To Adalyn and Everly. I hope you always love yourselves as much as I love you.
She was just supposed to be a job I turned down.
I’ve been picky about my clients before, and when I was approached by a man with ties to the mafia in search of his daughter, my immediate answer was no. His personal private investigator had recently died under mysterious circumstances, and I didn’t want to meet the same fate.
Then I saw Rosalie’s picture.
I should’ve walked away.
I didn’t.
The last of the fireworks burst in the dark sky over the trees in the distance, and I watch the sparks die away. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine the cheers and other happy sounds from Maryville.
Parties and celebrations are happening right now.
Without me.
Underneath one more explosion, people are laughing, kissing, and making plans to raise hell together later.
The white lights fizzle out.
And then it’s done.
Quiet.
Dark.
If I sniff the air coming through my cracked window really deeply, I can smell food from the festival. Fried, sweet, delicious food.
My stomach rumbles, but as I release the grip on the curtain, my appetite turns to disappointment, weighing heavily in my gut.
I’ve never been to a firework show up close before, or pigged out on greasy treats until I can’t eat another bite, and it’s likely I never will.
Unless I take matters into my own hands.
Unless I defy my mother, the one person who’s always been there for me. The only person who’s ever loved me.
The person who smothers me until I feel like I’m suffocating.
Conflicting feelings about my mom wage war inside me as I look over my shoulder. My eyes go to the Hello Kitty backpack shoved underneath my bed. My grab-and-go bag. It’s been packed with the essentials for three days. Hidden by a few teddy bears surrounding it, it blends in with the rest of the childish décor of my bedroom.
My four-poster twin bed has a frilly pink canopy. The slanted ceilings above it are covered with clouds and angels—something I’m proud of because I painted it myself. There’s a bookcase next to my computer desk. It’s stocked with my favorite novels and every edition of Teen Magazine from the past six years. The pages are weathered, and the spines are worn from reading them so many times.
Next to that is my favorite area. My easel stands proudly, holding acrylic paints and brushes in the storage bins attached to it.
Countless colorful canvases litter the room. Some are mounted around my window, but this attic doesn’t have enough wall space for every painting I’ve done. The most recent artworks are stacked in the corner. All of them are of faraway places. Forests, mountains, and monuments like Mount Rushmore.
Places I’ll only get to touch with a brush.
Unless I leave. I just haven’t decided if I have the guts to do it yet.
Mom thinks keeping me here is for the best. She says I’m sick. Too crazy to fit in with other people. That I wouldn’t even know how to act in a crowd.
Maybe she’s right, but I won’t find out for sure if I never try.
Sighing, I’m about to turn away from the window, but movement by the hedges outside grabs my attention.
I blink at the shadows, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me again. Maybe it’s a coyote or a racoon. Living this far from town, it’s not uncommon to see wildlife roaming our lawn.
Or maybe it’s him.
Preston.
The new groundskeeper is easy on the eyes. The first time I saw him, I felt like an electrical shockwave traveled through my entire body. I swear my heart raced for hours after a glimpse of him chopping wood, with his muscles rippling under his black T-shirt.
Admittedly, I’m a total creep when it comes to him.
I’ve spent the last two months discreetly staring at him whenever I can.
I wonder what it would be like to have a relationship with someone like Preston. Sometimes I imagine he’s mine, and he’s just outside doing some work before coming back in all sweaty. He’d pull me into the shower with him and tell me how much he missed me, how he can’t stand to be away from me for another second.
I know, I’m delusional.
My mom would probably freak out and fire Preston if she knew I paid so much attention to a man. An older man, judging by the gray peppering his dark hair at the temples. And the hired help, no less.
I continue squinting through the glass for a few more seconds, but I see nothing unusual.
Just for the hell of it, I start unbuttoning my nightgown. Trying to be sexy like the girls in the magazines, tilt my head to the side and let my long hair fall over my shoulder as I reveal my chest one inch at a time.
Baring my small breasts, I do a sultry pout as I stare at my reflection in the glass, and I imagine Preston’s out there, watching me. Rubbing my finger over the exposed skin of my upper chest, I notice how pale it is. In the moonlight, I’m almost translucent. I need bronzer. Even better, actual sunlight.
My pout turns to a frown as I graze my flat stomach. I have no curves. My clavicle and ribs stick out, but maybe they wouldn’t if I ate more. I try to, but everything tastes like chalk. Even the turkey feast we made for Thanksgiving dinner tonight was bland and unappealing.
Mother tells me it’s the mental illness. Depression makes people lose their appetite.
Well, I think anyone would be depressed if they had to spend their entire life stuck in the same house. The scenery never changes. Every day is the same as the day before. It’s the same sounds and smells. The tick, tick, ticking of the grandfather clock. The stuffy air.
My senses need variety, damn it.
Ashamed of my bony body and my pathetic attempt to be desirable, I cover myself.
No one’s lurking around at night, especially not Preston. The guy’s a saint. The few times I’ve managed to convince my mother to let me out of this house recently for some fresh air, I purposely sought him out.
Once, I found him in the detached garage meticulously organizing his tools. Another day he was raking leaves from the quarter mile lane to our house. It became obvious very quickly that I was bothering him because he wouldn’t even look my way.
His responses to my questions were mostly grunts before he mumbled an excuse about needing to go somewhere else. Somewhere away from me, doing whatever it is he does for fall cleanup.
Guess Mother gave him the same warning she told all the other employees over the years: stay away from Rosalie or else you’re gone.
It’s a wonder she let me get close enough to talk to him at all. She was probably testing him, and he passed with flying colors.
Turning away from the window, I tell myself I just need to accept the fact that I’m alone. That another year of my life has almost expired, and the world keeps spinning without me in it.
I’ve never understood why some people would wish for invisibility as their superpower. I know what it’s like to not be seen, and it sucks major balls.
A ping from my laptop snuffs out any heavy feelings, and I rush over to check the screen.
JessaBelle2002: Happy early birthday! The big 18 is just hours away! Did you do anything fun tonight?
RosieDoll528: Sorta. The nearest town had a firework show for their annual Thanksgiving festival. I watched from my window.
JessaBelle2002: Oh. Not in a partying mood, huh?