Chapter 44 Winnie
WINNIE
Being back in my childhood home doesn’t feel half as strange as I thought it would.
It almost feels normal. Since I left, nothing has changed.
Upon getting in from the flight, neither one of my parents say a word to me.
My father sits his ass in front of the television, and my mother gets herself a glass of white wine and plops down next to him.
He turns on sports, and she scrolls through her phone.
I make my way to my bedroom and flick on the lights.
There’s my pale blue bedspread, and my fluffy white pillows.
The carpet I chose when I was seventeen and never updated.
The vanity and tufted, velvet stool. The photos I pinned around the mirror.
Me and Carly, at last year’s winter carnival.
And a few from my first trip to Star Mountain.
For a moment, I find it comforting. This place was my sanctuary away from them.
The one space in the house that I got to decorate, that I got to call my own.
And then it hits me how small it is. How little I ever had here, and how much I was starting to build in Star Mountain.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands.
I barely got the chance to be independent. To be free. It was there and then gone in a flash and now I’m back in this tiny, tiny life. I should have savored the last six weeks. I should have memorized each day—especially the ones spent with Jonah.
A knock sounds at my door, drawing me from my thoughts.
“Winsome!” My mom’s shrill voice sounds through the room.
“Yes?” I pop my head through the door.
“Your phones, please.” She sticks her hand out at me.
“Why?” I keep the door slightly ajar, not wanting her to invade the one space I can call my own.
“You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to let you have a phone after that little stunt you pulled, did you? No, you’ll only get to use your phone for work. And if you’ve been good.”
“I’m not a child,” I grit out.
“Well, when you act like one, running away from us like you did, then you get treated like one. Phones, Winsome. Now. And both of them. I know you must have a second one somewhere.”
I close the door in her face and lock it, and try not to listen to her shrieks of anger.
I dig the phones out of my purse and quickly sign out and delete my banking applications from both phones.
I do the same for my social media accounts and then quickly power them both off.
She’ll need my password to get into my burner phone, but hopefully I can avoid giving it to her for a bit longer.
I don’t want her to go through it and see my private communication, especially not my messages to Jonah.
She’ll find a way to use anything against me.
I open the door and hold them out to her.
“Finally,” she huffs. “Be ready tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., sharp. We have a lot to get done. We’re relaunching your social media accounts by the end of the week.”
And then she’s gone, stalking down the hallway with the last remnants of my freedom in her hand.
I didn’t consider that she might take my phones—my one way of communicating with the outside world, of getting out.
I left Star Mountain in a daze, too upset and worried to think straight.
At least I deleted my banking apps before she could get her hands on them.
I fling open my drawers, digging through them until I find the old tablet I stashed in there. But it’s dead. And so old that none of the chargers I have work for it.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
How will I contact Candice? Or Carly? I need to let her know I’m back in town. And what about Jonah? He probably doesn’t want anything to do with me by now—he’s probably read the letter and signed the divorce papers and washed his hands of me. But what if he needs to get in touch for some reason?
And how will I plan my next escape? I won’t stay here forever. I can’t.
I take a deep breath and let it out. And another. Another.
But it doesn’t work. I don’t feel any calmer or more relaxed. I pace around my room, breathing in and out, waiting for my anxiety to subside.
It doesn’t.
The next day, my mom turns her full attention towards getting me back to my former Miss Alabama self. She slathers me in fake tan, and I wince at how orange I look in the mirror. Then she plucks my eyebrows and forces me to wax my legs and arms while she watches.
After, she looks at the hair on my head and frowns.
“I called that hairdresser of yours, Carly, but she’s all booked up for this week. I won’t trust anyone but the best to bring you back to blonde.”
I’m sure my mom only cares about how good my hair looks because I’m an asset to her, but I’m still pleased to learn that I won’t be bleaching my hair today.
I guess she never figured out how close Carly and I were, and I’m also guessing that Carly lied and said she was too busy this week in order to buy me some time. And at least now she knows I’m back.
“We’ll try a wig,” she says, fingering a lock of my brown hair and then flicking it away in disgust. “A good one.”
“Um, okay,” I say, though I don’t think my mom has any idea how to make a wig look good. And neither do I. If only the drag queens from the Neon Horseshoe were here. I hold back a giggle.
“It will just have to work. There’s not much we can do about your figure though.” My mom reaches out to grab my upper arm, but I lean away from her, and grab the tweezers again. While she talks, I pretend to tweeze my brows some more. “You gained weight in Montana. Diet starts today, Winsome.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that.” I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
You can do this, I tell myself. You can stand up to her.
