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“Let’s go.” Vaughn demands.
I take one last glance at myself. Dark, oversized hoodie, tight jeans, no makeup. My hair was wet when I went to sleep, so now it hangs in messy unbrushed waves.
He’s not going to like what he sees.
Maybe he’ll let me go then.
It’s a silly thought though, because Noah Bancroft will never let me go.
Halloween Night, One Year Earlier
AUDEN IS THE GOLDEN CHILD.
My mother’s face lights up when she descends the stairs in her chiffon gown. Her hair is twisted back in a low bun with loose tendrils curled at the front. The gown is pink and flowing and Auden looks like a princess, which I guess is the intention.
My mother casts me a sideways glance as I crunch a potato chip sitting on the sofa with my feet kicked up on the coffee table.
I didn’t go to prom or any school sanctioned dance, ruining my mother's fantasy of seeing me in a frilly gown. She jumped at the chance to buy Auden a fancy dress, even if only for a Halloween costume.
That’s the difference between Auden and I.
We’re polar opposites. She’s the good child. She plays soccer, gets straight A’s, and wears the cutest dresses my mother fawns over. I smoke too much and barely got into college. The only good thing about me is the boy who loves me—the town’s golden boy.
“You look beautiful.” Mom gushes, placing each of her hands on Auden’s shoulders in that loving way that mothers do.
Auden’s lips, covered in pink gloss, tug up into a smile. She really does look beautiful, it’s a fact that I can’t deny. I can’t quite place where my annoyance at my little sister is coming from.
It could be the fact that she’s living the ultimate high school experience, the one they show in movies, the one you’re supposed to want. Athlete, honor roll, popularity.
Or it could be the way my mother looks at her with love and amazement. It brings a pang to my stomach, makes me feel sick.
Mom poses Auden on the stairway, adjusting her dress and snapping far too many pictures. After each click of the shutter, she leans back from the camera and admires her daughter for another moment.
She doesn’t look at me that way.
My bare feet drop from the coffee table with a thud, grabbing the empty bag of chips I head to the kitchen. Crumpling the garbage and throwing it into the can, I take a deep breath, clearing out my head.
My therapist would tell me to breath through it, to remember all the good things in my life. I have a nice life. My family is normal. We have a home, and cars, and food on the table. I count my blessings, remind myself that I’m okay.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I’m okay.
What she forgets is that my anxiety doesn’t see things the way ‘normal’ people do. I have a good life, but I cling to the bad, to the hopeless. I let myself spiral in situations that have never happened. I cling to the what-ifs. Forcing myself to live in an anxiety filled world that only exists within the walls of my mind.
“What are you up to tonight, champ?” I cringe at the nickname my father uses. Judah Wilder comes into the kitchen at 8 PM, dropping his briefcase on the table and patting me on the shoulder. He’s home late, which is his normal routine since we moved here.
I think he really wanted boys, he doesn’t know how to adjust to only having women in the house. For 20 years, he’s ca
lled me Champ. A silly nickname considering I’ve never won anything in my whole life and definitely not a sport.
“Party at Noah’s.” I tell him, spinning on my heel to face him as he pulls off his blazer, tossing it over the back of a chair and loosens his tie. He’s quick to lose everything that puts him in work mode when he gets home. It’s like he needs to rid himself of the office. I think he feels like scum working there, but the pay is too much to pass up, so he dons the suit and tie and puts on a brave face.
My father was an artist before mom got pregnant with me. Now he’s just a dad and lobbies for things he doesn’t care about, working for one of the richest men in the country. He tries to keep the two separate, but with the long hours the two things have begun to bleed together.
“Bad day?” I ask.
