I was tempted to rattle off all the things I do all day that I genuinely enjoy: cooking, coaching, trying new workouts with my ClassPass. But that wasn’t what he meant.

“Is this about money?” I demanded. “Do you want me to pay more in rent? Because I can make it work if you want me to.”

“It’s not about the money.” He sighed. “It’s just…”

He trailed off and looked critically at my bedhead, my shrunken sleep shirt printed with the name of a gymnastics meet I competed in more than a decade ago, and the overhead kitchen cabinets I’d flung open without bothering to close.

“It’s just I expected a different kind of life with you, that’s all,” he said quietly.

And then he turned the TV back on.

There were more fights like that in the months that followed. Sometimes, I’d be honest enough to admit that long ago, ambition was all I’d had. And when the one thing I had built my world around collapsed, I didn’t know where else to turn—I didn’t know how to turn. Maybe I never fully recovered from the depression that hit like a truck seven years ago. I never found a reason to.

The plane enters a rough patch of air and gives a sickening jolt. As the turbulence jostles us, a clear ding rings out through the cabin, and the pilot makes an announcement over the PA system. “At this time, we ask that you return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Thank you.” The neon seat belt sign flashes on; there’s an uneasy groan from some of the passengers. While my neighbor continues to doze, the man across the aisle from me crosses himself and downs the remainder of the Johnnie Walker he’s been nursing. In front of him, an infant starts to wail in her mother’s lap.

The turbulence up here doesn’t bother me much. I’m more afraid of whatever lies ahead, once the flight lands back at home.

Chapter 2

• CHAPTER 2 •

Mom and Dad meet me at the arrivals gate at Logan airport with faces scrunched in concern.

“That’s all you brought?” Dad asks, taking the two bags from me.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says, pulling me in for a hug. She kisses my hair. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

I had returned home plenty of times since moving to LA, but this time, it has a sense of finality. I’m not here for a quick Thanksgiving visit—when Mom hits the clicker and rolls her Honda into the cold, musty garage, I’m returning for good. I take a suitcase in each hand and trace my old, familiar steps through the house.