So, where does a girl go when the ghosts of her past rear their heads again? I’ve asked myself this hundreds of times over the last few years. There’s only one real answer for it but it’s the worst four-letter word of them all.

Home.

I sit in my car, staring out the window at the house I grew up in, trying to gather the courage to make a choice. Stay or leave. Laugh or cry. Live or die.

I suppose I should be thankful. Some of us don’t get that choice.

I push the door open slowly to keep the rusty squeak from echoing too loudly. The last thing I want is for Mrs. Clark to poke her little head out of the window and sneer at me, if she hasn’t done so already, of course.

The house looks as dark and stale as always but the flicker of bluish light in the living room gives him away. I walk up the porch steps and pause with my hand rolled into a delicate fist. I remind myself again. It was all my idea to come back.

I knock twice and twist my head around to take a cursory glance across the street again. Still no peeping old ladies.

The door opens and my father stands there in jeans and a red flannel shirt. His way of dressing up for Valentine’s, I guess.

“Hey, Dad,” I say.

“Jovie.”

“Can I… I need to ask you something.”

He shifts on his feet. “All right.”

I swallow. “What did I do?” I ask, my hands shaking. “What… what could I have done differently to make you care about me?”

His stone-cold expression barely moves.

“Why didn’t you ever care?”

I choke on a sob as my legs twitch and my heart aches but I wait for an answer. It doesn’t matter if he’s even truthful about it. I just want one word, one solitary reason to cling to as some kind of closure.

Hank’s eyes fall to my ankles and he nods. He steps back and walks into the house, leaving the door wide open for me.

I slink forward, broken and defeated, and close it behind me to lock out the world. I don’t want to linger in this house. It’s not what I came here for. I stay by the front door with my hands in my jean pockets and this is where I’ll stay until he gives me a damn answer.

Hank returns from the kitchen with a can of beer in each hand. He pauses and extends one to me.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“Take it,” he says. “You’ll need it.”

I let out a scoff and snatch it from his hand but I keep it held down at my side. He wanders over to his chair and flicks his can open as he sits down. Foam rises from the opening but he drinks it down before it can spill over.

“Well?” I ask, growing impatient.

He takes his time, picking up the television remote and tapping the volume down to a quiet hum. Then, he bends over and reaches into the small drawer in the bottom of his end table. When I was a kid, this thing was usually stuffed full of cigarettes and chewing tobacco.

I pause as he pulls out a stack of postcards about an inch tall, wrapped together with an old rubber band. The edges are worn and slightly crinkled and not from your standard post office abuse either.

“I was so proud of you, Jovie,” he says.

I struggle to take in a breath. “What?” I ask.

“I used to look forward to getting the mail every day, just in case you sent me another one of these.” He taps the stack against his leg. “It meant that you weren’t here. You were out there… seeing things I never saw, doing things I never did. Living the life I never had. ‘Where are you going next, Jovie?’ I’d ask myself and I’d hope to God that the answer wasn’t Clover, Kansas.”

“Why not?” I ask.

He takes another sip from his can. “Because I didn’t want you to slip into a mold and get stuck here like I did or how,” he pauses, “or how she did. Joanne hated it here but she stayed because of me and because we had you. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, so… I did the only thing I knew how to do and I pushed you away. I didn’t want you to get too attached to this place but then you started dating that damn kid.”

My lips twitch. “Will?”

He nods. “You fell so hard for him. Before that, you used to talk about traveling the world and getting out of this place after graduation but you stuck around because of him. Then, things happened the way they did and you took off. For that, I was proud of you.” He looks up at me. “Does that answer your question?”

A tear escapes down my cheek but I wipe it away before it reaches my jawline. I feel the ice cold drink in my other hand and I walk over to the couch to plop down.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say as I pull the tab.

Hank tosses me the stack of postcards. They land just off my lap, still bound tightly together as they bounce onto the cushion beside me. I pick them up and turn them over in my palm to read the back of the last one I sent him. Greetings from Denver.

“Where are you going next, Jovie?” he asks me.

I close my eyes, willing my head into a blank slate. I could repeat history all over again, just like they all expect me to. It’s a tempting thought. There’s still so much of the world I haven’t seen yet but there’s no guarantee I’d ever find somewhere else to call home, as much as I’d hate to admit it. I don’t imagine mountains or city skylines or oceans along that slate. I imagine Will’s face instead.

“I love him,” I finally say.

“And he loves you.” He nods. “But is that enough?”

I stare at the stack in my hand for several moments before exhaling hard. “Well, you were right,” I say, raising my beer. “I did need this.”

He chuckles. “If there’s one thing I’m well-educated in, it’s when to get shit-faced.”

I laugh. “It’s a far more useful skill than anything I’ve got.”

His head tilts. “I wouldn’t say that.”

I smile, ready to blow off the sentiment, but something about it clings to the back of my head like a word you need but can’t quite remember.

I look at my father again and he nods.