Page 2 of Building What's Meant to Be

Likely, after what happened in LA, I’ll have to do some damage control. I should throw a Great Gatsby-esque party and invite everyone I know. Show my parents that I’m well on my way to making something of myself, despite their doubts.

When I pull up to the wrought iron gate, thankful there isn’t a doorman this time, I scour my memory for the code and hope that it hasn’t been changed. It swings open and I speed down the driveway, summoned by the lure of a thick featherbed and Egyptian cotton sheets.

The dim yellow glow of dawn emanates from behind the house, facing the east. How is it almost dawn?

“Welcome home,” I say with a laugh as I slam the BMW’s door and then go around to the side entrance where the housekeeper used to hide a key under a rock. Of course, she’s not likely to be here this time of year either.

I’m all alone and no longer on the run. Relief sweeps through me along with fatigue. The same Christian Louboutin crystal embellished high heels I’ve been wearing since yesterday and causing a significant amount of swelling in my feet, click along the slate path. I crouch and lift the volleyball-sized granite rock. My nail catches and chips. I mutter under my breath. When I stand to unlock the door, it swings open.

My oldest brother, John, stands in the doorway. His trim hair is dark and so are his eyes. “A rare appearance by the adult lady child.”

A director once instructed me to dramatically grimace. I wear that exact expression now. Then again, everything I do is dramatic. John should know that by now, but the adult lady child comment? We can discuss when the granite rock no longer looks like a potential pillow.

“Ah, I stand corrected. You make plenty of public appearances, but not too many in the presence of the Humbers. What are you doing here, Tinsley?”

My instinct is to balk. But this is typical John—always quick to point out my shortcomings, especially because I was short growing up. At a shave under five feet ten, I’ve now caught up. I shove past him and drop my bag on the floor. “No, ‘Hi, sis. Haven’t seen you in a while. Welcome!’ Where are your manners?” I huff then slide into my familial role. “You can bring this up to whatever bedroom is available. I’d prefer one with an ocean view and balcony.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Tinsley, you’re persona non grata.”

I squint at him. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already this testy so early in the morning. John Humber III Esquire has always been a very unhappy man. And yes, even when we were kids, we’d joke that he was “The old man.” The kind of kid that would holler at us for playing tag on the freshly mown lawn—not that he was the one to do the work. He always needed quiet, order, and for everything to be just so.

I’ll have to “reorganize” his closet later. He he.

He’s the oldest and I’m the youngest and we couldn’t be farther apart, opposites, in every way.

“Why the look of confusion? Do you need me to translate? Persona non grata means—” he starts.

“I know what it means.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

He stabs the air with his finger. “Ah, then you’re wondering why the change in status.”

The comment drops like a pebble into the chasm because I probably know why even though he’s revving up to tell me.

“Mother and Father do not approve of your lifestyle. You were given every opportunity to make the right choices, to make this family proud, and to live a respectable life. When you choseto flush your privilege down the drain along with the family name, they were also forced to make a choice.”

Oof. That hurts a little. “And there I thought you were going to say you’re glad to see me or at least remind me that nothing good ever happens after midnight.”

He snorts. “It doesn’t. And they don’t even know about the most recent incident.” His smile is wry. “But I do.”

“What, do you have an online alert set with my name?”

He shrugs mildly.

“Stalker much?”

“You’re my sister.”

“I thought I was persona non grata.”

He opens his mouth as if to fire back and then closes it. At least for this round, I’ve won. “Mother and Father are yachting.”

“Good for them.” I move deeper into the side entrance breezeway.

“And they said I could have full use of the house until they arrive in June.”

“Good for you,” I say.

He moves to block me.

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