Page 46 of Double Bucked

There are the powder-blue walls I was forced to stare at when Daddy locked me in here as punishment. There are the books that kept me company. A line of stuffed animals sitting on a shelf above my bed—to look at, only, not to touch. There’s my trophy case, each blue ribbon set out on proud display.

And then there’s the wall of Belleflower Queens.

I walk toward the wall, remembering how I used to study each poster meticulously. They’re mini posters, each framed and hung along the wall. Not every Belleflower Queen, but my favorites. 1974, Lynn Beckett, with a stern but handsome expression. 1994, Maeve Belladonna “Maeby” Katherine, with her effortless, pixie-like beauty. Cassie Sinclaire, 1999, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. Some of the newer posters have signatures scrawled at the bottom. My own personal collection. These were the women I looked up to—their beauty, their grace, their strength.

The Maeby poster is special. She signed it with a pistol shot. The exit wound is ripped through the poster paper, making it pucker outward like a white clover. My fingertips touch the picture frame, and I scrape a line of dust across the glass.

This used to be my entire world.

The dream to be a Belleflower Queen was my entire existence.

Even now that I’m a different person, a grown adult, with her own apartment, her own fiancé, her own life in Paris…

There’s a longing here. Like a phantom limb.

But all dreams turn to dust. Eventually.

I sneeze. This room is going to make me sick with allergies.

There’s one more artifact I want to uncover first.

I crouch down and run my fingers along the lowest rung of my bookshelf. All the way to the right, I press my fingers against a panel in the shelf. It wobbles, loose, and I push the panel so it slides back.

My secret place. The small, hidden spot where I kept my journal with all my young, angsty teenage thoughts.

But when I slide the panel back, there’s nothing but an empty gap in the wood.

My diary. It’s gone.

Unbidden, rage swells up inside of me.

Daddy found all my secrets, then. Found them and burned them, probably.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Maybe it’s better to leave the past in the past.

I replace the panel, get to my feet, and exit the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

When I go to the master bedroom, James is off his call. He’s in bed, iPad in his lap, finger on the screen. The lamplight halos his dark curls, softening his features. The screen reflects in his glasses.

My heart wiggles and twists like a fish on a hook.

Yes. The past in the past.

I’m worn to the bone, and I’m too exhausted to shower off. James has unpacked us, and my bottle of Ambien sits on the oak bedside table, along with a glass of water. I take a pill and swallow it down. Then I shed my hellish dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. I climb under the sheets and into bed with James. He opens his body to me, extending his arm out around me, and I rest my head on his chest. His body is hard and sturdy, and his heart has a nice, predictable thump against my ear.

“Everything alright, love?” he murmurs.

“Who were you on the phone with?”

“Work.”

He strokes a hand through my hair. I peer at his iPad screen.

He’s watching a captioned documentary about the Jurassic period.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

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