Page 1 of Collide
Chapter 1
Homecoming
Every song begins with a note, every journey with a step, and mine? Mine begins with two flights, three gate changes, and a deathbed promise that landed me here, in the security line at JFK Airport, surrounded by the hum of chaos. I stretch my legs, finally relieved to be on my feet. Between a child kicking my seat for hours on end, to the drunk man snoring next to me, the trip was brutal.
I could have been in first class. But I couldn’t accept that.
Not fromhim.
I wait for my turn, scrunching my nose at the smell of tired, unwashed bodies mingled with stale airplane air. I fidget, patience hanging by a thread. With barely any sleep and already in a foul mood, all I want is a hot shower, something to eat, and a nap.
Attendants in navy uniforms wear expressions of thinly veiled impatience, their eyes scanning for the next traveler to process. The energy in the room is one of exhaustion and anticipation, the pressing need to escape the airport’s fluorescent-lit purgatory. It isn’t the grand welcome one might hope for after a long absence, but it’s better than being trapped in the sky. At least now, I can breathe.
The last time I was here was Christmas, five years ago. A short, unpleasant visit that ended in a huge fight and an intense flight.I shudder at the thought.
“Next,” calls the security officer.
Stepping forward, I hand her my passport. I can almost taste freedom. Without much fuss, she scans it, stamps it, and hands it back with a polite smile. “Welcome home, ma’am.”
Home.
It seems like such a foreign word for this place. Sure, I was born here, but I grew up half a world away, in Australia, after my mother packed us up and lefthimbehind.
Sydney to New York. Twenty grueling hours in the air, and now I’m here—like it or not. I don’t know if this place will ever feel like mine. But I made a promise.
A freshly signed contract to pursue my dreams again, and make up for lost time with my sister. Mend things withhim. And maybe—just maybe—learn how to live life without my mother.
There’s no going back. Not yet anyway.
I lug twenty-two years’ worth of baggage—emotional and otherwise—in two roller bags, a backpack, a duffle, and my guitar, probably looking more like a pack mule than a woman. Weaving through the crush of bodies, I scan the crowd for a familiar face. At my height, seeing over the sea of strangers isn’t exactly easy.
Where is she?
The terminal buzzes with reunions. Strangers melt into each other’s arms, flowers exchange hands, voices lift in joy and relief. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but before I can fish it out, a voice—sharp and unmistakable—cuts through the din.
“Elena!”
I turn in time to see Philippa waving as she walks toward me.
Relief washes over me.
“Elena,” she calls out again, gliding effortlessly through the crowd. She’s wearing white capri pants, mint wedges matching her flowing blouse, and a designer handbag dangling from her wrist, perfectly capping off the whole polished look. Her hazel eyes take me in. Chestnut curls fall in neat waves, framing a face so much like our mother’s, it makes my chest ache.
Philippa is the spitting image of Mom, who was the former Miss Universe, the Filipino beauty queen who once captivated the world. Though, as Mom used to say, Philippa was the mestiza version of her. Beautiful. Poised. Always composed. Sometimes she makes me feel like a totalboganin comparison. She moves with the kind of grace that comes from growing up certain of who she was and is, while I’ve always felt like I was winging it, making it up as I went.
She stands a little taller than me. I’m five-foot-two on a good day—though Mom used to joke that what I lacked in height, I made up for in attitude. I’ve got thick, dark, wavy hair falling halfway down my back that refuses to cooperate, no matter how many products I throw at it. My skin is pale and only tans if I’m lucky. And my eyes? They’re unusually blue, which is often the first thing people comment on. It’s frustrating. They’re a constant reminder ofhim.
I guess I’m the perfect mix of my parents—not quite Caucasian, not quite Filipino. People say I’m striking. Maybe. But I think I look like me—someone still trying to figure life out, messy bun and all.
“Hey.” I lift my hand in a quick wave, dropping my bags at my feet.
The crowd seems to part for her, as if she commands the surrounding space. I envy the way she carries herself with all the confidence in the world. It seems so easy for her.
Before that bitter thought can take hold, she wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace, nearly knocking me off my feet.The scent of lilacs floods my senses, a reminder of spring, of home, of her—our mother.
It’s been two years since I last saw Philippa, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the hug.
Only for a moment.
