And here I was, back in the house I’d grown up in. I pulled back the comforter, smiling when I smelled the homemade lavender laundry soap my mom made each summer, when the herb gardens in the backyard were thick with spicy scent.

She forgot to leave me a note on the door, but she made sure I had fresh sheets.

I slipped between them, turned off the light on my nightstand, and watched as the shadows became familiar. The glow from the old shed still shone through the back window, making the sequins dance in the blue ribbon I’d won in the pudding contest at the county fair. The dolls on the shelf above the desk were still lined up, their shapes changing a bit as the moonlight settled over them. Blue and silver, they waited to be pulled off the shelf again. I could hear the crickets, ending their first symphony of the evening, but knowing they’d only take a brief intermission before their till-dawn concert continued. I flipped and flopped in the twin bed, taking comfort and a bit of melancholy in the knowledge that nothing had changed.

The nights I spent in this room, fighting to fall asleep, fighting to relax and will myself to get a few hours in before the alarm went off—it felt exactly the same. And right on cue, that last train from Poughkeepsie heading down the Hudson sounded its lonely horn. On its way to Grand Central in the city, that sound marked the beginning of the loneliest part of the night. When I knew everyone else was asleep, and I couldn’t pretend anymore that I wasn’t the only person still awake.

I hated that sound.

I flopped one more time, feeling the edges of pure exhaustion begin to pull me under. I still couldn’t believe I was back here.

But only for the summer. And then I’d take Grace Sheridan up on her promise to introduce me to some better people to cook for.

And if I was lucky, I’d find some company in the meantime.

When I woke the next morning my mother was already gone, and I was immensely thankful not to be officially on the diner work schedule yet, since my brain remained on Pacific time. As I struggled to feel even remotely alert, the specter of high school Roxie emerged again—so I called in reinforcements. Literally.

My best friend Natalie and I had met years ago when we were both freshmen at ACI in Santa Barbara. Wild-eyed eighteen year olds, away from home for the first time, we bonded, and met our other friend Clara in Basic Baking and Pastry Technique class the first day of school. Natalie and Clara both left ACI after their freshmen year, not having the passion for food as I did, but we’d remained close even though we were spread across the country. Natalie returned to her hometown of Manhattan, while Clara headed back to Boston.

“Girl. What’s up?” Natalie answered on the second ring.

“Oh, the usual. Cooking. Sharpening my knives. Lounging in my childhood bedroom.”

“You got a gig cooking in New York or something?”

“I got a gig cooking in Bailey Falls,” I said, preparing myself for shrieking.

Natalie did not disappoint. Ten seconds later, the shriek was still ringing in my ears.

“Wait a minute, just wait a goddamned minute. You’re in New York? When? How? When? Why? When? Awesome!” Another shriek. “Okay, okay. Stop yelling and tell me what happened!”

“Pretty sure I’m not the one that’s yelling,” I reminded her, laughing.

“Fine, fine, I’m calming down. Tell me what’s going on,” she said in a singsongy voice. Natalie excited meant singsongy. Although come to think of it, Natalie anything meant singsongy.

I regaled her with stories of butter and texts, lemon pound cakes and Hollywood hunks. Amazing races and bailing out Mother. She sympathized with the client loss, but didn’t hide her excitement that I was closer now. At least for a little while.

“You have to come into the city as soon as possible! Or I could come see you; I never get a chance to get out of the city.”

“You choose never to get out of the city, Nat.” I laughed. A born-and-raised Manhattanite, she thought the country stopped at the West Side Highway and didn’t start again until you touched down at LAX. With an occasional trip to the “country,” meaning Bridgehampton.

“All the more reason for me to get off my island and come see you. Besides, after hearing you complain about your hometown all these years, the chance to actually see you in it? That’s worth a Metro North ticket.”

“Save the ticket. Actually, don’t save the ticket, send me one. I’m already dying for a chance to get back into actual civilization. If I’m wearing a big floppy hat and waxing poetic about aromatherapy by the time you see me, go ahead and tie me to the tracks.”

“Big floppy hats are totally back in, Rox,” she replied promptly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re hipper than you know.”

I harrumphed in response.

“And it can’t be that bad there, right? I mean, you’re at least in the same time zone now. Isn’t there anything—or anyone—that seems promising? By the way, how long have you been there?”

“I’m just now passing the twenty-four-hour mark,” I told her. “And very few of those hours have been spent sleeping, so there could be hallucination involved, but I did have an interesting encounter in the back of the diner . . .” I trailed off, thinking of slippery nuts.

“And?” she demanded.

So I filled her in about Leo and his route, perhaps leaving out a few of the more embarrassing potato-water-related details.

“Ooooh, a summer boyfriend seems promising!” she crowed, launching into a rendition of “Summer Lovin’ ” from Grease.