Unbroken

front yawn is neatly tended, with lush grass and roses twisting up around the windows.
    I put the Camaro in park beside a shiny Lexus and slowly get out of the car.
    My muscles are cramped from hours behind the wheel, so I stretch, looking up at the old house. Coming back, I feel a fresh rush of emotion, only this time it’s more than just the trigger of a sign on the side of the highway. This is a house, a home, full of hundreds of memories over the years—fighting, and laughter, and love, and pain. There’s the place where we would play in the sprinklers. There’s the tree I would climb to escape my parents’ fighting inside.
    There’s the hidden spot Emerson would kiss me goodnight, his lips fierce and searching, hands slipping up under my camisole to tease and caress across my bare skin…
    I wish for the first time, I had someone here with me. Not Daniel, but Lacey maybe. Someone to cut through all this old emotional bullshit, and spell it out for me. It’s just a house. It’s all in the past.
    “Juliet?” A trim, redheaded woman comes around the side of the house. She’s wearing a pastel blue suit and a silk blouse, carrying a clipboard and file. She beams at me, perky and upbeat. “I’m Hallie, from Kingston Realty? How was your drive? Did you make it out of the city OK?”
    I shake off the memories. Get it together, Juliet!
    “Fine,” I nod, striding forwards to meet her.
    “It’s so great to meet you. Thanks so much for coming down.” She shakes my hand, and kisses me on both cheeks. Up close, I can see her hair is an unnatural shade of red, and her teeth are dazzling white veneers.
    Definitely not a local.
    “The management company has been keeping up with basic yard-work and maintenance,” she starts, leading me around to the side door we always used as a main entrance. “Obviously, there’s some cosmetic work for the new owners to take care of, but that shouldn’t be an issue.”
    She pulls out the keys and unlocks, stepping into the kitchen. I follow, and freeze in the doorway. It’s been left untouched: same photos pinned to the fridge, same decorative plates lined up on the wall. It’s like stepping back in time, to four long years ago.
    “I know, it’s pretty cluttered.” Hallie sighs, misinterpreting my silence. “All of this will need to go, before we can put it on the market.”
    She leads on, into the main hall. The stairs curve upwards, and the living room and dining room branch off on either side. Sunlight falls on the scuffed wooden floors. A clutter of old sandals and shoes line up beneath the coat-rack, a tarnished old mirror propped above the bureau. I half expect my mom to come strolling in, carrying an armful of groceries from the market, and unload to make dinner.
    A sudden choke of tears stings in my throat. I have to clench my fists at my side and dig my nails into my palms to keep it back.
    Hallie looks around, and makes a tsking noise of disapproval under her breath. “To be honest, I told your father he’d be better off waiting. The market’s rebounding, but prices are still pretty low. With all the new development in town, it would be worth holding off the sale until next year, see how much more you could get.”
    “You’d have to talk to him about that.” I answer shortly. “It’s not my choice to sell.”
    It wasn’t my choice to interrupt my study schedule and come down here just weeks before finals to pack the place up either, but dad wasn’t about to wait around for something as unimportant as my college education.
    “Oh.” Hallie blinks in surprise. “Well, OK. When was the last time you were back here?” Her voice is bright, trying to make small-talk. I know I should just let the question slide, but I can’t dance around it anymore.
    “Four years ago,” I reply slowly. “Not since my mom died. Here, in this house.”
    Hallie’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh my Lord! I’m so sorry! Nobody told me--”
    “It’s fine.” I cut her off, already feeling guilty for putting her on the spot like that.
    “What was it…?” Hallie asks, curious. Everyone asks, I’ve found by now. Even when it’s rude, or personal, they still can’t help it. Everyone has to know the reason.
    “Cancer.” I tell her. It’s half the truth, at least.
    She nods. “I’m so sorry. I keep telling all my friends, go get that mammogram checked!”
    I look around at the faded upholstery, and the roses twining around the window. My voice softens. “We got