Back Where We Started

by Becca Freeman

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

A rising Hollywood star explores the road not taken with her first love in this tender second-chance romance by the author of The Christmas Orphans Club

Katie’s wildest dreams have come true. She’s a Hollywood actress, booked and busy, and promoting her latest film. Sure, she still struggles with sexist media malignment and unimaginative roles, but from where she stands today, her hometown of Dutch Ridge, Pennsylvania feels a million miles away—and that makes it all worth it.

Because Dutch Ridge can only ever represent Drew. Every street is filled with memories of their shared adolescence, how they were each other’s first everything, the hours they spent planning for the future. Drew was the only person in Dutch Ridge who didn’t make Katie feel delusional for dreaming big, because he did, too. She was going to be the next Julia Roberts, and he was going to be president someday. Was it their extraordinary level of ambition that brought them together at sixteen? It was definitely what drove them apart in the years after.

But now, a promise to her sister forces Katie to return to Dutch Ridge for Christmas, where she runs into Drew, who seems to have followed a different path from the one they once dreamed up. And strangely, he seems...happy. As their run-ins heat up and the two can't keep themselves away from each other, Katie begins to wonder whether her accolade-filled Hollywood life really fulfills her after all. Back Where We Started is an emotional second-chance romance, a story about allowing oneself to change, the addictive nature of achievement, and how we make room in our lives for what matters most.

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Penguin Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

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Prologue
Seventeen

“Was it good for you?” Drew asked as we stared at glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, which were very much not glowing, because it was three in the afternoon and the gauzy daisy-embroidered curtains did little to filter the bright May sun.

“Definitely our best yet.” This time there were glimmers of what those women were shrieking about in the XXX VHS tapes hidden in the back of my dad’s closet. A firefly flitting just out of reach, on the brink of something electric and magical.

It was only our fourth time. Not for lack of trying.

But finding an afternoon when my mom had an after-school staff meeting and Alyssa was at field hockey, but Drew didn’t have debate practice or student government or soccer, and I had the day off from play rehearsal was nearly impossible. It would have been easier if we could do it at his house—his mom worked late—but flaunting our sexual activity in front of his seven-months-pregnant twin sister felt wrong. When Jessie started showing, the principal suggested she finish senior year at home. Away from prying eyes, he said. Now, she spent afternoons watching soap operas with a mixing bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch balanced on her bump.

Jessie should have been the best form of birth control: a cautionary tale.

She should have made us double down on waiting for marriage the way our health teacher (who was also our gym teacher) urged. But there wasn’t much point in waiting when I’d already met the person I was going to marry. Especially when Drew would be at NYU in the fall. I had another year before joining him, but we had a plan.

“We have our whole lives to perfect it.” His fingers traced lazy circles on my bare shoulder. “One day we’ll be doing it in the Lincoln Bedroom.”

I nuzzled closer, my brain looping on a chorus of: Him. This. Us.

This was the part of sex I liked best. The after, when we were languid and dreamy, as if we’d undergone some type of exchange. Not of fluids—there was no way we weren’t using condoms after Jessie—but maybe of personalities. After: serious-minded Drew who kept a whiteboard with his ten-year plan on the back of his bedroom door (NYU, law school, Skadden fellowship, run for office) turned fanciful and chatty. While I, who had monologues and snatches of dialog cribbed from movies to fill any silence and a “talks too much in class” on every report card, was lulled into a temporary calm.

“As president, won’t you have more important things to do? Pass laws? Save the free world?”
“You’re always my most important person.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Just don’t tell my constituents.”

“How will it work? The president can’t marry an actress. Shouldn’t a president be married to someone serious? Like a brain surgeon or a human rights lawyer.”

Drew turned on his side, our faces so close he went blurry. A constellation of freckles across his nose, dark brown waves standing in every direction, flecks of hazel around his irises only visible at close range, a secret just for me. “The president can do anything they want. And it’s not so far-fetched. Ronald Reagan was an actor before he was president. Michelle Obama is basically a celebrity. Or look at Marilyn—”

“I don’t want to be the Marilyn!” I swatted his chest. “She was the other woman.”

