Page 7 of Anger

Because I didn’t know the right words to say.

I’m the only one to blame when we come back from these nightmare weekends to realize there’s no one waiting to heal us anymore.

There’s nobody else to blame in this.

I turn off my phone without dialing her number because, in the end, it’s my fault I’m homeless.

Amélie

Present

I don’t know about this.

Walking beside Brinley into a massive mansion that’s larger than some of the extended stay hotel buildings I’ve lived in, I paste on as bright a smile as I can, hoping like hell nobody can see how fake it is.

There are a lot of places in this world where a girl like me belongs, but I can promise you, this isn’t one of them.

We near the ornately carved front doors of the mansion, and Brinley walks with confidence despite her casual clothes. It’s not the environment that scares her, nor the people. Honestly, I have no idea why she’s always so nervous around large crowds, but that’s just who she is.

But this scene?

These people?

She grew up with them.

Not me. The only time my family would be invited in is if we were hired as the help. And even that’s questionable. The second they ran a background check, they’d be booting me out the front door.

I haven’t done anything wrong, though, and I have a mostly clean record. It’s just that I never stay in one place long enough to establish roots or have a verifiable identity. There are some points in my life that are blank slots, time periods when I technically never existed.

Why we lived that way, I have no idea. My mother liked running for some reason. Not that I believe anything was chasing her. It would have been nice to live a normal childhood with friends, and birthday parties and prom. But that’s not the life my mother wanted. She could never settle in one place for long. And because my brother and I were just kids, we had no choice but to tag along.

Stepping into the governor’s mansion, I can’t help that my eyes grow big. A whistle slips over my lips at the splendor of it. When I’ve imagined dying and going to heaven, this is what I see as God’s palace.

The ceilings are insanely tall with decorative lighting built into recessed boxes. It’s not that flat shit I’m used to, the kind with rough popcorn texture and water stains.

“Check out this place,” I say, not really paying attention to the people filling it. “I can’t even imagine what it costs.”

Brinley doesn’t answer me, and it’s not a difficult task to figure out why. She’s already eyeing the people attending the soirée, her nervous energy like a heavy blanket surrounding her.

It does nothing to help soothe mine.

However, between the two of us, I’m the outgoing one. So it’s my job to light a fire under her ass to find the governor and hand over the flash drive so we can get the hell out of here.

What else is there to do but wing it?

It’s not like I’m blending very well with my long blue hair and black, skintight outfit. I might as well pretend to belong until someone comes along and escorts me out.

Brinley and I continue forward, and just when I think I may be able to pull this off, some rich bitch in a gown that does nothing to flatter her skin tone or figure walks by. Her steps slow as she takes a long gander at me.

Ignoring her, I smile at her husband whose arm links hers. I laugh when he damn near breaks his neck trying to keep me in view as they pass. His wife smacks his shoulder, pointing a finger at his face while she whisper-yells at him and picks up her pace through the foyer.

I don’t get it. All these people with more money than they know what to do with and they want to spend their time at these boring ass parties.

Maybe living poor is the way to go.

A blessing of sorts.

We never get bored because we’re too busy trying to find the next hustle, or a meal for the night. There’s no time for kissing ass or rubbing elbows—or whatever it is these people do to stay relevant.

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