The Player & The Pauper | ✓

27 | Cry Pretty

I don't get on the plane back to Fayetteville on Sunday afternoon. A concierge at the front desk accepts a generous tip from my father in exchange for bringing the rest of the plane tickets down to our hotel rooms. Another tip has a housekeeper collecting my bags and bringing them up to my father's suites where I'm hole up in his guest room.

I'm still holed up on Monday morning, buried deep under the silk sheets in a pair of sweatpants and a tee that don't belong to me. They smell like fresh air and home, and Hunter's cologne; it's a kind of bittersweet torture I welcome in my wallowing.

Mom had called to check in yesterday afternoon, and I'd told her I was going to stay an extra night. When she asked why, I'd come up with the easiest excuse that didn't involve spilling my guts out over the telephone: Dad had talked to a friend and scored me an interview with someone at Columbia. I had a tour of the history department Monday morning.

It wasn't a lie either. My dad had made good on his promise to make some calls as soon as I'd told him I was stating an extra day. He hadn't asked any questions, rearranged my flight and had gotten me an interview and a tour that were in fact scheduled for this morning.

But I don't plan on showing up. He's already at work and Andrea is god-knows where. By the time they get home, I'll be heading to the airport for my flight back home to Rock Valley.

Yes, Rock Valley is home. I thought maybe that feeling would change once I knew my friends were on the plane, flying back without me. But noon came and went, and I still felt uncomfortable here in New York. The streets were too noisy and the skies were too smoggy. I couldn't hear the birds or the wind, or see the sun clearly over the horizon.

Hunter had said I was in my element here, but it doesn't feel like it. Sure, I can slip into my socialite heels and walk the walk with the rest of them, but it feels like I'm faking every smile, laugh and step. I can blend and I can pretend because I grew up here. But when it comes to feeling like I belong...

With a deep breath I throw off the covers and crawl out of bed. It's only ten o'clock. My flight doesn't leave for another five hours, but I want to go home. I want to feel the fresh air in my lungs and the sun on my face. I want to hug my Yaya and thank her for everything she's done for us these past few months.

I stuff what things I've unpacked back into my suitcase. I don't bother changing out of the sweats I'm wearing or putting on any makeup as I walk out the door.

I'm leaving. And this time I don't plan on looking back. New York, I love you. But my heart belongs to a small town in Arkansas.