“Bad example. But trust me, we’ll figure it out. It’s only a matter of time before Katie Eubanks is a big star. Like her.” He lifted his head to nod at a Cosmopolitan on my nightstand with Megan Fox on the cover.

I bought every magazine with a rising actress on the front, highlighter smudging the ink of the accompanying article as I searched for crumbs of guidance on how they made it in such a cut-throat industry.

“Not like her,” I countered. “She’s famous for being hot—”

“You’re hot, too, babe.”

My cheeks flamed. I was by no means part of the pretty, popular clique at school—that was Jessie’s crowd. Depending on who you asked, I was too loud, too weird, too dramatic, too intense. Always “too” something, yet somehow also not quite enough. So, I tucked these words in the compartment of my heart reserved solely for Drew’s compliments. “I mean I don’t want to be famous just for being hot. Megan Fox could never marry Barack Obama. I want to be like Meryl Streep or Julia Roberts. Beloved, respected. An instrument of her craft.”

“It’s settled,” he said, as if it was truly that simple, “you’ll be Julia and I’ll be Barack, and we’ll live happily ever after. Someday, it’ll be us on the cover of those magazines.”

Most days it felt like this—my lilac-painted bedroom, high school, our rinky-dink town—was the waiting room for real life. That’s when things would finally get interesting.

“You don’t think it’ll be too hard? You in DC and me in LA?”

“You’re worth it. Plus, I can visit you on Air Force One. I would never ask you to sacrifice your dreams.”

In that moment, I almost saw it. Him with an American flag pin on the lapel of his tux at my premiere, our cheeks sore from grinning as we’re blinded by flashbulbs. Photographers shouting for us to Look this way! My bare feet curled beneath me on a sofa in the Oval Office as I studied a script.

Keys jingling in the front door interrupted our daydreaming. “Shit, my mom’s home.”

I jolted out of bed and threw Drew’s Dutch Ridge soccer t-shirt at him while he yanked on a pair of mesh athletic shorts.

“Katie,” Mom called from downstairs, “you home?”

I pointed at the window that lined up with his bedroom window next door. He slipped through it, shimmying down the drainpipe, and it was like he was never here.

Back then, we were young, we were dumb, we were innocent. Sometimes I wonder if we would’ve been better off staying in the waiting room.



Chapter 1

Now-December 6
(Twenty Nine)

"Lonnie's sending over some scripts, and Joyce's assistant reached out to schedule the Vanity Fair interview," Willa narrates from the mile-long list in her notebook. "She asked if you want to do it here or somewhere neutral."

"Somewhere neutral," I answer as my stylist Maliah attempts to wedge my no-longer-sample-sized body into a sample-sized dress. "Maybe the Soho House in Malibu? Or Shutters? Tell her we want somewhere mellow. But definitely not here."

I finally learned to keep some things for myself, and this place is one of them. I bought it three years ago: a funky mid-century ranch tucked into the Pasadena hills, away from the bustle of LA proper. The interior is done in serene shades of cream and sand with soothing blue accents.

My favorite room is the bedroom I had renovated into a massive closet. Instead of being organized by garment type, it's arranged by role. A selection of black dresses with plunging necklines and bondage details from my Beverly Terrace days. Even if people didn't know my name, the dresses reminded them of my deal. Oh her . . . the mean one from that teen soap who's always sleeping with everyone else's boyfriend. On another wall, a bevy of rainbow look-at-me dresses from the years spent trying to break into film. The rack currently in rotation is all retro glam. Everything black and white, metallic, or leopard print, inspired by my most recent part. By far the smallest section is for just-me clothes. A pair of perfectly worn-in jeans, the lipstick-red Marc by Marc Jacobs sundress (my first Hollywood "splurge") that reminds me of a day exploring Venice Beach, an oversized NYU sweatshirt with a fraying collar.

