She had hoped he wasn’t.
“We take an interest in anything that affects Oregon’s infrastructure.” His smile didn’t falter. “Though some of us wonder if the scope might be a bit… overreaching. Given the current political climate.”
“The current political climate seems quite favorable, actually,” she said, returning the chilly smile. “Seventy-three percent of Oregonians support expanded broadband access.”
“Polls can be fickle things. So can public opinion.” He adjusted his cufflinks, an idle gesture that managed to be a threat. “I’m sure you understand the value of… careful positioning.”
“I understand the value of doing my job, Mr. Holt. If you’ll excuse me.”
She walked away before he could respond, her heels striking the floor with more force than necessary. The back of her neck prickled with the certainty that he was still watching. Thornfield had been circling for weeks now, ever since the bill had gained traction. They stood to lose millions if it passed, because of the added costs of broadband infrastructure.
They’d find something to use against her. They always did. The divorce had already done its circles through the news, but they’d find something else.
Or make something up.
Melissa made herself stop, take a breath, smooth her expression back into something camera-ready. A cluster of small business owners waved her over, and she went, because that was what she did. She went where she was needed, said what needed saying, smiled until her face ached.
Across the room, Lila had finished her juice box and was now carefully folding the empty container into a tiny accordion.
By ten-thirty, the crowd had thinned enough for Melissa to make her exit. She collected Lila’s coloring book and markers, helped her into her cardigan, and guided her toward the door with a hand on her small shoulder.
“Did you have fun, sweetheart?”
Lila considered this with seven-year-old gravity. “Mrs. Anderson said my elephant was ‘creative.’” A pause. “I think she meant it was bad.”
“Elephants are very difficult to draw. I’m sure it was lovely.”
“It had six legs.”
“Some elephants are more ambitious than others.”
Lila regarded her with serious eyes, as if trying to decide if her mother was making fun of her or not, and Melissa once again felt like she did everything wrong with her child.
The June morning was already warming as they stepped into the parking lot, sunlight cutting through the scattered clouds. Redwood Hollow spread out around them in its familiar patchwork, and Melissa imagined it in her mind’s eye: the brick storefronts of downtown visible a few blocks north, the green rise of hills to the east, the houses spreading out. In the air hung the faint smell of pine, drifting down from the forests surrounding the town.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“What’s ‘overreaching’ mean?”
Melissa’s step faltered. Lila had been listening. Of course Lila had been listening—she was always listening, always watching, absorbing everything with those quiet grey-blue eyes that were too observant for comfort.
“It means… trying to do too much at once.” Melissa unlocked the car, held the back door open. “Why do you ask?”
“The man in the shiny suit said it about you.” Lila climbed into her booster seat. “He seemed mean.”
“He’s not mean, exactly. He just wants different things than I do.”
“That’s what you said about Dad.”
The words hit like a sucker punch, perfectly aimed, even though Lila hadn’t meant for it to hurt. Melissa busied herself with the seatbelt, with adjusting the straps, with anything that meant not meeting her daughter’s eyes.
“That’s different,” she said, and hated how thin her voice sounded.
Lila didn’t push. She rarely did. She just accepted the non-answer with that unsettling composure that Melissa recognized too well—the same composure she’d taught herself at the same age, sitting quiet in corners while her parents fought, learning that stillness meant safety.
You’re supposed to be better than this. She’s supposed to be different.
