But my mother…
Of course.
There was no arguing with her. There never is. The women in our family have all been debutantes. Tradition matters more than truth in this world.
I exhale, the tension coiling tighter.
“I can’t believe how rude they are,” McCullough whispered.
“I know,” I told her. “It’s disgusting.”
A beat.
“There are so many rules. Don’t be too loud. Don’t be the last debutante to leave the ball. ‘Leave them wanting more,’ my mom always says.”
Even now, the irony stings.
We stood there in our perfect dresses, feeling small in a room designed to make people feel important. The whole thing started to feel hollow—like a performance no one actually believed in.
And still—when our names were called, we walked forward anyway.
Of course we did.
Heads high. Smiles in place. Like we belonged.
I looked at McCullough, and she smiled at me. And I thought—maybe we’re stronger than this. Maybe it doesn’t matter what they think.
My chest tightens.
We had each other.
And I thought that would be enough.
I close my eyes, the ache rising too fast to contain.
It wasn’t.
It was never going to be.
I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep going, even as the dread builds—slow, inevitable, like a storm already set in motion.
We danced for hours. Stephen, Brandon, McCullough, me. Long enough for my feet to start throbbing in the ridiculous Pucci heels my mother insisted on. They were half a size too small, and by the end of the night my feet were so swollen I could barely stand.
Ican see it now—the forced glamour, the exhaustion underneath.
So I stepped outside. Just for a minute.
My pulse begins to climb.
The breakwater was quiet, overlooking the Gulf. The air was heavy with humidity, thick enough to press against your skin. Not many people lingered out there because of it, which made everything feel… still.
Too still.
The kind of stillness where sound carries.
I stop breathing.
That’s why I heard it.