But today, my personal oasis is anything but calm. Right now, it resembles the backstage of a runway show, crowded with rails of borrowed clothing and assistants steaming gowns while Dua Lipa blasts from someone's phone speaker.

Willa nods at my venue suggestions and scribbles a note. "And your mom called. Twice. She sent a couple of texts, too. She asked you to call when you have a sec."

I briefly wonder if something terrible happened since we talked two days ago while she was on her regular Sunday Costco run, but the worry whooshes away, along with my air supply, as Maliah inches up the dress's zipper. "Come find me if she calls again, please."

"Sure thing," Willa answers before retreating to the relative calm of the office on the other side of the house.

"Vanity Fair, huh?" Maliah lets out a low whistle. "Should we be fitting you for an Oscars gown, too? Sounds like our girl's moving up in the world!"

Maliah and I met on the set of my first show when she was my dresser, but she's the one who's really moved up since then. Last month she styled Beyoncé for an Elle spread. I'm just glad she still makes time for me.

"The movie hasn't even come out yet." I wave off her award-season speculation. The dress I'm being wedged into is for the LA premiere of Edie & Andy.

"It has buzz, though. Don't try to deny it. I have a Google alert on you, Blair Banks. I have a feeling about this one. You have all your blood, sweat, and tears in this. Plus, if you wait, all the good gowns will be taken. And even I can't work enough magic to get something custom on that timeline." She flips a sheaf of crimson box braids over her shoulder to emphasize her annoyance at this possibility.

"It's bad luck to pick a dress before nominations are announced."

"Bad luck. Pffft." She blows a raspberry and meets my gaze in the three-panel mirror to raise an eyebrow at me, at how much I've changed in the decade we've known each other. Ten years in LA has made me cautious. There's always another shoe ready to drop. "Do I need to start worrying about you again?"

"I'm fine." I flash her a breezy smile. "You know me, I'm just a little twitchy when I'm not working."

"I thought you only got back last week?" I give her a "What do you want from me?" shrug and she continues, "All I'm saying is don't come crying to me when we have to put you in some mall frock-"

"Now you're talking! Finally, a chance to wear the Jessica McClintock dress of my prom dreams!" Her reflection shudders, which only eggs me on. "The tabloids would have a field day. I can see the headline now: blair tanks."

We both crack up, but as I double over, the bodice's boning digs into my stomach and I realize it might be a moot point because she may never get me in or out of this too-small dress. "I don't think this is going to fit," I say.

"Squeeze your shoulders together. I've almost got this zipper."

I do as she asks.

"But don't jut your boobs out. If you can squeeze a little more, and, Steph"-she gestures to an assistant-"if you can push down her chest, I think we can get this."

The assistant comes to stand in front of me and squish my boobs, as instructed. It's far from my strangest platonic physical interaction in the last month. That would go to the sex scene with my ex.

"Almost . . ." Maliah says through gritted teeth. I wait for a rip, but miraculously, the zipper slides up.

The gown is a sixties fever dream. A short white slip topped with a sheer mesh layer embellished with silver sequins in a wave pattern. Extra-long sleeves, a nod to a famed Gernreich dress Edie Sedgwick-my character in the movie-wore in Life magazine.

"She would die for this," Maliah says wistfully.

I don't point out that Edie already died of a barbiturate overdose. I became a touch overprotective of the model-slash-muse during my preparation for the role.

"Blair?" Willa pops her head into the room. "Your mom's on the phone. Do you want to take it?"

I bring the phone to my bedroom and into the en suite for extra privacy. "Mom? Is everything okay?"

"Don't freak out," she begins, and a drum line starts in my chest.

"Why? What happened?"

"It's your sister . . ." She pauses like she's searching for the right words.

"What about her?" My brain cycles through possibilities: She lost the baby, she's been in an accident, she has cancer.

