“It’s not like I’m in a strange place with strangers, Noah. And Logan…I’m over it.”

“You just broke up.”

“Exactly. We weren’t…it wasn’t really a hard decision,” I admit. It sounds callous, but it also happens to be the truth. I don’t know what it feels like to be in love. But I’m pretty sure I know what it feels like not to be.

Noah reads the sincerity on my face. Surprise mixes with relief. “Okay.”

I give him a spontaneous hug. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

He smiles with a mixture of pride and affection that makes me feel ten feet tall. “Always.”

“How’s work?” I ask, eager to shift the attention off me.

That question leads to ten minutes of feigned interest in the mall project Noah is working on developing. I love my brother a lot. Yet I have absolutely no interest in blueprints or zoning laws or steel shortages. I nod along until our mom herds us toward the burgers that have just come off the grill.

I spend the next hour catching up with family friends and neighbors I haven’t seen in months, some in years. My trips back home over the last seven years were sporadic. It wasn’t a short journey—especially for someone who hates flying—and there’s a very good reason most people take eight years to graduate from college and medical school. Squeezing that into seven years was a challenging feat that required no shortage of sacrifices. I came home as often as I reasonably could, but those visits were mostly limited to catching up with close friends and family.

Noah reappears by my side as Mrs. Hanson, who lives at the end of the street, updates me on the horrific—according to her, at least—construction surrounding the condos going in along Hastings Cove.

“Time to get the cakes ready,” he tells me.

I smile at Mrs. Hanson. “Daughter duty calls.”

She waves me away with a smile.

“Didn’t you say your new firm designed the Hastings Cove condos?” I whisper as we head for the deck stairs.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I just wouldn’t mention that to Mrs. Hanson, is all.”

Noah chuckles under his breath. Our elderly neighbor is known for her long-winded opinions.

My parents’ kitchen hasn’t changed at since childhood. White cabinets line the walls, offsetting the cheery yellow walls that took three tries to paint. My mom decided the first color attempt was too “egg yolk,” and the second looked like “white paint that went bad.” The large wooden table where I used to eat breakfast and finish school assignments sits in the center of the room.