Posters of my favorite books that had been adapted into movies were tacked to the wall. An old teddy bear sat on the window seat, nestled between blue and pink throw pillows, their colors still vibrant as the day my mom had placed them there. Bookshelves lined the entirety of one wall, breaking only in two sections to allow entry to the closet and the attached bathroom.

Hundreds of books were stacked into those shelves, meticulously organized by genre and then by author’s last name. Mom had started my love of reading when I was a teen, and I devoured historical romances, and those old, musty-smelling paperbacks were stacked one on top of the other, three rows deep. An entire bookcase was dedicated to young adult and then another held all the adult romances I’d collected, or hoarded, ranging from sweet to downright blush-inducing steaminess. The final, the fourth bookcase, was half-full. It contained a few thrillers and old textbooks I didn’t sell back, but also didn’t have room in my dorm at Shepherd to store.

Being in this bedroom brought back a lot of good memories. Me curled up on the window seat reading. Me lying on my side in the double bed late at night with only the small lamp casting just enough light to read. Me standing at the other window, the one that overlooked the driveway, watching Brock drive away after he was over for one of the many family dinners.

Being in this room also made me feel like I was still that little girl that was never going to grow up and leave, but I wasn’t her anymore. I’d done just that.

I walked over to the dresser, where I placed the Saint Sebastian medallion I’d found in a hippie store in Shepherdstown. It was about the size of a quarter, dangling from an old sterling silver necklace. I’d once read that he was the patron saint of athletes, so whenever I came across one, I always picked it up for Brock. Carefully gathering it up, I placed it in the little zipper pocket inside my purse.

Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back at me. I’d left my hair down, spent about an hour with the curling iron so the thick hair fell in waves. I’d managed to coax my bangs to the side and they were held in place with about a can of hair spray.

I was actually wearing eyeliner, which had taken about five tries to get right, and I still wasn’t sure I’d applied it to my upper lid correctly after watching several thirteen-year-olds giving tutorials on YouTube.

Nothing makes you feel inept more than seeing a tween apply makeup better than you.