Page 8 of Always Meant for You
“She’s always been in her own little world,” a woman whispers, the gossip session continuing. “I had to practically scream for her to take my order at the diner.”
“She’s not like Jamie,” someone else offers.
“No,” another voice says, quieter. “Jamie was solid. That boy knew what mattered. He cared about Elverna. Mabel is . . .”
Mabel is . . .
They don’t bother finishing it.
They don’t need to.
One of the women peers around the corner, her gaze landing on me before she presses her fingers to the cross at her neck and forces a sympathetic smile.
These people don’t think they’re being unkind. They think they’re being honest. And maybe that’s worse.
I grip the dish tighter. The heat presses into my palms. I keep my features neutral and move forward. I step into the living room, and everyone stills. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Forks hover over plates. Eyes track me. All except my father’s. He doesn’t look up.
I carry the casserole to the table and set it down. The foil crackles. It’s too loud in the silence. My hands linger a second longer than they should.
“There,” I say, willing my voice to stay steady. “Plenty casserole to go around. I’ll take my leave so you can remark on my shoes. They’re vintageChristian Dior.I heard one of you call themKristina Doorshoes. That was incorrect.”
I lift my chin, eye the whispering women, then head to the staircase. I pass familiar faces, but no one reaches out. Nobody speaks.
My father stays rooted in his chair, shaking his head. It’s strange to see him in a suit. He’s a big man with a rugged frame. His shoulders stretch the seams, and the sleeves hang stiff. I offered to help him choose something that fit better, but he brushed me off. Told me funerals weren’t fashion shows.
The steps creak beneath me. Each one carrying more weight than the last. This house wants everyone to hear me leave, or maybe remind them that I never belonged.
I don’t pause at the top of the landing. I head straight to my room and push the door open. It sticks, then gives with a soft scrape of wood on paint. I step inside and slam it behind me.
Was my behavior atrocious?
Yes.
Should I apologize?
Probably.
I lean against the door and close my eyes. The air shifts. Cooler. Stiller. But not calm. I take another breath, then survey the space. Pale blue walls. White furniture. A desk that barely fits a chair. A mirror with stickers around the edge. The bed is made up with quilt covered in faded daisies. Goat figurines and 4H awards from when I was the perfect little farm girl.
I ignore the treasures of my days as a tomboy and focus on the corkboard above my bed. It’s the only part of this room that feels like me. It’s jammed with paper—edges curling, corners ripped, tape yellowing at the seams. Postcards from Paris crowd the top, each one soft with time. The Eiffel Tower at dusk. A flower market spilling peonies onto cobblestone streets. A sun-bleached café with chairs lined up in crooked rows.
Tucked between the postcards, I pinned torn pages from old magazines. Models in vintage Chloé and Dior dresses leanagainst stone fountains. Skirts caught mid-sway. Sleeves drifting down graceful arms. The fabrics are light, full of motion, stitched for women who refuse to stand still.
A few of my own sketches cling to the corners—rough drawings of styled outfits that never stayed quiet in my head.
Every corner of the board hums with a single promise: Paris waits. Paris understands.
The city is where I belong.
I have a plan.
First New York.
Then Paris.
I set my purse down, sink to my knees beside the bed, and reach underneath for the binder waiting in the dark. My fingertips find the edge, and I slide it free.Bella Maeis written across the cover in gold gel pen. The lettering has started to fade, but not the dreams inside.
I lift the cover slowly, careful not to crease the pages tucked inside. Color palettes spread across torn corners of paper. Images from runway moments frozen in time. Models from decades ago stand against New York and Parisian backdrops, cut and repositioned by my hands. Swatches of worn fabric fixed in place with yellowing glue. My ideas pour through the margins.
