. My eyes rake over Josh's latest pic: a celebration after his huge promotion at work. A weird pride swells in my core. As I scroll, I can't help seeing some tabloid-popular page showing a pic of Cece Majors kissing her new model boy-toy boyfriend.

Her face swims in my mind as I fight to stave off flashes of last night's dream.

Not to sound too Dorothy, but she was there. So were others.

I replay my dreamquence from last night. It's enough to make me cry just thinking about it. It was beautiful, but in a tragic sort of way. Which, I suppose in my twisted mind, only added to its beauty.

It's not so much everything happens for a reason. It's more butterfly effect than that. You know, how one thing, one choice, leads to another which creates something new and results in something else. And there's no telling where or how it starts or when it ends. There's just hope. And faith that it will all work out.

All the right butterflies will happen.

If I never went home that summer, Cece wouldn't be dating Aaron What's-his-face right now. And it's crazy to think about that being true, but I'll claim the credit. If I never went home that summer, Trix and Travis wouldn't have baby Isla and Josh wouldn't have been promoted.

If I never went home that summer, well, a lot of things. Fill in the blank.

I think about Brooks stopping over last night. Childhood house, parents away to dinner, home alone. It was all V high school in a PG-13 kind of way. In another life, some 10 years ago or even 2 years ago, we'd have squeezed in a quickie in the hot tub or 69'd on the counter. Or something else absurd we could think of.

His text from this morning is still fresh in my mind.

If you come, I promise not to propose again

Stretching long and finding length in my arms, I focus on my yoga from my spot on the floor. I also find myself searching thoughts. When will I be home again? Another 10 years? Will I ever see Brooks again?

My suitcase taunts me from its spot in the doorway like it's counting down the minutes, just waiting for me to grab it and go. Fight or flight. I suppose I am a bit girl-who-cried-wolf. I stare at it, at my bag perched on top, at my shoes beside it. I take a deep breath in as I assume child's pose.

Fucking suitcases.

I feel the vibration on the rug as my phone buzzes with texts from Bebs.

Just Trix and Meg both asking one more time if I won't consider dropping by on my way to the airport.

Just one drink !!

Or 3. Just stay!

I laugh.

Can't :( Taking a cab.

But let's plan your next visit to me <3

I hit send and toss my phone back to the floor. Standing, and still adamantly cold-shouldering my rolly, I skirt over to my closet to find a flannel or hoodie for the plane ride.

"Hun? Cab comes in twenty!" My mom shouts from the hallway.

"Okay!"

"Are you sure you don't want me to take you?" She calls.

"Yes! It's too far. And you have that thing later."

I don't know what they have, but it's something at 4 PM and Philly traffic is abso shit, so I insisted they don't drive me. Then my mom insisted they call me a cab so I didn't need to Uber. Maybe the cab driver will be my husband, who knows? All the right butterflies.

I plop on my bed to enjoy my last few moments of relaxation. Lauren sends me a selfie of us in the bridal suite during hair and makeup. I click onto our thread and open up the info tab. Shit, we send each other a lot more photos and links than I realized. I scroll down and see a pic from the road trip the four of us took up to the Poconos last year.

I don't really trust photographs anymore. The four of us look so –happy. Thrilled to be sitting in a shitty ass truck-stop diner at midnight, surrounded by snow. The smile on my face as Brooks kisses my cheek...

Fuck. Fuck a photograph.

That weekend is so clear in my mind. Everything about it from the can of 80s hairspray I basically drank to the fireside nights wrapped up in Brooks's arms. I remember him showing me a shoebox full of old polaroids and shit. Us shit, he called it.

Of all the things we did that weekend –said that weekend –one thing is sticking out right now. Not him saying knowing me is like knowing his heart, and not me saying I wanted the kind of love you see in tragic movies, which is super on brand for me. It was what Brooks said when I asked about his favorite picture in the shoebox.

Brooks told me that the night on the beach, my first night home, was the day I became someone he knew again, and not just someone he remembered.

He is someone I know. I don't ever want him to become someone I remember.

"Emmy, chop chop. Car's out front. Didn't you hear me calling you?" My mom appears in the doorway.

"Shoot. Okay, coming!" I scramble off my bed and start gathering my shit.

I'm downstairs in no time, chosen flannel flung over my shoulder, and hugging my parents goodbye.

"Maybe we'll come for Thanksgiving. Or you could come home," my dad suggests.

"We'll figure something out." I nod.

"Text us when you board!" My mom says.

"Bye!"

I bring my suitcase into the backseat with me and strap my seatbelt. For some reason, my heart is beating extra fast like it's trying to race against some deadline.

"I am Deepak. Welcome. Philadelphia International?" The cab driver asks without turning to look at me.

"I –Yes," I say, noting his ridiculous mustache in the rearview.

The yellow cab pulls away as I watch my parents' house shrink in the back window. Everything sort of hits me at once. The emotions. The decisions. The weight of it all.

I came home for a reason. I'm still here for a reason. Right now. When will I stop chasing an idea of a tragic epic love that far pales in comparison to a reality staring me in the face?

...only lifetime I want...

We turn out of my neighborhood. I focus on the sapphire sky, on the profound perfection of this day. And in this exact moment –this back seat of Mr. D's yellow taxi-cab, pretty sure there's gum on the door handle, and it smells like falafel moment –I realize only one thing would make this day better.

What am I doing? Why am I even going "home" when I already am? I don't want anything else.

I don't want anyone else.

"Actually." I clear my throat. "Can you turn here?"

"Sure thing," Deepak says, eyeing me in the rearview.

"And then a right. Up there by that blue shed thing," I say, sitting back in my seat. "And then just stop here."

"This one here?" He asks.

"Yup. The house with the red door," I tell him. I've always loved that this door matches Trix's cherry-red hair.

The cab rolls to a stop on the shady street.

"Do you need me to wait?" Deepak asks.

"No, thanks," I say tossing a Hamilton in the front seat at him.

I clamber out of the taxi, lugging my rolly and bag out of the back seat and up onto the curb beside me. Freshly-fallen leaves crunch beneath my boots and I can smell the sea on the wind.

I'm a tad disheveled, my sweater falling off my shoulder and my hair in my face. I am barely holding onto my phone and flannel. Heartbeat still pounding in my ears.

I've spent a lifetime giving this man my heart. Why stop now?

Till Forever Falls Apart, right?

I hear and see Deepak skid away from the curb and disappear down the street. Sort of afraid I'll change my mind, I start across the lawn, heading for the gate at full speed. The sky is still perfect, so I take that as a sign of good faith.

I round the corner into Back Bay's yard and stop in my tracks to take a snapshot in my head. My family: Meg and Alex at the grill. Nate tapping a keg. Brody and Lauren holding hands by the fire pit. Trix and Travis sitting on the deck. Even Whit holding baby Isla. Brooks carrying cornhole boards across the grass.

He's the first person who spots me, standing in the gateway some 30 feet away. He drops the cornhole but doesn't move.

I look at him and I see him. A whole ass lifetime wrapped up in a muscly, tattooed, dramatic, slightly emo, tragically romantic, stupid, beautiful ex-lax-playing, 6'2" packaging. Only lifetime I want.

Brooks runs his fingers through his hair. I see the visible relief spread across his face when he smiles.

I drop my suitcase and let my purse slide from my shoulder onto the grass at my feet. I am almost laughing-crying as I breathe in extra heavy, sigh, and shrug my shoulders with defeat.

I roll my eyes as Brooks runs to meet me at the gate.

THE.

MF.

END.