Page 17 of Always Meant for You
My nails dig into my palms. The words scrape my throat, but I force them out anyway. “Have you ever once asked about these Christian Dior heels? About why I love them? Why the pink is a custom lacquer blend Dior only used for one season in the nineties? Why the leather is hand-cut, hand-stitched, and the platform was sculpted to feel weightless?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
And that’s it. That’s all I am to him. A burden. A problem to fix. Not a daughter grieving her brother. Not a woman fighting to breathe inside the weight of a house that’s never made space for her dreams.
Cal shut me out. My dad will never let me in. And Jamie is gone.
I can’t stay in a place that keeps demanding I be someone else.
I smile, polite and practiced. The perfect small-town farmer’s daughter. “All right, Dad, I’ll be right down, and I’ll make another pot of coffee.” I hold his gaze and play the part.
He studies me, surely tallying every way I’ve disappointed him.
He nods, then, without another word, he turns and shuts the door.
I listen to the creaks of the stairs as he moves farther away, each one a reminder that I don’t have long before he comes knocking again.
My chest tightens, and my breath shortens.
I need to move.
I rush to the closet and drop to my knees. Dust clings to my palms as I drag a duffel free from where it’s been wedged beneath my clothes. The zipper sticks, but I force it open. I pack quickly—underwear, bras, sneakers, ballet flats, and as many secondhand couture pieces I can fit. I focus on my favorites—Dior, Chloé, Givenchy, Chanel—and pack them carefully.
My father and Cal never approved of them, which makes them feel even more worth taking.
I tiptoe across the hall to the bathroom. Every creak of the floorboards feels deafening. I snatch a toothbrush, a bottle of face wash, and my lavender-honey lotion.
I’m halfway back to my room when I hear Cal’s voice somewhere downstairs.
My breath catches. My body aches for his touch before my mind catches up.
He’s talking to some farmer about yields. Spouting numbers. God, he loves his numbers.
Ignore him.
I bolt for the dresser, yanking the bottom drawer so hard it rattles. The mason jar rolls free into my hands, cool and solid against my shaking fingers.
I unscrew the lid and remove the wad of cash.
Three thousand six hundred dollars.
Years of tips. Years of swallowing my pride. I’ll miss the women I work for. And yes, I feel terrible that I can’t give proper notice, but I can’t stay here.
I shove the cash into my pink Chloé crossbody bag. My passport and phone follow.
Then the binder.
Bella Mae.
I slide it from under the bed. My fingers trace the worn edges before I tuck it into my backpack, along with my laptop and charger.
That’s it.
I have to travel light.
A breeze pushes the curtain against my arm. It carries the scent of honeysuckle from the back fence and the faintest hint of diesel. I close my eyes, touch the M at my neck, and breathe it in. I let myself pretend that Jamie is here, coaxing me forward.
I turn toward the window. The lattice is still intact. Jamie and I used it as our escape route more times than I can count. We’d sneak down barefoot and run across the fields to meet Cal by the fence line. We’d spend those stolen hours catching fireflies and laughing until we couldn’t breathe.