"She has high blood pressure," Mom finally says and I tilt my head. Sure, it's not great, but it's not three-calls-and-two-texts-worthy, either. "The doctors are worried about preeclampsia, so they're running more tests. Just to be safe. The baby's fine."

"Jeez, you scared the crap out of me. You could've led with that!" I take a deep breath to reset. "As long as Alyssa and the baby are okay, that's all that matters. How's she taking the news?"

"You know her. She made a joke of it, said the baby's practicing for his teen years and already raising her blood pressure. She insists it's no big deal. But we got her set up with a high-risk OB and found a permanent sub for her classroom in case she starts her maternity leave early. We'll get it sorted."

Getting it sorted is my mother's specialty. Knowing her, there's already a freezer stocked with low-sodium dinners to last through my sister's due date in April. I start filling a mental shopping cart with things I can send to help-meal-delivery gift cards, a stack of romance novels in case she's stuck in bed, maybe one of those fancy pregnancy pillows.

"But," Mom continues, "it looks like we can't go on the trip for Christmas. Alyssa can't be away from her doctors, and they don't want her flying. So, we'll have to do Christmas here this year."

"I can't-" I begin automatically.

"Well, we don't have a choice now. If we want to spend Christmas together, it's going to be in Pennsylvania."

My mind races to come up with an excuse, a reason I can't come home. I haven't been home in five years. I still see my family, just not . . . there.

Years I'm not filming, we celebrate Thanksgiving in LA. But this year, I was on location for the second Odyssey Man movie. On our single day off, we had a cast-and-crew potluck in the conference room of the Vancouver Fairmont. For Christmas, we've created-fine, I've created-a tradition of tropical vacations. Palm trees wrapped in fairy lights, Surfer Santa, frozen hot chocolate. In August, I tasked Willa with finding a resort with lots of activities for my dad and brother-in-law and a spa for me and my sister. Mom never relaxes on vacation. She brings her iPad and continues business as usual, catching up on emails, making to-do lists, and ordering seed packets for her spring garden. Even at private-chef-catered dinners, the table laden with ceviche and roasted fish caught straight from the ocean, I sense she'd be just as happy at Mario's, the Italian restaurant with sticky red-and-white checkered tablecloths where we went for every birthday, anniversary, and end-of-school celebration of my childhood.

"This is incredibly generous of you," Willa said as I handed over my credit card without batting an eyelash at the exorbitant cost of three rooms at the Turks and Caicos resort topping her recommendations. After all, the nicer the locale, the less likely anyone would suggest we spend the holidays at home.

It's a fair trade: My family gets an all-expenses-paid vacation, and I get to avoid Dutch Ridge. It's not bribery, exactly. Or if it is, it's bribery that works well for everyone.

"Katie Bear"-Mom dusts off one of Dad's childhood nicknames for me, but it feels strange coming from her mouth-"I know this wasn't the plan, but you can have Willa call and cancel. I checked online and we're still within the window. You'll get a full refund."

It's not the money I'm worried about.

A knock interrupts our conversation. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Banks," an unfamiliar voice says from the other side of the door. "Maliah asked if I could get the dress back. She doesn't want it getting wet. It's on loan from Christian Siriano and they'll have a conniption if we return it damaged."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a box breath the way an old therapist taught me-in for four, hold; out for four, hold-tamping down my annoyance that I can't get five minutes alone in my own bathroom. Five minutes without someone touching me or needing something from me. Five minutes without a shiny, happy smile plastered to my face, because god forbid I let it slip, someone will run to DeuxMoi and tell her what a bitch I am. That they were right all along, and I'm exactly like Bianca, my character from Beverly Terrace, still my most memorable role even though the show's been off the air longer than it was on in the first place.

I remind myself this is her job. She doesn't want to be asking any more than I want to be asked. "Mom, I need to call you back."

"But you'll come for Christmas, right?" she wedges in before I can end the call.

"Yes, I'll come." What choice do I have?

I set the phone on the marble vanity and open the door to a terrified brunette with pristine cat-eye liner. "Are you ready to go back? Or do you want me to . . ." she trails off.

