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“What did you have?” Austin studied me.
“Excuse me?” I didn’t like the insinuation in his voice.
“To eat? What did you have?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I snapped. “But I had a roasted vegetable and pesto salad from Roast ‘n’ Go.”
“Rory, baby, you’re killing me here,” Connor groaned. “Where’s the meat? The carbs? The tasty goodness.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” An awkward chuckle spilled out of me.
“Maybe not. But we’ve got enough to feed an army here. Sit, eat, hang.”
“Con is right, Sis. Eat with us. It’s one takeout. It won’t hurt.” His heavy stare was too invasive. As if he saw the truth in my eyes.
That even if I wanted to eat with them, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Yeah, come on, little Hart. We can—”
“Something smells good.” Noah wandered into the room, freshly showered and annoyingly gorgeous. His eyes flashed to mine, apology shining there. But I glanced away as if his gaze burned.
“I have a bunch of reading to get through.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and an apple from the fruit bowl. “But enjoy all your carbs.”
“Aurora—”
I waved them off, heading out of the kitchen.
I had no plans to study. Not tonight. Tonight, I had a date with my favorite book-boyfriend.
Mr. Edmund Bertram.
It had been at least a few months since I’d slipped between the pages of Mansfield Park. But every time was like coming home.
Inside my room, I powered up my cell phone while changing into my fluffy lounge pants and hoodie, grabbed my tattered copy of the book, and got comfortable on the window seat.
It was easy to open the book and fall back into the bookmarked scene because I knew the story. Lovers of Austen’s works rarely loved Fanny Price the way they loved Elizabeth Bennet or Elinor Dashwood. She was self-righteous to a fault, uptight, and awfully judgmental. But I’d always related to the quiet parts of her.
I knew her struggles, her inner turmoil, and her low self-esteem. I knew what it felt like to be invisible and deeply, deeply misunderstood.
If only I could find her ability to speak up when it counted.
I’d tried over the years—I was still trying. But finding my voice after a childhood of being silenced and ignored, it wasn’t easy.
My cell phone vibrated, but I ignored it. And the second message. And third.
But there was no ignoring the knock on my door five minutes later.
“Shortcake?” Noah called. “I know you’re in there.”
“Go away, Noah.”
“I’m coming in.”
I leapt up. “Don’t you—Noah! You can’t just barge in here.”
“We need to talk.”
“No, we really don’t.”
