Page 102 of Phoenix

“Uh, ma’am you’ve had two, and we limit our passengers beyond that for safety reasons, plus we are landing in ten minutes.” She has a thick, Southern accent and all it does is remind me of Georgia.

I sigh heavily. “I understand. Thank you.”

She leaves me to go ready the plane for landing and I sink down into my seat, pulling the hood of my jacket over my head, leaning against the window.

I did what was best for my heart.

Isn’t selfcare the best care?

No, the love of another is the best care. He loves you...and you left him.

Goddamnit. I really want that vodka.

The plane begins its descent and that tingling feeling rises in my belly. I look out the window as the runway gets closer and closer until our wheels screech with contact and the plane rolls to a stop.

I’m home.

But in my heart, I know this isn’t home. This hasn’t felt like home since the day I set foot in Georgia for the first time.

The South has been calling me.

I know in my soul I belong there. I feel free. Happy.

We are cleared to exit the plane and I do so with my hood still firmly over my head. Before long, I’m riding the escalator down to baggage claim when I hear a voice I know all too well.

“You look like shit.”

I turn to see my brother standing there in all his glory.

“Thanks,” I say; then I go into his arms for the biggest bear hug. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“When I got your text that you were coming back, I tracked your flight. Figured you’d prefer a ride home rather than a cab or a rideshare.”

“You would be correct.”

“How many bags do you have?” he asks, turning toward the baggage carousel.

“Just one,” I say, slinging my purse up onto my shoulder.

“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” He laughs.

We collect my bag then head out to his car, making the drive to my apartment mostly in silence. I just watch the city pass by, with my head pressed against the window, until the car rolls to a stop in the parking lot.

“Nora? What happened?” my brother asks.

“Nothing. I just needed to come home for work,” I reply, sitting up to gather my things.

“You don’t look like someone kicked your dog because you have to come home early for work. Now stop lying to me and fess up.”

“There isn’t anything to fess up to, Marco.”

“Look, here’s the deal. You and I are going to have a conversation whether you like it or not, so make this easy on both of us. You go upstairs, shower, do whatever you need to do. I’ll go to the store, get all the things for chocolate chip French toast, and we’ll eat while you tell me whose ass I need to kick. Got it?”

My mouth waters at the thought of chocolate chip French toast. It was always our weekend breakfast when my parents were alive, and when Marco finally got custody of me, he started making it too.

“Fine. You had me at French toast.”

The smell of maple syrup and sugary sweet chocolate greets me when I finally emerge from my shower. I step into my small, modern kitchen to find Marco flipping a piece of French toast in the pan.

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