Page 19 of Always Meant for You
MABEL
Knock, knock, knock!
“Mae, it’s Lily! Did you see it? You hit half a million followers!” the girl calls, her New York accent clipping the words fast and bright.
Mae.
Even now, four years later, it sounds foreign.
But I created this.
A clean break. A fresh name. A new life.
I look up from my laptop. Lily bursts into my apartment and flops dramatically onto the bed beside me. At fourteen, she’s pure energy wrapped in a vintage Hard Rock Cafe tee from Paris, knotted at the waist. She’s smart. She’s funny. She’s also the only person who knows the truth about my identity.
“I love your apartment,” she says, winding a lock of her wheat-blond hair around her finger.
It’s more of a glorified walk-in closet with a hot plate and a window that rattles when the wind kicks up. But it’s mine.
The space overflows with vintage couture—silk scarves, beaded clutches arranged in careful rows, and racks of dresses, blouses, and skirts with hand-stitched hems and stories sewn into every seam.
And it’s in SoHo.
Yes, I’m in New York City. I’ve made it. Well . . . sort of. I’m physically in the city. That part’s real. But my passport is still untouched. The brand deal, PR packages, and paid collabs haven’t happened yet. But today, that changes.
I click over to my social media dashboard, and there it is—my logo, a pink stiletto silhouette with Bella Mae scrawled in cursive across the heel.
My latest post is already climbing. Over eighty thousand likes in two hours.
I swivel the laptop toward Lily. “People are loving the vintage Chloé slip dress from the nineties.”
Lily’s eyes widen. “Where did you find that dress?”
“At the Brooklyn Flea Market—for twelve dollars.”
She throws her head back like she might faint. “That’s insane!”
I peer at the white number, now carefully wrapped in a clear plastic bag. “I could sell it for five hundred.”
Lily gasps. “But you wouldn’t, would you, Mae?”
I watch her for a beat.
“Mae?” she presses.
“Never!” I exclaim, the word hitting the air like a battle cry.
I glance at the clock, and now I’m the one gasping.
“Help me get ready.”
“You’ve got your meeting with the PR people, right?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“I do. Today is the day everything changes.”
At least, that’s what I’m praying for.
It’s my birthday and the anniversary of Jamie’s death.