“I think modern audiences appreciate a fuller figure. Not too much, obviously, but it’s not the nineties anymore.
” I wince at my own words, but I know my mom will only go for this if I put it in language she understands.
“Plenty of other influencers make money even with a bit of a butt.”
“You’re not just any influencer. You’re a former Miss Alabama and if I had my way, you’d be Miss United States as well.
Though you are getting a tad old.” I see her frown at me again in the mirror.
“The point is, you have to be better than the rest of them. And you are better than the rest of them. You’re the very best.” Her gaze turns proud for a fleeting moment.
I used to live for looks like that. I used to work my ass off all week, doing whatever she said, eating whatever she told me to, just for one of those looks, and maybe a back-handed compliment.
The crumbs of love and affection she gave me kept me hungry for more—willing to do anything just for another taste.
The day I snapped and decided I wanted out was the day I realized she was doing this intentionally.
It was a few years ago, after I won a pageant.
She gave me a big hug and said she was so proud of me, but it felt fake.
Before the show, she’d made me cry as she nitpicked every single thing wrong with me—my hair, my shoes, my dress, my weight, even my voice.
I didn’t believe her when she told me she was proud.
Not when she’d acted like that mere hours beforehand.
Unlike I used to, I don’t smile or say thank you to her small compliment. I just keep on studying my brows in the mirror, pretending to perfect them. Sometimes, being exactly what people expect me to be—vain, shallow, ditzy—is the best defense.
“I’m so happy to have you back, Winsome,” she says softly, almost to herself.
A shiver runs down my spine.
At dinner that night, my dad wastes no time bringing up the issue of my trust fund. In between mouthfuls of pasta he says, “So, when do we get to see our cut of the grandparents’ coin?”
My mom shoots him a nasty look, letting me know that he doesn’t have her permission to bring this up. “We discussed that, Richard. It’s going to be Winnie’s little nest egg. She deserves it after all of her hard work.”
“Does she? She left us high and dry.” My dad chews loudly, and then knocks back a swig of beer.
I barely hold back my grimace of disgust. And I can’t help but say, “I left you with plenty. If you managed to spend all the money I earned you over the last decade, then that’s your fault, not mine.”
“Do not talk to me like that, girl.” My dad points his fork at me.
Girl.
Girl.
Girl. The word roars through me, again and again. Like I’m nameless, unimportant, nothing. Like I’m not his daughter, his flesh and blood.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
It’s the only time I’ve ever spoken to him like that. The only time I’ve ever said the word fuck to them, too. I watch it land, watch surprise, and then anger take over his face. I hear my mom gasp, shocked by my ire.
“You think you can speak to me like that?” My dad pushes out of his seat, and looms over me, his face red, his hands gripping the edge of the table, like he’s moments away from using them against me.
It’s the one line neither of them has ever crossed. Physical violence. They’ll connive and coerce and manipulate, belittle and yell and hate, but only with their words. Never their fists.
My dad lets go of the table and leans in. I force myself to meet his gaze. If he’s going to hit me, then I’m going to defy it. He starts to yell in my face, rage coursing through him as he spews his vicious, hateful words at me. I don’t let them land. Don’t let them register.
“Fuck. You.” I repeat the phrase, unable to hold it in. Unable to play the nice daughter, the nameless, unimportant girl, any longer.
And then, suddenly, my mother is between us. She gently pushes my father back, and he sways on his feet, and then lands in his chair.
“Now is not the time, Richard,” she murmurs. “We agreed Winsome could have her trust fund in exchange for working for us.”
“She still can’t talk to me like that.” He sounds like a petulant child, and from the look on my mother’s face, she feels the same.
“There will inevitably be some growing pains as our family comes back together. Let’s give Winsome some space to figure things out in this new chapter.” She shoots me a saccharine smile, and I nod.
“I’m tired,” I say quietly. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Of course.” My mom’s voice is soft, almost sweet.
I get up from the table and leave without another word.
Upstairs, I climb into bed, pulling the covers up and over my head, cocooning myself.
I’ve never seen my mom defend me like that.
She’s never chosen me, her child, over her husband.
She was probably trying to get me to trust her with that little show of support.
I don’t believe for one minute that they plan to let me have my trust fund, not in the long term anyways.
As soon as there’s something big they need money for, whether it be a new car or a vacation rental or a kitchen renovation, they’ll be asking me for the money.
My mom just wants me to stay. She wants to ensure that I do as she says, that I keep working for the “family business” like a good girl. And I will, just to keep Jonah safe. But I didn’t realize how dangerous coming back here might be.
I make a mental note not to be alone with my dad.