Home to You by Taylor Sullivan Read Free Book Online Page B

piece of my already shattered heart.  
    As I settled into my familiar stride, the sound of rustling leaves filled my ears. The streets were lined with enormous mulberry trees that must have been forty years old, and American flags flew in just about every yard. It reminded me of the neighborhood we grew up in, and I wondered if Jake made that same connection.  
    The sweet scent of star jasmine drifted in the breeze, and even though I didn’t see any around, I would know that smell anywhere. It made me think of childhood, of home, of that hot August morning when I was six. Dad had brought the plants home, and I begged him to let me help dig the holes. Though thinking back on it, I’m pretty sure I did a lot more twirling than digging. My dad never seemed to mind, though. I don’t think he was bothered by anything I ever did. The morning he passed, I sat out on the front steps in tears, the jasmine vining up the side of the house in bloom. I felt as though he were still there. Wrapped around me with memories of days playing in the front yard, spinning around in circles—but I was lost.  
    It was Jake who found me again. Late one night, a few days after Dad’s passing, he walked into my room, pulled me into his arms, and hugged me so hard I felt whole again for the first time in days. In the silence of my pink bedroom he gripped me, his touch almost painful, but felt so good. It was that real human contact that told me life still had to be lived. That I could go on because even though I lost my dad, I still had people who loved me.  
    We didn’t talk that night. No words could’ve been as meaningful as his touch. He held me for hours, and I let all the tears I kept bottled up fall to his shoulders. I couldn’t let my mom and brother see them. They had their own grief, and I didn’t want to worry them with mine. But Jake was strong; he could take my hurt, and I let it all pour out of me like a roaring river in spring. I didn’t have to tell him how much I missed my dad, or about feeling consumed by guilt for being thankful it was over. I didn’t tell him seeing my dad so sick at the end of his life had been too much for me to take, and I was almost happy when he finally found his peace. I didn’t have to, because he already knew. It was in that moment, held in his capable arms, that I began to breathe again. That I began to feel like myself. And it was that night I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life held in his capable arms.
    Rounding the next corner, I saw a large field of grass with a play area on the other side. The park was filled with families enjoying what was left of the summer sun, and I recalled what Grace said about her and Jake getting married. Were things really that serious? Would Jake marry her? Have children? Surely not. Jake had always been so vocal about never wanting kids. Never wanting the family life he’d hated so much.  
    I pushed the thought of Grace from my mind and began running laps around the park. As I picked up the pace, my mind began to calm. Perspiration covered my skin like dew, and the summer breeze cooled me. The sun had begun to set on the horizon, and I relished in the soft rays as they kissed my face. A blue jay fluttered across my path, and for the first time all week, my fingers itched for my camera.  
    My love for photography started when I was ten years old, when I picked up my dad’s camera for the first time. I had no idea what I was doing, but I felt important with it in my hands and loved to watch life happen through glass. Somehow limiting my view to that tiny window helped me see things a little differently, a little better. I often found hidden details that everyone else missed. To this day, I still heard my dad’s voice every time I pushed the shutter.
    Slow down... Don’t rush... See the shot... Breathe.  
    When my legs began to tire, I turned back down the street to Jake’s house. Each pound of my feet on the pavement rejuvenated me, and I felt