Page 31 of American Beauty

Abandonment. Being forgotten.

My life story.

The girl I used to be—the one who wanted to be wanted, who clung to love even when it was slipping through her fingers—doesn’t exist anymore.

I can’t be her again. I won’t. It hurts too much.

So I swallow the scream lodged in my throat, sit up a little straighter, and force the tears back down.

He doesn’t want my love? Fine. He won’t have it again. Even if it kills me to let him go.

Violet says nothing. She just sits beside me and slips her hand into mine. And together, we sit in the quiet wreckage of what I thought was my forever.

Love has done me dirty.

Chapter 8

Alex Sebring

The only thingworse than driving to a job I hate is driving to a job I hate without the love of my life in the passenger seat beside me.

“Love” by Kyle McKearney hums low through the speakers. It’s one of those songs that carries her in every note. Not because she played it. Not because it’s her favorite. She doesn’t even listen to this kind of music. But every time I hear this song, I see her. Feel her. Like the lyrics were written by a man who knows exactly what it’s like to love someone the way I love Magnolia.

I pull into the Sebring Hotels corporate lot with the energy of a bloke stepping onto the rugby field with no heart left for the game. No adrenaline. No grit. Just going through the motions, when the only thing I want is to be on a different field entirely—one where she’s waiting on the sidelines, cheering me on.

The sleek glass facade of the building reflects the morning sun like it’s doing something impressive, but all it does is remind me how cold everything is without her sweet Southern twang in my ear.

I tried calling her when I got up and again on my way to work. No answer. It’s afternoon for her, so she’s probably tiedup with work. That’s what I tell myself when my call goes to voicemail.

She’s probably elbow-deep in pillows, fabric swatches, and furniture layouts. Solving on-set chaos like it’s nothing––that’s Magnolia. Focused. Brilliant. Turning blank spaces into something beautiful.

Her voice has become my favorite part of the morning. She says my voice does the same for her—even when it’s already afternoon where she is. So when my call didn’t go through, I left her a voice message.

Wish I could start every day hearing your voice. Fuck, I miss you. Love you, favorite.

Maybe she’ll listen to it on her break, and it’ll make her smile.

I enter the building, nodding to the lobby receptionist before heading upstairs. In my office, I drop my bag by the desk and shrug out of my jacket. The space is modern—polished hardwood, steel accents, and the faint scent of espresso drifting from the break room down the hall. I used to feel like an impostor in this world. Some days, I still do. But lately, the weight of it hasn’t felt quite so suffocating.

Because love has a way of softening sharp edges.

A soft knock breaks through my thoughts. Courtney steps in, polished as always, a folder in hand. “Morning. Here’s your rundown for the day—meeting with Wyndham-Hawthorne Strategy Group at eleven, an investor call at two, and your mother called twice. She said it wasn’t urgent, which means it probably is.”

She doesn’t hand me a written agenda, just a verbal rundown like she’s done since I took the reins my father held for so long.

Perhaps she thinks I’m not cut out for this job. If so, she’s right. I’ll never fill my father’s shoes. His are too polished. Too tight. And to be frank, too small for my size fourteen feet.

“Thanks.”

I pull out my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Still nothing from Magnolia. I place it on my desk and open my email.

Instant regret.

The inbox is a disaster. My jaw tics as I scroll through subject lines. Why do so many damn people feel the need to email me? Half of this shit could’ve been handled without looping me in.

Leilani’s been out sick the past couple of days. I hate to say it, but I miss her loud mouth and relentless sarcasm. Without her, I’m drowning in this inbox, and it’s clear how much I need her help to stay afloat.

I’m knee-deep in emails, scrolling through corporate jargon designed to confuse me. The unread count at the top of the screen climbs every time I blink, like it’s mocking me. I flag one for later, delete another, but it’s like bailing water from a sinking ship with a thimble. I’m falling behind. Like always.

---