"I need a minute, but you can take the dress." I make sure to give her a warm smile before turning. Mercifully, the zipper slides down easier than it went up. I take my arms out of the sleeves, and the gown collapses to the floor in a sparkly heap.

"Cool tattoo," she remarks as I stand there in a strapless bra and nude thong.

I hook my hands under opposite arms for modesty, making sure one covers the tiny birds on the side of my rib cage. "Uh, thanks."


After the gowns are packed into garment bags, the assistants are sent home, and Maliah has been reassured that “No, really, you don’t need to worry about me,” I sit with Willa to go through a dizzying array of logistics for the preholiday tour of press and premieres to launch Edie & Andy.





Now, alone for the first time all day, the commotion from earlier buzzes in my brain the way your ears ring after a concert, emphasizing the house's current emptiness.

But like I told Maliah, I'm fine.

I'm simply readjusting from the twenty-four-seven go, go, go of set life. From people-castmates, Willa, hair and makeup teams, set PAs-always around. From calling a tasteful but anonymous Vancouver hotel suite home for three months. And a near-identical one in Atlanta before that. I grab a seltzer from the glass-fronted fridge and wander through the echoey open-plan living area to the cozier confines of my bedroom.

As I flop down onto the fluffy white duvet, I tap my sister's name at the top of my favorites. It rings five times before going to voicemail. It's only nine thirty on the East Coast. Maybe she went to bed early, being gentle with herself after a health scare. But more likely, she's on a double date or at a girls' night trading pregnancy woes with the same group of friends she's had since childhood, two of whom are also pregnant.

Next, I do the time zone math, determining if I'm in the narrow window when I might catch Janine on her drive to set in Seoul. I'm not.

Instead, I scroll back to a text thread cobwebbed from disuse. The last messages are five years old:

Let me know you made it home OK.
I'm always here if you want to talk.

Home. Thx.

At the thought of him, a montage of our greatest hits plays in my mind. I'm eleven and we're filming a "movie" on my dad's camcorder. I'm sixteen and discover a sticker on my phone-the handiwork of my mom's label maker-that says drew loves katie. Despite our school's strict no-cell-phones policy, I leave it on my desk through precalc so people know someone loves me, that I'm his. I'm seventeen and peeling off his rental tux jacket, the windows of his mom's hatchback fogged from our fevered make out. I'm nineteen and belting a hammy off-key rendition of "Candle in the Wind" from the passenger seat as billboards count down the miles to the Big Texan Steak Ranch. He laughs so hard there are tears in the corners of his eyes.

I jab the metaphorical "pause" button before I get to the less happy memories and spring out of bed.

Nope, bad idea.


Instead, I take a shower rivaling five-star-spa experiences I've had on holiday vacations of years past, as much to take a dent in my planless evening as for the cleanliness. After—exfoliated, deep conditioned, lotioned, and smelling faintly of orange blossom—I study by robe-clad reflection in the mirror, turning my head one way, then the other.

What would Drew see?

Now that I've allowed him into my brain, his ghost has hung curtains and redecorated.

Ironically, I look more like myself than I have in years. For Edie, I chopped my hair into the requisite pixie cut, dyed platinum. After we wrapped, I let my natural dark blond curls grow in. My hair was brittle from years of dying it a shade of espresso just shy of jet-black to play Bianca and keeping it that way when it became my signature. My new natural look is partly to give my hair a break, as I assured my beloved colorist, but I also wanted to see how it felt to look like me again.

I scrunch my forehead in the mirror. It doesn't move. I raise my eyebrows. Nothing. The dermatologist was too heavy-handed with the Botox. "A tweakment," she called it, injecting an extra syringe into my hairline. "Blair Banks but better."

How did I get here?

When I hear the name Blair Banks, I envision a diabolical movie villain or a perky weather girl in a pastel skirt suit. But to the rest of the world, Blair Banks is me.

Would Drew still recognize fragments of the girl he loved in her?