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All these hideous white flowers belong in the trash. I swipe a vase off my desk, sending it into the bin. My heart aches for the flowers—it’s not their fault.
Another card reads the same words as the first.
I snap.
Anger, boiling and flashing, seeps into my bones. I’ve never felt this viscerally broken.
How dare Lance or my mother encroach on the only place in this house that’s all mine?
The cool fall air beats against my skin as I rip open the window. I grab a vase and chuck it off the balcony and into my backyard.
A loud crash ricochets. My back patio glistens with shattered glass, mimicking how I feel. Messy. Fractured. A delicate flower waiting to be destroyed.
I laugh or cry; I’m not sure at this point. My vision burns red as I grab another victim, tossing the bouquet out of my window. Again and again. One after the other, I drop the vases into my backyard.
For all the times my parents refused to listen to me.
For every part of myself that I sacrificed for them.
For each unwanted advance from Lance that I let slide.
For letting my voice turn into a whisper in my own mind.
No more.
Tears stream down my face.
A message chimes on my phone.
Is it Matthew?
I reach for my phone and unlock it.
Lance
Made reservations at Carbone at 7 on Monday
I scroll through the graveyard of ignored messages from the last two weeks.
It’s just like Lance to not give me a choice. When we’d be forced to go to dinner, on the rare occasions we needed to be seen in public, he would always order for me, comment on the waitresses, or ignore me completely.
I can’t deal with this.
With the next vase, I let go of my phone, sending it to the ground below.
The broken glass glimmers like diamonds in the moonlight. The white flowers lie strewn among the debris, their petals bruised and torn. They still look too perfect, too fake, probably just like my existence always has.
I’m going to need to clean this up. My house manager, Olivia, shouldn’t have to fuss over another one of my disasters.
It can’t be that hard, right?
An hour later, the backyard is as clean as I could manage. The stewing anger in my veins is dragging me down with fatigue. My palms sting; bandages cover the small cuts from the vases.
My parents will continue to move the goalposts until I’m backed into a corner and forced to put our family business before myself. That’s not an option. I’d rather forfeit my trust and become the outcast of the family than marry someone I do not want.
The realization feels sobering, but with it comes a trickle of guilt.
Matthew’s rightfully owed the money I promised him. I can get through the next month and a half, like we agreed in Sedona. Then we’ll just get back to being strictly business.
