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“You aren’t Brantley, Daisy. I don’t believe you’ll ever be happy cheating your way to the top.”
“I’ll never be happy if I don’tgetto the top,” I say, my throat going tight.
She sighs heavily. “Look, you know I’ll stand beside you no matter what, babe. I adore you. Just try to have some fun while you’re in that backwoods town, okay? Can you do that for me?”
Sadie has never, ever asked me for anything. “I’ll try to have fun, but it won’t change anything. I’m getting that promotion, no matter what it takes.”
∞∞∞
After I hang up with Sadie, I stare at the wall, thinking about what she said and trying to take my emotion out of it.
She’s right that I might have pushed a bit too hard this last time, trying to bring in the perfect author and polish her manuscript to absolute fucking perfection.
And I did it. No one will ever know my name or understand what the book would have been without me, but I’ll know. Every person whose soul is altered by reading that book will have me to thank almost as much as the author.
The author writes the words and creates the art, but I’m the one who makes it easy to swallow, who smooths the rough edges and takes it to the next level.
And any amount of sacrifice is worth that. No value can be placed on life-changing art, and I’m willing to give up a few nights of sleep to make that happen.
Especially if I can do it on a timeline that will guarantee me a promotion.
Not that it worked.
The whinny sounds again, closer this time. My room is on the wrong side of the house to see out to the pastures and barns, but I want to see who’s making that sound.
I shut down the urge. I should ignore the sound and get to work on the manuscript Fernwood sent.
I open my laptop and tap my fingers on my desk.
The whinny sounds again, and this time it’s a siren call I can’t resist.
An empty silence fills the house as I move through it, my bare feet slapping on the wood floors the only sound. This house feels cavernous after years of living in a shoebox with three roommates in New York City.
With crown moldings, shiny hardwood floors, and expensive art on the walls, our father spared no expense crafting this prison for my sisters and I. The final manipulation from a man who spent his life conning and taking.
I step out the front door with a sigh of relief. I shouldn’t be here and, if I were a stronger person, I wouldn’t be. Every day here makes my shoulders dip lower as I fail to get my job and my life in the city back. As I fail repeatedly to re-connect with my sisters. I’ve never been good with people, but I’ve always been especially bad with family.
I’m sure they think I’m cold, unfeeling, and I don’t know how to tell them it’s the opposite. Getting closer to them means so much to me that I’m terrified of messing it up. So, I retreat when I should move closer. I clam up when I should open up.
I’ve got nothing to give them right now, except my sad story. When I get my job back, they’ll understand who I really am.
No one wants to get close to a loser.
It’s a warm day in early May, so I don’t put on shoes, but go outside barefoot, the cool grass rough under my soles.
Like the interior of the house, the outside is gorgeous, bordered on one side by forest, old-growth trees surrounding the house, keeping it cool in summer. From our thirteen acres, we’ve got a gorgeous view of the mountains and an easy walk to the state park that starts at the edge of our property.
I used to spend most of my summers barefoot as a kid, running free and proud of my tough feet.
A sharp pebble sends a spike of pain through my heel. I hiss and hop for a second. Guess my feet aren’t as tough as they once were.
“You okay?” Noah’s sitting on the porch swing, wearing the slacks and button-down he typically only wears when he goes into town to check on the renovations being made to his new clinic.
I don’t know how I walked right past without seeing him. “I thought I heard a whinny.”
He looks tired and a bit sad, but he pushes to his feet and hops over the porch rail to join me on the grass. I can’t take my eyes off him as he makes the smooth movement, his biceps flexing, his dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of chest hair and muscled pecs. He hits the ground and I blink, trying to remember he’s my best friend.
Unlike me, he’s got shoes on - swanky dress shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Noah doesn’t like to talk about it, but he’s loaded. He’s got a trust fund from his family, but he rarely flaunts his wealth.
