Page 113 of Things We Fake
“Not much has changed since you were here last,” Paul commented, nodding toward a familiar roadside farmstand as we passed.
Michelle smiled. “It’s charming.”
Paul shook his head. “I swear old man Jacobs has grown roots that tie him to that chair. He sits here every single day, rain or sunshine, selling his apples—or trying to. Everyone buys from the supermarket these days.”
Dad snorted. “That garbage they sell in the supermarket is not fruit. That’s plastic.”
“Here we go, the endless talk about greedy capitalism,” Paul muttered under his breath, making Michelle elbow him.
I smiled faintly, but my stomach was a tangled mess of knots. I watched the scenery roll by, all too familiar and yet strangely foreign. The last time I’d been here, I’d done everything in my power to get away as soon as possible. I was that desperate to escape the life my mother had planned for me—the future I had almost locked myself into with Neil.
Neil.
Just his name in my head made my jaw tighten. I hadn’t even stepped foot on Warwick soil yet, and already, I could feel his presence lurking on the edges of my mind.
“So.” Paul turned slightly to look at me. “Have you talked to Cam yet?”
My stomach clenched. “No, not yet.”
A heavy silence filled the car.
Michelle gave me a knowing look. “Maybe you should.”
“I will,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.
The truth was that I had no idea what to say to him.
“He’s a good man,” Dad said simply.
I turned, startled. My father rarely weighed in on my love life—or lack thereof. But now he was watching me in the rearview mirror, his dark Morelli eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name.
“I know,” I whispered.
And I did. But knowing it and fixing this situation were two very different things.
The road curved, and suddenly, we were home. The Morelli vineyard sprawled out before us, rows upon rows of grapevines stretching toward the horizon, still bare from the winter but buzzing with promise. The old farmhouse stood proud against the backdrop of rolling hills, its white walls glowing in the afternoon sun. The familiar scent of oak barrels and rich soil filled my lungs as we pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
I stared at the house—the place that had raised me, the place I had run from, the place I was now returning to not as a girl, but as a woman who finally knew what she wanted.
My mother exhaled, her voice soft. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
I gave her a smile that almost reached my eyes and climbed out of the car.
My parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Claven, was watering her plants. She spotted us and waved, putting her entire bulky body behind the broad gesture.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Warwick’s newsletter just saw me. In five minutes, everyone will know I’m here.”
“So what?” My mom closed the car door and ushered me toward the front entrance of the house.
The scent welcomed me first—that distinct, irreplaceable smell of home that was a mix of warmth, a hint of lavender from the linen spray my mother used, the lingering aroma of oakwood from the antique furniture, a faint trace of wine-soaked barrels from my father’s shoes, and the crisp air of Warwick.
The house itself hadn’t changed much, though the walls had been repainted a soft beige. My father’s collection of framed vineyard photographs still dominated the hallway, and the Morelli family crest was still hanging above the entrance to the kitchen—an old, carved wooden piece he had brought from Tuscany when he first moved to America, three and a half decades ago.
My fingers trailed over the familiar polished banister. The staircase curved upward to the second floor, where childhood memories lay thick in the air, waiting for me to stir them back to life.
“Go upstairs and wash up,” my mother said, brushing nonexistent dust from her pristine cream sweater. “We’ll eat in about two hours.”
I grabbed my overnight bag and climbed the stairs, marveling at how every step groaned just the way I remembered. The familiar creak of my bedroom doorwas a whisper from my past as I pushed it open, stepping into the space I had once called my own.
