I moved around a lot growing up. When people ask me where I’m from, I have a minor existential crisis, because, yeah, where am I from? I was born in Orange County, California and lived in various cities (Santa Ana, Costa Mesa, Laguna Hills, etc) until we picked up and moved to the suburbs of Seattle, Washington when I was in first grade. Then it was back to California for a couple years when I was in fourth, this time San Diego. I spent my middle school years in Boise, Idaho and then the majority of my high school ones in Vancouver, Washington. My entire adult life has formed itself around the Bay Area.

I’m sure people regret asking me this question when I’m halfway through covering the geography of the western United States, but I find it impossible not to list all the cities I’ve ever called home.

Last week, though, I realized—kind of jarringly, actually!—that I’ve been excluding one. It hit me while I was making the journey out to Southern Utah with my son for Spring Break, where much of my family lives. Where my grandma lived for many years, too, and where I, in fact, lived for six weeks every summer growing up.

I think it was the drive that reminded me, that specific trek from Southern California to St. George that I made a million times as a kid but haven’t for many years since. My son was in the backseat and I pointed out all the landmarks I’d passed so many times when I was the one in his position: the random plunk of Barstow in the middle of nothing, the world’s tallest thermometer in Baker (I still think this is a massive point of interest!!), the mini-Vegas layout of Primm and then the neon sprawl of Vegas itself. There’s a town called Mesquite at the border of Nevada where I always stopped with my grandma to get Del Taco, and where we stopped this time, but for gas station snacks (my son) and a huge iced Americano (me).

Sometimes I picture time looking like a croissant. I know that’s weird to say and probably even weirder to visualize, but I think of the delicate layers of it, the way they sit on top of each other when you pull the whole thing apart, and wonder if time is like that, too. Not linear, even though that’s how we perceive it, but next to itself over and over again, gossamer thin. I thought about it that way as we drove up the 15, out of Mesquite and across the top left corner of Arizona. I thought about it as we entered the Virgin River Gorge, a stretch of massive canyon that looks like some universal palm haphazardly pushed the earth up through the ground millions of years ago.

I thought about how I was driving this highway now with my twelve-year-old in the backseat, and how maybe that delicate layer of time next to us was me at twelve in the backseat, my thighs sticking to a leather seat in dead-summer heat, chewing a stick of Big Red from the pack loitering in my grandma’s cupholder with James Taylor on the radio. Maybe the next layer was me at eight, sitting next to my cousin in the backseat of my grandma’s killer 90s van while we watched a Disney movie, and then at fourteen, dreaming of some beautiful floppy-haired boy whose name now eludes me. Maybe the next layer was me nine years ago when I was coming to say goodbye to my grandma. Another, me five years from now, or fifteen. I thought about all of us driving together somehow, headed for a place that I’ve forgotten to call home and yet indelibly is.

To make matters even more emo, I went back to Zion National Park for the first time in decades, and (obviously) for the first time since I wrote You, with a View. In Noelle and Theo’s story, Zion is the emotional heart of their growing connection for a reason—it was my emotional heart, too. Going back last week was like living alongside myself again, and also living alongside Noelle and Theo (and Paul!!) in a way that felt incredibly full circle.

We also went horseback riding! I grew up around my grandma and aunt’s horses and was a certified horse girl, so the nostalgia of that plus the nostalgia of being in Zion while riding was a emotional thing indeed.

Life has been intense lately, for every macro and micro reason any of us can imagine, and this trip felt like walking through my front door after a long time away and setting down my bags. It was the perfect place at the perfect time, as it always was and I think always will be. I got to go shopping with my mom (our favorite past time) and sit in the backyard with my dad (his favorite past time) and watch my son swim like a fish (his and past me’s favorite past time) and get my cards read by our family tarot reader and make several trips to Swig, which I already miss.

And then way too soon, we were on the 15 headed back toward California. As we—every version of me, at every age— were passing through the gorge, I thought, man, it was so nice to go home. No time-layered version of me will ever forget to call it that again, which I guess means that long-winded answer will get even longer.

Before you go! I have to share something EXTREMELY fun: the Spanish cover of The Ex Vows (aka Pacto entre ex), which is publishing through TBR Editorial on May 8th!

Did I choke on air when I opened the email with this stunning cover? Yes I did. Would I tattoo this on the backs of my eyelids just to stare at it while I sleep if I could? Absolutely. I know some of you are fans of acquiring international versions of my books, so if you’re in the market for this one you can get it HERE. Thank you endlessly to the TBR team for this gorgeous, gorgeous rendition of Georgia and Eli. With artwork like this, it’s hard to remember they’re not real (they are).

That’s all for now, my friends. I hope you’re taking care of yourselves.

xoxo

jess