CHAPTER 1 - TURBULENCE
Bella's POV
The banking app mocked me with its cruel honesty. Two hundred and forty seven dollars and forty three cents. That was it. That was all I had left of three years in Boston, of my grandmother's sapphire engagement ring, of everything I thought I'd become.
My stomach lurched. Not from the plane's descent into San Francisco. No. From the weight of failure pressing down on my chest like someone had parked a truck there.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our final descent..."
I turned off my phone. Couldn't look at those numbers anymore. Outside the window, the Bay sparkled like it was celebrating. Like it was happy to see me crawling home with my tail between my legs.
Twenty six years old and sleeping in my childhood bed again. God.
The woman next to me smiled. "Going home?"
"Something like that." My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
She kept talking about her grandchildren, showing me photos I pretended to care about while my mind screamed. Marcus would have called me dramatic. Marcus would have said I was overreacting. Marcus would have... well, Marcus wasn't my problem anymore.
The plane touched down and my heart sank lower. Through the crowd at baggage claim, I spotted him. Roberto Martinez, restaurant owner extraordinaire, my father, standing there in his lucky yellow shirt that Mom bought him fifteen years ago. The cologne hit me before his hug did.
"Mija!" He squeezed me tight, and I smelled Old Spice mixed with kitchen spices. "You look beautiful! Maybe a little thin, but beautiful!"
"Hi, Papa."
He grabbed my suitcase before I could protest. Just the one suitcase. Three years packed into one suitcase because I'd sold everything else.
"The traffic, you wouldn't believe," he started chattering as we walked. "But I told Miguel to handle lunch service. My baby comes home, that's more important than any customer."
He didn't ask about Marcus. Didn't ask why I was back. Just filled the air with words about the restaurant, about Mrs. Chen's new grandson, about anything except the elephant stomping around between us.
In his truck, I noticed things. New locks on the glove compartment. Papers tucked hastily under his seat when I got in. His phone rang and he answered in rapid Spanish, glancing at me before switching to English.
"No, no, later. I'm with Isabella."
"Papa, if you need to handle something..."
"Nothing is more important than you." But his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
We passed my old high school. The park where Mom taught me to ride a bike. That bench where she told me she was sick. Everything looked exactly the same and completely different, like someone had put an Instagram filter over my memories.
"The house, you'll see, I finally fixed that squeaky step," Papa continued. "And your room, exactly how you left it. Well, maybe I dusted once or twice."
I tried to smile. Failed.
"Oh! And my birthday party next month. Sixty years old, can you believe it? The whole neighborhood is coming. Even Alexander Blackwood promised he wouldn't miss it."
Something weird happened in my chest when he said that name. Alexander Blackwood. Uncle Alex. Papa's college roommate who became stupid rich with hotels while Papa stayed happy with his restaurant.
"I haven't thought about Alex in..." I stopped. When was the last time I'd seen him? Mom's funeral? No, after that. Some Christmas maybe?
"He asks about you," Papa said, pulling into our driveway. "Every time we have lunch. How's our professor doing, he says."
Our. Like I belonged to both of them somehow.
The house smelled exactly the same. Lemon cleaning stuff mixed with whatever Papa had been cooking. Mom's portrait watched from the living room wall, frozen in time at thirty five, forever young while the rest of us got older and more disappointing.
"You hungry? I made your favorite, albóndigas soup."
"Maybe later." My stomach was too knotted for food.
He carried my suitcase upstairs, pretending it wasn't pathetically light. My room hit me like a slap. Debate team trophies. Academic achievement awards. Photos of me and Marcus at graduation, his arm possessive around my waist even then. Everything screaming about the potential I'd wasted.
"I'll let you settle in," Papa said, hovering in the doorway. "We'll talk when you're ready."
But I heard what he didn't say. We'll talk about why you're here. We'll talk about what went wrong. We'll talk about how my brilliant daughter became this.
When his footsteps faded, I collapsed on the bed. The ceiling still had those glow in the dark stars Mom helped me stick up when I was seven. Some had fallen off over the years, leaving weird gaps in the constellations.
My phone buzzed. Marcus. Again.
"Bella, we need to talk about this rationally..."
Delete.
"You're being emotional..."
Delete.
"Three years thrown away for what?"
Delete. Block. Why hadn't I done that sooner?
The house felt too quiet. Papa had the TV on downstairs, but it wasn't the same as Mom humming in the kitchen. Eleven years and I still expected to hear her voice calling us for dinner.
I pulled out my laptop. Might as well face the other disaster. My dissertation draft stared back at me, bleeding red with Dr. Hayes' comments. "Lacks focus." "Citation needed." "This entire section needs substantial revision."
Two years of research. Two years of believing I was smart enough for this. Two years of Marcus telling me I was wasting my time while I defended the importance of art authentication in contemporary markets.
My email dinged. Dr. Hayes. My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
"Isabella, we need to discuss your funding situation immediately."
No. No, no, no.
I kept reading, each word a nail in my academic coffin.
"I'm afraid the committee has concerns about your lack of progress. You have six weeks to secure new funding or we'll have to terminate your position in the program."
Six weeks.
The laptop screen blurred. I closed it. Opened it. Read the email again like the words might change.
They didn't.
Six weeks to find money I didn't have. Six weeks to prove I deserved to be there. Six weeks before the last piece of my life in Boston disappeared too.
The stars on my ceiling seemed to mock me now. Mom had promised they'd always shine for me, even when real stars were hidden.
But Mom had been wrong about a lot of things.