The summer before I left for college, I lost everything. I lost my best friend, I lost my heart, and I lost my grasp on all the plans I had for my future.

I lost who I was.

Some goodbyes were inevitable. Like leaving my parents to move to New York where I would attend Columbia University. That alone would have been difficult enough. Half my heart never left the family vineyard, with all the memories that were made there, all the people I loved. The other half of me was tentatively stepping out into the world on the wobbly legs of a fawn, ready to run.

There were also unexpected goodbyes. A lost love. My first. He walked into my life that summer, seemingly with the sole purpose to make me question everything I believed about life, relationships, and myself. By the time I got on the plane, I'd been shaken, broken down to the core, ready for a fresh start if there ever was one.

Then there was the devastating goodbye. After one too many bad decisions, my best friend — the person I considered a sister — walked away from our ten years of friendship with one final, ultimate blow: the declaration that she didn't know who I was anymore. The implication that she didn't want to. I couldn't blame her. That summer I did things I didn't know I was capable of, and I hurt her. But after everything we'd been through, I was sure there was nothing that could ever break us apart. I was wrong.

But despite the years that have passed and my many heartbreaks our small wine town has witnessed, it calls me back, pulling at my heartstrings. I sense it now — its unique gravity — at eleven minutes before midnight as I take the final right turn onto the dirt road that leads to The Wandering Vineyard.

My home.

I snap the radio off in the little four-door rental car and sit up straighter in my seat. With a knee on the steering wheel, I twist the elastic out of my thick hair and shake it out in preparation for the greeting I've looked forward to all day, and every day that's passed since my last visit. Then, so I don't disturb anyone, I switch off my headlights, drowning the car and the expansive property in darkness. The car continues to jostle down the long drive, the moonlight guiding my way, and I wait for the house to come into view. It's been almost ten years since I left Paso Robles and moved to New York but the scents, the sounds, the feeling that washes over me is the same. Home never changes.

That's what I love most about it, but also why I couldn't stay.

I roll down the windows to let in the warm spring night as I drive beneath the arching welcome sign, and past the refurbished barn-turned-tasting room, the paint still as fresh looking as the day I helped roll it on. Though the dozens of acres of land that surround me are shrouded in darkness, I can picture it in my minds' eye. The rolling hills, the trails I've tread a thousand times, the smell of the dry earth, the bitterness of unripened grapes on my tongue. I know the song every tree sings when the wind blows, calling me out into the hills ... farther, farther.

When I reach the top of the hill, the house finally appears — a dark ghost, looming in the distance. It's the house I grew up in, the porch light on like a beacon. Farther up, the outbuildings come into view. The stables. The guest house. I think of him, still.

I swallow back the memories and creep my way up the parking lot, dust and gravel betraying my arrival, and park next to my dad's new pickup. When I turn off the engine, it's deathly silent. So silent I feel the pressure on my eardrums. The kind of silence that doesn't exist in New York City.

I tiptoe down the path to the stables. The barn door clicks as I lift the hatch and pull it open. I leave the lights off. I can walk the path to Midnight's stall with my eyes closed, but enough moonlight shines through the high windows that I don't have to. It's a full moon. A sign, maybe.

"Midnight," I call into the open space. The only sound is the rustle of live animals.

I call again and when her nose pokes into the breezeway, I let loose a laugh, no longer caring about waking anyone. I close the space between us and open my palm to her silky lips.

"Hey, girl," I coo. "I've missed you so much."

Between earning my degree at Columbia, working the random, low-earning jobs to pay for it, and then landing my first position at a respected marketing firm, my visits home have been few and far between. The last time I was back here was two long years ago, and the love of my horse — that fierce, accepting, unwavering kind of love — is what I've missed the most. I rub my fingers over the length of her nose and rest my cheek against hers.

When she grows antsy, I grab Midnight's halter from the wall and lift the stall door latch. With the quick motion of a choreographed routine, I slide the halter over her muzzle and lead her out of the stall. Her dark color blends into the night, aside from her white haunches, which practically glow. Her coat shimmers with every subtle shift of her hooves.

"Want to go for a run, girl?" I ask.

"Not even gonna say hi first, are you?" a rough voice responds.

I start, my hair whipping over my shoulder as I look behind me. The light in the stable office f licks on, and my dad stands in the doorway. He leans against the frame with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, holes in the knees, because all his jeans have holes in the knees. But his jaw is smooth and his plaid button-down is one of the two he saves for holidays. He dressed up for my homecoming.

"Dad," I say, breathless. I run to him and throw my arms around his neck, allow myself to be enveloped in his earthy scent, his subtle strength, and his love.

"You are in big trouble, Mallory Victoria," he says, his voice watery. "You are not allowed to leave your room for the next twenty years. No, make that thirty."

"I missed you, too," I whisper in his ear, grinning.

"Could've fooled me." He gives a gruff laugh and nods toward Midnight.

I shrug, unabashed. Anyone who knows me would expect nothing less.

Dad takes my shoulders and holds me at a distance. He looks me over and shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "How did you get so grown up?" he asks. "You were still a little girl when you left."

"I saw you last Christmas," I laugh.

"Is that what you call handing each other gifts over the salt and pepper shakers at a restaurant I can't even remember the name of ?"

"Sorry, Dad. But any apartment this girl can afford isn't big enough for houseguests. I don't even have a full set of dishes." I laugh. "I appreciated you coming, though. And I love the necklace."

I dig the pendant out from beneath my shirt — an abstract outline of a horse, its mane blowing in the wind of my breath.

Dad rubs his calloused thumb across the white gold surface and his smile saddens.

"Hey, none of that," I say, nudging his shoulder. "Save that for when I leave."

"You just got here and you're already talking about leaving?" He groans and feigns stabbing himself in the heart.

I have a f light booked for a week from now, the day after the planting party I've returned home for. At least that's the excuse I've given my boss and myself. Subconsciously, I rub the dark symbol inside my right wrist. When I catch myself, I drop my hands.

"Dad, don't be dramatic."

"Oh, go on," he says, shooing me toward...