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Who Says You Can’t Go Home?

T he living room is nearly done.

I’ve been slowly donating the things that I won’t need. My forced career change has made some of my personal effects useless, and some things I left in storage necessary. I’ll need everything I left tucked away to make my new life work.

Wiping my brow, I stop to chug the last bit of my energy drink. In most of the places I lived around the continent, I drank coffee in various forms, like it was the blood in my veins. Once I crossed the pond, the quality of my favorite ‘go-juice’ dropped immensely, so I switched to the much more American energy drinks. The sweet taste makes me sigh. It’s not coffee, but it does the job.

My arms burn as I go back to stacking boxes in numerical order. I definitely worked my ass off today. I’ll load up the last of the boxes tomorrow, and all I have left to put together are the items I will have with me in the truck. I could have taken a plane and hired movers, but I decided that rather than deal with lines and TSA checks, I would use the drive to prepare myself for small town life.

The smaller cities I lived in while I worked in Europe have a similar vibe to them, but American small towns are simply different. The customs, the people, and the way the community interacts are unique in every region. Despite having lived in Whistler’s Hollow most of my life, adjusting to their particular brand of friendliness and venom will be jarring. I didn’t have a terrible time in school, but I also didn’t have an easy one. My parents weren’t part of the old money, ruling elite, and those kids made certain that us commoners knew our place.

As an adult, I’m far better equipped to put a snippy socialite in her place than I was as a teen. It helps that I no longer have to worry about causing problems for my parents at work. However, since I’m running a small business and working part time at the school, I’ll have to curb my instincts to squash queen bees. They knew me for my no-nonsense attitude in my former positions, but that won’t work in the Hollow. The people there subscribe to the ‘more flies with honey’ adage, and I’ll have to assert myself without ruining my ability to make a living.

Sighing, I rub my temples. I remember what the parents of my classmates were like. The few years I spent teaching in inner cities to pay off my degree was nothing like it will be at home. I left teaching because the lack of support burned me out, both from parents and the administration. Pursuing a career overseas provided me with the time I needed to finish my master’s and make a comfortable living in beautiful cities filled with culture and history.

In the Hollow, lack of parent involvement won’t be an issue. Too much involvement will be the issue. The administration will always side with the parents to keep their donors happy, so that problem will creep up as well. That’s why I’m only working part-time—limiting my exposure. The rest of the time, I will run my gallery, make art, and give lessons to students of various ages.

Hopefully, doing that will keep the townsfolk from realizing my true goal. I’m not coming home out of nostalgia or to reconcile the estate. I’m moving home to find out what the hell caused me to fail my background check and fix it. If I learn anything more about my parents’ death, that will simply be a bonus.

Whistler’s Hollow won’t know what hit them when I get done with them; that, I can guarantee.