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Misty
I loosely curl my chin-length hair, giving it some texture, then twist it back and away from my face. The rope braid result looks way more complicated than it is to do it.
I’ve dressed in a high-waisted, deep emerald skirt that hits mid-calf with a two-foot slit up the side and paired it with a pink, yellow, and green striped sweater.
Clothes have become my creative outlet, a way to let my true self shine through while being a silent protest of my past.
I’d been raised in a well-off family, but we never fit in with the rich Canadian community, no matter how desperately my parents tried. They’d enrolled me into Baskerville Hall when I was three years old, always reminding me of the status they expected me to reach. My wardrobe had been a sea of muted pastels that looked lifeless with their lack of personality. My parents dressed me up to fit in with the people they desperately wanted to be.
Until…after the “incident,” as my parents like to call it. When I woke up in the hospital with stitches along my back and a soreness between my legs, I’d expected my parents to be angry, furious.
Instead, they cautioned me to be quiet. That it would only come back on me. That he was from a good family and I’d been dating him for several weeks. It didn’t take long for their words to turn accusatory, wanting to know what I had done to bring it on and letting me know they would never be on my side. They made me promise to not tell anyone. That this was the type of secret that would ruin me and not him if it came out. Finally, they told me if I loved them, I wouldn’t ruin this for them.
From the moment my parents said that, I knew I would escape them and everything they represented.
And I did. I filled my life with color. Even went a little overboard with my obsession with college hockey. I allowed myself to do whatever I wanted. Whatever made me feel happy. But I never forgot the lesson I’d learned that day. Even the closest people to you can turn their backs if the situation inconveniences them.
So I let my light shine through, presenting the world with my perfectly happy demeanor, and pushed that darkness deep inside. I locked the helpless rage into a box and tucked it into the corner of my mind, never to think of again.
Then last night, I stood in a room full of pastel dresses, of carefully constructed faces, and that box shook in my soul, reminding me that I do not belong.
I slip on my favorite patent leather Doc Martens that always manage to make me feel stronger. Like I can stomp out any of my problems and lock the door behind me.
The app says my Uber is waiting, but when I exit my building, it’s Nicholas standing there with a wide, welcoming smile as he opens the back door of a black sedan for me.
Alarm bells ring in my head as I take in the strange sight. “What are you doing here?”
He shifts on his feet and loosens his perfectly tied tie. “Mr. Everette has requested that I remain your driver for the foreseeable future.”
“What?” The word snaps out, and my mouth opens in shock. I stare at Nicholas for several seconds, but when he doesn’t correct himself, I pull up the Uber app again.
“Not happening,”I say without looking up. “You can tell your boss thank you, but I’m not interested.”
“Understandable, Miss Hart. It would be a great favor to me if you let me drive you until you can speak of this with Mr. Everette himself.”
He looks so agitated that all the air pushes from my lungs. I’m not angry with him.
“Just this once.”
The corner of his lip lifts, and he bows his head slightly. “Of course, miss.”
We’re quiet on the ride. The tension of the situation makes it hard for me to put on my usual happy persona. When we arrive, I make sure I thank him genuinely and apologize for any inconvenience.
“No inconvenience at all. It’s an honor to drive someone so important to Mr. Everette.”
He makes absolutely no sense. I’m a lowly PR rep, and I might be good at my job, but this entire situation has me trying to sort out any rational reason, and I come up empty.
I’ll give it an hour to get myself under control before calling Damon. His name conjures up images of him standing in front of me, his breath filling my lungs with each inhale. I shake my head. Better make it a few hours.
Thank God he’s almost never here, so at least I don’t have to worry about running into him.
I go to my cubicle first, dropping off my things and checking my emails before heading down two floors to the fitness center. Since the building houses an NHL team, it’s stocked with the finest equipment. There’s a lap pool, a weight room, and even a running track that circles the entire floor.
Directly in the center of the space is the juice bar that enticed me down here.
“Hey, Mike. The usual, please.”
The attendant waves in acknowledgment. “One orangesicle smoothie coming up.”
