Page 3 of Midnight Between Us
A fist slams into my stomach hard enough to fold me in two.Air bursts from my mouth in a soundless cough.
My knees give out—the ground tilts.
Everything blurs to a dull, throbbing gray.
Then ...nothing at all.
Simone’s Prologue
The thing about small towns is that everyone swears they know you.
Not just who you are now—but who you were in second grade.What your mom wore to the PTA meeting that one time.They remember that time she stumbled in straight from the principal’s office to the cafeteria to volunteer right after giving him a blowjob.
They remember everything: the exact brand of shoes you wore to church.How your cousin tried stealing lip gloss from the corner store when you were twelve—and how it somehow became your scandal, too.The way you left without saying goodbye, like a runaway teen.
People don’t forget in a place like this.They recycle your worst moments until they’re worn down and warped, passed along like heirlooms no one asked for.
People love towns like Birchwood Springs for their timeless charm—the way the mailman knows your dog’s name and sometimes brings treats along—the familiarity that makes outsiders twitchy and locals feel like they own the place.But familiarity isn’t always comfortable.Sometimes, it’s confinement dressed as belonging.
Especially when your identity was carved for you before you were old enough to know how to say no.When your last name carries more baggage than a small-town airport carousel, and people already have made up their minds about who you are—and who you’ll never be.
In a town like this, reinvention isn’t an option.
You get labeled.Sorted.Filed away in a drawer that’s been collecting dust since the eighth grade.
You’re the shy one.
The brain.
The girl whose dad disappeared.
The one whose mom drank too much, slept around, and treated morals like a suggestion, she never got around to reading.
The harlot’s daughter.
The preacher’s granddaughter.
The cautionary tale.
Birchwood Springs is that town.And I grew up right in the thick of it.
And I hated it.I hated all of it.
It wasn’t the place.
How could it be when the trees are beautiful in October, and the lake’s always still in the morning?It’s not the landscape I wanted to escape—it’s the version of me that lived inside its lines.
I was never my mother.Never my grandmother either.But that didn’t stop anyone from making up their minds before I even had the chance to grow into my skin.The whispers never stopped.They followed me like smoke.
“She’s Nina’s daughter.She’ll end upjust likeher mother.”
It didn’t matter that I left.
It didn’t matter how far I ran or how long I stayed gone.
The moment they realized I was here, it started again.
Same looks.Same stories.Same people wondering how long it’ll take before I unravel, just like she did.
