Chapter 2
The red-eye flight to Portland hummed around me, most passengers dozing as we cut through the night sky. I sat rigid in my window seat, clutching the worn leather portfolio of music scores to my chest like a shield. The cabin lights dimmed, casting everyone in shadow—fitting for how I felt, half-invisible after years of trying to be what Ryan wanted.
'If it weren't for repaying a debt of gratitude, I would never marry her.'
His words replayed in my mind, each syllable a knife twisting deeper. Ten years. Ten years of silencing my own dreams, of arranging my life around his, of believing that if I just loved him enough, he would eventually love me back.
I unzipped the portfolio with trembling fingers. Sheet music I hadn't touched in years—Chopin, Debussy, and my own compositions, abandoned when Ryan mentioned once, casually, that my 'little hobby' took too much time away from attending his business functions.
'Anyone can wear it appropriately, except Madison.'
My fingertips rubbed against each other, playing phantom notes on keys that weren't there. The woman across the aisle glanced at me curiously, and I realized I was crying, silent tears tracking down my cheeks.
'Pull yourself together, Madison,' I whispered to myself, wiping my face with the back of my hand. This wasn't just heartbreak—it was liberation. For the first time in a decade, I was making a choice for myself.
The plane landed with a jolt that matched the lurch in my stomach. Dawn was breaking over Portland, painting the sky in watercolors of pink and gold. I hadn't told anyone I was coming. There was no one left to tell—my parents were long gone, and I'd let most of my old friendships wither while trying to fit into Ryan's world.
The taxi wound through familiar streets that somehow looked both exactly the same and completely different. When we pulled up to my childhood home, I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk, suddenly paralyzed.
The modest two-story Victorian had once been pristine, my mother's pride and joy with its cheerful yellow paint and white trim. Now it looked tired—paint peeling, garden overgrown, the wooden railing on the front porch visibly rotted on one side. I'd kept the house after my parents died, unable to part with it despite Ryan's insistence that it was 'impractical' to maintain a property I never visited.
I dragged my suitcase up the walkway, each step stirring dust and memories. The key stuck in the lock, protesting after years of disuse. When the door finally swung open, the musty scent of abandonment hit me first, then the sight of what had once been my sanctuary.
Sheet music lay scattered across the floor near the baby grand piano in the living room, yellowed and curling at the edges—the last pieces I'd been working on before leaving for New York. A thin layer of dust coated everything, transforming the home into a strange museum of my former life.
I dropped my suitcase and sank down onto the creaking front steps, overwhelmed. Grief washed over me—not just for Ryan and the decade I'd wasted, but for my parents, for my music, for the Madison who used to play until her fingers ached with the pure joy of it.
'I'm going to find her again,' I promised the empty house, my voice breaking. 'I'm going to remember who I was before him.'
The sound of footsteps on gravel made me look up, hastily wiping my tears. A tall figure approached, toolbox in hand, concern etched across features that seemed vaguely familiar yet transformed.
'Madison?' The man's voice was deep and warm. 'I thought that might be you. Mom said she saw a taxi pull up.'
I stared, recognition dawning slowly. 'Jake? Jake Harrison?'
The shy, lanky boy from next door had grown into a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and confident posture. He gestured to the broken porch railing.
'I noticed that was about to give way last month. Thought I'd come fix it before someone got hurt.' His eyes met mine, searching. 'Are you okay?'
Something in his genuine concern—so different from the calculated social niceties I'd grown accustomed to in New York—broke through my carefully constructed walls. For the first time since leaving the engagement party, I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with shame or anger.
'No,' I answered honestly. 'But I think I might be, eventually.'
Chapter 3
As Jake led me next door to his mother's house, I felt like a shipwreck survivor being guided to shore. My legs moved automatically while my mind remained adrift in the wreckage of my former life.
"Mom's been cooking all morning," Jake said, his voice a gentle anchor in my storm. "And fair warning—she's probably going to try to feed you until you burst."
