Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Charlie wandered Warwickshire Way, the main drag with its many new storefronts—yoga and Pilates studios, a day spa, bars, eateries, boutiques—hanging a left on leafy Avon Road, and there it was.
The storybook Victorian home, all turrets and decorative trim. She could feel the house’s history but note its transformation: fresh paint, new windows, the crow’s nest restored. The once-warped wraparound porch mended, shellacked in an earthy jade hue. A new glider hung there, which likely wouldn’t squeak like the old one used to when she sat there with Nick.
As she had walked toward the stage earlier that day, Nick had shape-shifted into that boy she had first met, the aspiring director in Converse shoes, T-shirt, jeans. He was less muscular then, more clean-shaven, his hair wet from an early swim at the lake. Script tucked under his arm, hope in his chest, dreams of making a name for himself.
The front door opened, and on reflex, she darted to the side of the house. To cover, she pulled out her phone, scrolling through texts. From the shadow of a craggy oak, she watched one of her roommates strutting in joggers and a tight T-shirt, yoga mat bag on his fully inked arm: Chase Embers. She groaned, involuntarily, audibly. Luckily, his earbuds were in. He glanced side to side, as though waiting to be noticed, like a heartthrob rolling into the cafeteria in a movie about prom hijinks. He had starred in several of those—and then the dark, paranormal one with Charlie, which had actually been good—before playing a drug-addled college kid in that gritty festival-circuit film everyone loved, his breakout several years ago.
Charlie had slept with him exactly once—at the end of their film shoot—caught up in the finality of it all, young, foolish, drunk and too immersed in their lovesick characters for their own good.
She tapped out a WhatsApp, You’ll never guess where I’m staying, and snapped a photo of the porch swing. Everything is the same here, fixed-up, but the same. xx.
Her mother responded instantly: A lot of good memories there, Charlie. This is the first thing you’ve done in ages that makes any sense. Perhaps this will inspire nostalgia for another relic of the past: home. London is no farther than Los Angeles. It’s been quite some time since your passport was stamped. You are always welcome with open arms. Give Chamberlain my regards and don’t waste this time, it’s a gift. Take good care, will you? Love, Mum.
Always a lacing of guilt to any exchange with her mom. She couldn’t exactly hop on a flight anytime soon.
I’ll send more photos and let you know how—
“Charlie Savoy,” a woman’s voice interrupted her text.
Charlie jumped, turned to find a familiar figure at the side entrance. “Danica Rainier,” Charlie greeted her.
“Haven’t seen you in years,” Danica said with no particular warmth. She leaned against the doorframe, long blond hair and maxidress blowing in the breeze, gauzy scarf at her neck. Perfect minimal makeup. She had always been otherworldly beautiful, like the kind of doll psychologists urged young girls not to play with because it would stealthily destroy their self-esteem. Even now, when she had to be fifty or close to it, she still safely qualified as an ethereal goddess. She had enjoyed a brief tenure as America’s Sweetheart thanks to two highly successful rom-coms in the early ’90s, which still showed somewhere on basic cable nearly every weekend, and that old series enjoying a streaming renaissance thanks to millennials. “I was beginning to wonder whatever happened to you,” Danica said in monotone, taking a slow sip from the mug of hot tea in her hands. “I thought you died.”
“Glad to be back, from the dead, or wherever,” Charlie said, hopping up the steps to the side door, and breezing past Danica into the house. “Not bad here.”
Inside, the grand winding staircase was still there, but the hardwood flooring had been redone in a rich chocolate. Walls had been knocked out, opening up the kitchen, dining area and living room. Down the hall, she found the ground-floor bedroom claimed.
“That’s Matteo’s,” Danica reported. “He likes to be near the kitchen—he pretends the entire first floor is his and we’re his guests.”
“Sounds like him,” Charlie said, comforted to know her old friend would be there. She made her way up the steps lined with framed programs of past shows.
“Your room is the next floor up. I’m on top!” Danica shouted. “Top floor is me!”
Charlie sighed. “Got it!” she called down.
Beside a cluster of vintage Chamberlain posters, she found her floormate’s room: bay window, king-size bed, fluffy comforter. Everything immaculate and in place. Very Chase.
She found her own room across from Chase’s. She unzipped her duffel, opened the deep top dresser drawer and emptied her bag, pulling out a handful of books and tossing them on the bed, that letter shoved into one like a dagger.
The smallest room in the house, the space had been further cramped by the addition of a spiral staircase leading to a hatch in the ceiling. She pulled out her phone—intending to dash off a snarky text to Nick, comparing this to the dorm she had vacated—but noticed something on one of the steps: a leather-bound copy of Romeo and Juliet.
Nick’s stationery, clipped to the cover, read: “Before I hear any complaints, you’ve got a balcony, Juliet.” Signed simply “—Nicholas.”
Only a few words, but such relief. So she was going to be Juliet. She wished it didn’t matter, but it did. It meant something that a role like that could still be hers after all this time. She had been hedging her bets in Nick’s office, trying to appear like she didn’t care. She hoped she had fooled him, hoped he’d read her attitude as confidence.
Climbing the metal coil now, she pushed open the hatch and poked her head up into the late-afternoon sun. The crow’s nest, wide enough to fit two people max, offered a perfect view of bustling Warwickshire Way. This escape made it worth having the small room. She felt in line with the mountains surrounding the town, even though they were still much higher. Her body eased, she closed her eyes, let the sun warm her. Then, renewed, she decided to make an effort.
The balcony is a game changer. You’re lucky, she texted Nick.
The response came immediately: Is that actually a thank you?
Before Charlie could debate whether to write back, a familiar bass voice rang from below: “Hi, honey, I’m hooome!”