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“Just… you know.” She lowered her gaze to the bag she was yanking clothes out of and bit her bottom lip. “You weren’t exactly treated fairly by any of those reporters back in the day.”
“Exactly,” Tate said, eyes narrowing. “They were total assholes to you.”
“Well, that’s actually what inspired me to do it,” I said, reaching into my other big bag.
Michaela arched a brow. “So you know there’s at least one reporter in the world who isn’t a total vulture?”
“Yeah. I mean, I have other reasons too. I’ve always loved writing.”
“True.” She nodded slowly. “Plus you’re great at it.”
“Thanks. Also, my dad helped me get an internship at the Worthington Observer. So that should help,” I said, pulling a pair of boots out of my bag.
“The college paper?” Michaela’s brows shot up again. “That’s awesome! Your dad is the best.”
“It’s really competitive,” Tate added. “Hardly anyone gets an internship spot there.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “Damn. I hope I didn’t steal it from someone else who was meant to have it.”
Michaela snorted and flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Your only competition would’ve been a bunch of other nepo babies, so you don’t need to feel bad.”
“Hey! Sienna’s not a nepo baby!” Tate said.
I laughed. “It’s fine. Like I said, my dad got the internship for me because he knows a bunch of people here. So technically, I am a sort of nepo baby, right?”
Michaela waved a hand. “Don’t worry. Half the world runs on nepotism. Especially in DC. I think the three of us know that better than most,” she said. She waltzed over to my closet and opened the door. “By the way, you’re so lucky to have a single! I was in a double room for my freshman year, and my roommate had a parrot. That fucking thing squawked constantly. And there was nothing I could do, because she was allowed to have it for some reason.”
“Yikes.” I grimaced and turned to Tate. “Speaking of pets, how’s your cat?”
“She’s okay. Getting old, though. She has arthritis in her hips and hyperthyroidism.”
“Poor thing.” I looked back at Michaela. “That’s what you have, right?”
“Arthritis?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“No, the other one. The thyroid thing.”
“I have hypothyroidism,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s different.”
“Oh, that’s right. How’s that been for you?”
She shrugged. “I’m always cold and tired, but it isn’t life-threatening. Mostly just a huge bummer.” She paused and stared right at me, brows dipping in a slight frown. “Speaking of health stuff… are you completely done with New Zealand?”
I inwardly sighed. I knew this question was coming eventually.
After our high school graduation last year, Tate and Michaela—along with everyone else I knew from Forrester Academy—had either gone to college or found themselves jobs. I wasn’t able to do the same. Spending my last two and a half years of school being hounded by the media and called a liar, attention whore, or crazy by every second person I encountered had really done a number on my head. All because I accused the wrong guy of committing one of the worst crimes of the century.
Supposedly, anyway.
By the time my senior year was over, I was a total wreck. Therapy hadn’t helped at all, and I desperately needed a break from the world before I fell apart. My father knew that, so the day after graduation, he generously presented me with a one-way plane ticket to New Zealand along with a six-month admission to a holistic wellness retreat on the South Island.
At first I felt terribly guilty for needing the extended break from reality. It didn’t make any sense. Why was I so much more traumatized than Tate and Michaela after everything that went down in 2019? They were survivors too—hell, Tate lost his brother that awful night—but they were both able to get on with their lives easily enough after a few months of counseling sessions. Something about my brain was different. I couldn’t shake what happened. Couldn’t stop obsessing over it.
The online and in-person abuse didn’t help, either.
Once I settled in to Harmony Haven, I realized it was actually perfect for me. No one knew me. No one asked me anything, apart from the program counselors who only wanted to help. No one harassed me or called me a dirty liar or crazy bitch. I spent my days helping out on the retreat farm, which was hard but satisfying work, and attending holistic therapy sessions in the evenings.
No phones or computers were allowed in the lodgings, which was difficult at first but wound up being the best thing I’d ever done for my mental wellbeing. Once a week, I was allowed to make a call to a friend or family member or send a letter from the admin’s office, so I was still able to keep in touch with people without ruining my progress.