The moment we stepped through the door, the rich aroma of clam chowder enveloped me. It was so different from the sterile, professionally catered scents of Ryan's penthouse that tears sprang to my eyes again.
"Madison Cole!" Mrs. Harrison appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a faded floral apron. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her face—lined now but still bright with warmth—broke into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Oh, sweetheart, come here."
Before I could respond, I was wrapped in a hug that smelled of vanilla and home-baked bread. Something cracked inside me—the brittle shell I'd built around myself over the past decade—and I found myself clinging to her like a child.
"There now," she soothed, patting my back. "Whatever it is, it'll look better after some food."
She ushered me into her kitchen—a cozy space with yellow curtains and mismatched chairs that couldn't have been more different from the sleek, untouched kitchen in Ryan's penthouse. She gestured for me to sit at the worn wooden table while Jake quietly took a seat across from me.
"Here we are," Mrs. Harrison announced, placing steaming bowls of clam chowder before us. The bowls were slightly chipped around the edges, imperfect in the most comforting way. "My mother's recipe. Fixes everything from colds to broken hearts."
I took a spoonful, and the rich, creamy flavor transported me instantly to childhood summers. Mrs. Harrison didn't press me for explanations. Instead, she filled the silence with stories—funny anecdotes about Jake's childhood mishaps, neighborhood gossip, and memories of my parents that made me both laugh and cry.
"Remember when you and Jake tried to build that treehouse?" she chuckled, refilling my bowl without asking. "Your father nearly had a heart attack when he saw you balanced on that top branch."
"I was the architect," Jake added with a grin. "Madison was the fearless construction crew."
"I'd forgotten about that," I admitted, surprised by the memory. It had been buried beneath years of galas and business dinners and Ryan's disapproving glances whenever I spoke too loudly or laughed too freely.
After lunch, Jake suggested we check on my house's piano. "Mom mentioned it might need tuning after sitting unused for so long."
The sunlight streamed through the dusty windows of my childhood home's parlor as Jake and I approached the baby grand piano. It stood like a silent sentinel, its once-gleaming surface now dulled with neglect. My heart ached at the sight—this instrument had been my voice, my refuge, my joy.
"Let's see what we're working with," Jake said, opening the fallboard with careful hands.
We spent the next hour wrestling the old piano back to life. Jake had brought a basic tuning kit, and I watched his strong, capable hands work with surprising delicacy on the instrument's inner mechanisms. This was a different Jake than I remembered—more confident, more present, yet still with that underlying gentleness I'd always associated with him.
"Try it now," he suggested, stepping back.
I hesitated, then placed my fingers on the ivory keys. The first note I pressed rang out hollow and slightly flat, a wounded sound that matched the emptiness inside me. Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not sure if I was apologizing to Jake or to the piano itself for abandoning it for so long.
"Don't be," Jake said softly. "It just needs time and care. Like most things worth saving."
That evening, back at the Harrisons', Mrs. Harrison bustled around her living room, suddenly flustered. "Now where did I put those reading glasses? Jake, be a dear and check upstairs for me?"
As Jake disappeared upstairs, I caught the faintest hint of a smile on Mrs. Harrison's face before she excused herself to the kitchen. Moments later, Jake returned with a bowl of popcorn instead of glasses.
"Couldn't find them," he said with a shrug that suggested this was a regular occurrence. "Thought we might watch something instead?"
We settled on the worn sofa, the bowl between us. The familiar comfort of this house, so different from the cold perfection I'd grown accustomed to, loosened something in my chest.
"I used to play piano for hours," I said quietly, surprising myself with the admission. "I even composed my own pieces."
"I remember," Jake replied, his eyes warm in the soft lamplight. "I used to open my window just to hear you play."
I stared at him, wondering what else I had forgotten—and what else he had remembered—during the years I'd been trying to become someone I was never meant to be.
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