Page 78 of Cruel Fate

At least I’ll have time to prepare. I hate him, and I don’t want to see his weaselly face.

Zane kisses me goodbye, and he’s out the door by seven-thirty.

I shower and put on my robe.

After I pin up my damp hair, I sit on the edge of my bed holding a lockbox that has a few things in it that I can never lose like my social security card and a picture of my mom holding me in the hospital. I don’t know who gave it to me or where it came from. It seems like I’ve always had it. My social worker was kind—it could have been her. She retired the year I aged out of the system. She told me she wanted to live in Florida, and I wonder if she made it.

My birth certificate is printed on a large piece of paper, the size of a regular printer sheet. It’s a pretty ombré turning blue at the top to pink at the bottom and it’s textured because it’s an official document. It contains all my stats:

Place of birth: King’s Crossing, Minnesota

Date of birth: November 25th, 2004

Time of birth: 12:06 AM

Hospital: King’s Crossing Regional Hospital

Weight: Six pounds, ten ounces

Length: Eighteen inches

Mother’s name: Gwendolyn Mayfair

The field where my father’s name would have gone is blank.

I don’t know why Zane asked. It’s strange—you can’t do anything without your birth certificate. I needed it to apply for my driver’s license. I have one, but I don’t drive. Maryanne helped me learn. She said even if I couldn’t afford a car, it was wise to know how, and having an ID is important.

I’m always sad whenever I think about my mom. I don’t remember her, and the woman in the picture is a stranger. The infant she holds means nothing to me. I can’t pick out my features from the little baby’s face, nor from my mother’s. I must look like my father, whoever, and wherever, he is.

Dressing in my new clothes should have made me feel good, but it doesn’t. Not as good as I would have felt had I been able to purchase them on my own. I choose a pretty, high-waisted skirt and a blouse that wasn’t made to go with it but still matches.

Applying my makeup, I keep my cell on the sink, mindful of the time. I’m just finishing coating my lashes with mascara when Zarah messages and asks if I have plans after work.

I don’t want Hector following me around, leering. Especially since he witnessed my panic attack and did nothing but antagonize me further. I should do what I told Zane I was going to do and catch up on my classes, but I tell her I’m free because I care about her and want to check in. All I can do is be a good friend and remind her I’m around if she needs me.

She says to meet her at the Lyndhurst at five-thirty, assuming I know where it is. I do, but I’ll need to leave work ten minutesearly to have enough time to ride the bus. I gnash my teeth in irritation, but this meeting is work-related. We’ll be talking about Zane’s party, and I won’t let myself feel guilty because I need to leave before I’m supposed to.

Everyone on the executive floor is busy settling in for the day, and I sit at my desk and log into the employee portal. Harper has filled my inbox, and I get to work on those projects and checking off the RSVPs which have thankfully slowed down. I forget about lunch with Mina until a notification pops up on my computer screen reminding me of the event.

Crap.

If I’m going to be organized and keep track of Zane, I need to learn to keep better track of myself. I hope Mina isn’t as nasty as I remember, and I’m glad I wore something nice today.

I transcribe voice memos and recorded meetings all morning, and meeting Mina is a welcome break. Her eyes appraise me as the hostess leads me to her small table. The restaurant she chose is airy, full of light, and sunflowers sit on the floor in several expensive-looking planters. My heels click against the tile, and I feel sophisticated when everyone stops eating to stare at me as I walk to Mina’s table.

“Stella, you’re even prettier than I remember,” she says, smiling.

She’s more casual today, her red hair swirling around her shoulders, and her makeup isn’t as thick.

I remember what Zarah said the night we planned Zane’s party. I’m no longer Stella Mayfair meeting a friend for a casual lunch. I’m representing Maddox Industries, and I force a pleasant smile onto my face and warmth into my tone. “Mina. Thank you so much for inviting me,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. She rises halfway off her chair, and we trade air kisses as she squeezes my fingers. I want to laugh at the absurdity. I’ll always have a difficult time pretending to be something I’m not.

She orders a bottle of white wine, and I can’t get over all these places that don’t check my ID. Not that I’ll have any. I’m working and I can’t drink.

“You’re interested in helping foster children?” she asks, pulling out a tablet. She doesn’t waste time trying to chitchat. I appreciate that—I don’t have anything to say to her.

I think it’s fitting, since I used to be one, and I briefly explain my childhood. “Kids go through a lot when they’re fostered. Many don’t have their own things, and even if they find a stable family, there’s not a lot of money to go around.”

She smiles her thanks at the waiter who serves her wine. I may have judged her too harshly, and I feel bad. Maybe because I was determined I didn’t fit in, I made myself not fit in. My cheeks pink with shame. Like Zane said, Mina didn’t judge me, and I shouldn’t do it to others.

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