I grab Dido’s favorite toy, leash, food, bowl, and dog bed.

I don’t see Grayson again on my way out to the garage, where I unlock my big, stupid, ostentatious Land Rover and get in, tossing my bags and Dido’s in the back and letting Dido jump in after them onto her bed. I go back for the suitcases I’d packed for Avalon and never reopened, then decide to leave them. I can’t look at them. I don’t care about anything inside.

I’m leaving California with less and more than I came with.

I start the car, open the garage, and peel out, knowing that it’s the last time I’ll ever be here.

I don’t know where I’m going when I start driving, but by the time I hit the 10, I do. At the next traffic slowdown, I type in my parents’ address and settle in for the forty-hour drive.

I put on the Revolver album, roll the windows down, and drive away from the sunset.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Florida is as hot and humid as an Equinox steam room.

In the mornings, I lie by the pool with a paper towel wrapped around a bagel with cream cheese, happily eating carbs and drinking sugary bright orange juice my mom bought at Publix. In the evenings, I drink inexpensive Trader Joe’s wine—out of a juice glass—and sit on the back porch with my parents while my dad grills burgers to a Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album. They have the neighbors over one night, and we play a lively game of Trivial Pursuit. No one cares whether I’m famous or not, they still tease me for forgetting the lyrics to the national anthem.

They are not the kind of parents who kept my room the same, like some strange shrine to the past. Years ago, my mom asked me for permission to put some things of mine in storage, then eventually told me she painted the room; then one day, it became what it is now. A nice, simple, comfy guest room with L.L.Bean percale sheets. A room that doesn’t resemble the one I grew up in.

I can’t believe it took me so long to go home again.

It’s not until Friday afternoon that my mom finds me by the pool and asks if we can talk, and I can see it’s something important.

I sit up, preparing myself for bad news; if she tells me she has cancer or something, I’m going to drive the Land Rover into the swamps of Alligator Alley.

Although, it’s a Land Rover, so it would probably be fine.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Well, honey, since we didn’t know you were coming, I made plans for this weekend. I can cancel them if you want, but—”

“Oh, no, Ma, do whatever. I’m fine.”