Chapter 10 #2
She nods, her expression understanding. “I get how vulnerable that could make you feel, but with talent like yours, I bet people would be floored, just like I am. You should think about it… maybe when you’re ready.”
Her encouragement is kind, but it stirs a quiet unease, a reminder of how small my world has become. I sip my wine, letting the warmth spread, and shift the focus. “What about you? What makes Sara happy?”
She laughs, a soft, self-deprecating sound.
“I’m afraid I’m not talented in anything.
I dabble in gardening, but it’s more trial and error than art.
Jason comes to help sometimes, though—he’s all about digging in the dirt.
” Her face softens, and I smile, picturing the quiet boy with his hands caked in soil.
We talk a bit longer. Actually, I talk. I am not used to drinking more than a glass of wine and Sara listens so intently without ever interrupting me that I find myself revealing a great deal about me.
The wine glass grows lighter in my hand, the room’s golden light softening the edges of my grief, and Sara leans in interestedly to learn not just what books I love, but even the smallest minutiae of my life back home.
Eventually, I even confide that I have no man in my life.
That is the moment that Sara sets her glass down and leans even closer, her earnest eyes locking on mine.
“Amelia,” she murmurs almost hypnotically, “you have the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen in a woman.
They are so wonderfully green that there is not even a speck of gold or russet in them.
But you’re hiding your beauty with your hairstyle and clothes, you know?
I want to help you shine. Let me take you to my hairdresser tomorrow.
He’s absolutely brilliant. We won’t let him cut too much away, just enough to frame your face.
And afterwards, we’ll go shopping for clothes and shoes. ”
Her sudden intensity startles me, and I blink, caught off guard.
The compliment is so direct, so forceful, it leaves me breathless.
A flush creeps up my cheeks. The flood of her goodwill is overwhelming, and a mix of warmth and wariness stirs in my chest. It’s too much, too fast, this offer, to reshape me, to pull me into her glamorous world.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but the idea of being remade from someone who is practically a stranger, even with kindness, makes me uncomfortable.
“Uh... well. It’s kind of you to offer, but—.”
“You’re not allowed to say no,” she insists with a smile. “It’s my privilege as your new sister-in-law.”
“Well… I don’t—"
“It’ll be fun, I promise.”
I hesitate.
“Please, Amelia. Your father’s gone now, and it’s time for you to live a little, don’t you think?”
“Okay,” I say reluctantly, my voice soft, barely above a whisper. “Thank you. It’s very sweet of you.”
Her face lights up, a radiant beam that fills the room, and she squeezes my hand. To my surprise, her hand feels cold and at odds with her warm smile and shining eyes. “It’s going to be so much fun,” she continues, her voice bubbling with excitement. “You’ll see.”
When Sara leaves a little later, she closes the door behind me with a quiet click. As her footsteps fade down the hall, the space envelopes me. Slightly disoriented, I stare at the deep violet drapes. They pool like liquid on the hardwood.
I fall backwards onto the chaise lounge, the plushness of it cradling my weight, and let out a slow breath.
I feel as if I am in a dream. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers tracing the denim of my jeans, but my mind is a whirl, caught in Sara’s unexpected kindness.
Her warmth, her welcoming smile, the way she’s opened her home—her life—to me, it’s all so genuine, so disarming, and so unusual that it leaves me reeling.
Hmmm…
She’s crafted a sanctuary here for me, a room in my favorite color, a bright studio down the hall, complete with easel and paints, all for me, a stranger bound to her only by Max’s past. It’s more than I expected, more than I know how to accept, and the weight of her generosity presses against my chest, a mix of gratitude and unease.
But beneath it, a small, mean part of me—sharp and ugly—twists with jealousy, a venomous thread I can’t untangle.
This should be my life. This house, with its soaring windows and vibrant art, this family, with Jason’s bright eyes and Sara’s easy laughter—it should be mine, built with Max, the man I loved before a lie tore us apart.
The thought stings, a bitter ache that coils in my gut, and I hate myself for it.
Sara’s done nothing to deserve this resentment, nothing to earn the envy that flares when I see her touch Max’s arm, her hand so natural, so claimed.
She’s not the villain here, not the one who shattered my world.
Max isn’t my brother, isn’t my anything, but he’s hers now, and I’m left with scraps of what might’ve been.
With fierce determination, I squash the ill-feeling, crushing it down until it’s a dull throb, because it’s not Sara’s fault my life is in ruins.
It’s Dad’s, his lie, a theft I’ll never get over.
I lean back, my head resting against the tall headboard.
The room is quiet, save for the soft tick of a clock on the nightstand, its rhythm steady against the chaos in my mind.
My gaze drifts to the window, where the late afternoon light filters through the drapes, casting a lavender haze across the rug.
It’s beautiful, this space, a more luxurious, classier version of the attic Max decorated for me all those years ago.
The thought of him choosing this color—did he tell Sara, or was it just chance?
Of course, it’s not just chance. She must have asked, and he must have told her.
The thought sends a pang through me, sharp and sweet.
I close my eyes and rein in my runaway thoughts, but his face lingers—those watchful eyes, that tattoo peeking from his sleeve, and the way his innocent hug nearly undid me.
My body still hums from lunch, from the intensity of his gaze, and I shift, the denim brushing my thighs, a reminder of the ache I can’t escape.
I stand, needing to move, and cross to the vanity, its mirror reflecting my pale face, my eyes too bright, too raw in my tired face, faded.
I touch the mirror, my fingers cool against the glass, and see myself from Sara’s eyes.
She is shiny and glamorous, all of her, from her hair to the tips of her toenails.
My appearance must seem very drab to her.
Even I have to admit it is a bad haircut.
I come from a small world, and it shows.
Her offer to take me shopping and to a hairdresser, echoes in my mind, and I wonder how she sees me—someone to fix, to polish, and genuinely lift up because she is a kind and generous person, or she is just ashamed to introduce her glitzy friends to her dull sister-in-law.
I tell myself not to be ungenerous. Sara is one of those rare people, not only blessed with beauty but also kind-hearted, but something niggles at me. Something I can’t place my finger on, but it is bothering me.
Something is not right.