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She gives Thea and her mom a dirty look. “Damien, I’ll call you back. Handle it.” Hanging up, she addresses the room. “Here’s the story when the reporter arrives in the morning—”
“Mom.” My severe tone cuts her off. “Take your image worries and your campaign and shove it up your ass.”
“Connor,” she hisses, attention swinging between everyone in the room. “Are you cranky from surgery?”
“Vivian, give him a break,” Dad complains.
Nice sentiment, but too little too late, Dad.
“The come down’s a bitch, but no. I’m done playing your political games. I’m not your dancing circus bear anymore, effective immediately.”
“We can talk about this later.” She sniffs importantly. “When you’re feeling better.”
“Now’s good for me. The thing is, Mom, you have no way to control me anymore. You want the car back? Take it. I’ll buy a new one when I move out.”
She narrows her eyes. “With what money?”
It’s clear from her expression. She thinks she’s got me.
I turn the laptop. “The trust fund from granddad is very generous.” He never told her how much he set aside for me. “And from personal investments. I don’t need you. You can’t keep me under your thumb. If you try controlling me, I’ll release the detailed documented account of your affair with your campaign manager.”
Color drains from her face and her smug look falls before she plasters another blank mask in place to cover for the slip. It’s not as detailed as I make the threat to sound, but my reputation precedes me. She believes my bluff. Still, I go for a final blow.
“Everything. I’ll leak it to your political rivals and the press.”
“Fine,” she snaps.
Thea returns to my side, taking my hand. Together we stand as a united front against my overbearing mother. Nothing has ever felt better.
Forty
Thea
The finishing touches on the sour cream donuts are perfect. They smell amazing and I can’t wait to see Connor’s face when I show him my awesome skills icing these gunshot wound confections, especially with my hand still a little sore from the cut on my palm. It’s almost healed now, along with my other bumps and bruises from that night.
The donuts are more gruesome than my usual style, but it’s worth it to make Connor smile. I set my piping bag aside and lick excess red glaze from my fingers. With the decorating done, I take off the apron protecting my sheer blouse and the high waist fitted goldenrod corduroy skirt with buttons down the front.
Another one of my resolutions: I’m no longer dressing to hide my body. Once I found out the reason Mom was always on my case, it chased away any remaining self-consciousness, allowing me to dress in whatever feels good. I’m moving forward, not letting anything that happened stop me from enjoying my life.
Every day Connor tells me how beautiful I am, echoing my inner goddess of confidence.
I don’t have to choose between Secret Folder Girl and myself, I can just be who I am because I’m enough.
Things are finally settling down. It almost felt weird to start the second semester after such a whirlwind over winter break.
When Connor was discharged from the hospital, we combed the internet, news stations, and talked to Maisy’s dad for any information on the people who took Mr. Coleman into custody. Almost a month later and we still haven’t heard anything.
Connor told me about the necklace he broke into the house to retrieve and how intense the hackers were about it. He is certain those guys killed Mr. Coleman for revenge. They did seem dangerous. But that man is a monster. He won’t be free to attack any other girls.
As for myself, I have an appointment with a therapist specializing in cases like mine to begin working through the trauma I went through. The first thing I did the morning after the hospital was call Maisy over and tell her everything I’d kept from her. She hugged the life out of me, promising to be there for me. It felt good to be open with her and get it off my chest. Pushing the truth out was hard, though. It came in starts and stops, interrupted when I couldn’t speak from my throat tightening with emotion.
I’m a little nervous to continue unpacking the things I haven’t looked at directly about how Mr. Coleman abused me. The pain is so fresh it sometimes blindsides me out of nowhere. Victim. It’s still a weird word in my mouth, as if it doesn’t feel like it should belong to me. But does anyone feel like they’ve achieved the arbitrary required level of trauma before it feels like the right word? Maybe no one ever feels like it’s theirs.
I’m learning to accept the shape of it, because I can’t erase it or pack it away in my brain behind walls.
Not thinking about it won’t make it go away. It’s something I have to face in order to move forward. It doesn’t have to change who I am or define me.
This is another facet of myself I will learn to treat gently.
