Chapter 12
Home Sweet Home
Fenella
“Fenella! Come on, it’s time to wake up.”
Mom’s voice cuts through my sleep as she shakes me gently. My eyes flutter open, blinking at the morning light spilling into my room. I sit up and smile at her. She’ll never know how much I’ve missed waking up to her face again.
“Hey,” I mumble, still half-asleep.
“Hey, sweetheart. Breakfast’s ready. I made your favorite cinnamon bread pudding,” she says while straightening the table and the shelf by my bed.
“Thanks, Mom.” I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and stretch.
“Don’t forget to sort out the stuff you wanna sell at the bazaar after breakfast,” she chirps, glancing at my suitcase.
“Alright.” I nod, and she chuckles softly before heading to the door, her steps light and familiar.
After a quick shower, I sit at the dining table and dig into the bread pudding. It’s warm and creamy, filled with that sweet cinnamon smell I’ve missed for years.
For the first time since I started modeling, I actually finish a whole bowl. Usually, breakfast means an apple and a glass of water, but right now, I don’t give a damn about my diet. Who could resist this?
This time, I just want to enjoy my winter break. Maybe I’ll hit the gym later to burn off the calories, but for now, I’m full and happy.
After stuffing myself, I head back to my room like I promised Mom. I start sorting through my things while she moves around the house, humming as she tidies up.
Alright, what’s going to the bazaar? I pull out some clothes and lingerie I’ll wear while I’m here.
The rest stay in the suitcase, those are the ones I’m selling.
Oscar’s shoes, Jemima’s dresses, Baumer’s, and other designer pieces.
Jessy already took Muse’s perfume and some of the smaller stuff, so what’s left are what he didn’t grab.
I take out a small velvet box with Mallory’s bracelet and slip it into my desk drawer.
At least it’s a reminder that the celebrity world isn’t as shiny as it looks.
Even that pop diva bailed on the ad deal and blamed everything on the production house.
She didn’t even bother to speak up for her ‘friend’.
With a lazy sigh, I pull out a few dolls I’d kept in the closet. Ugh. They’re covered in dirt and dust. I’ll wash them later before wrapping them up as gifts for the kids at the hospital. I open my study desk drawer and find a bunch of random trinkets from when I was little.
My hand freezes when I spot an old CD game. I pick it up, wipe off the dust, and stare at the cover. My heart skips a beat. It’s a soccer game, the one I bought when I was a kid. God, that takes me back.
To anyone else, it’s just a game, but to me, it’s priceless. It reminds me of the first time I felt something close to love. Damn, that’s so cringe.
Still, that’s how it was. Laird Evans was the first boy who made me understand what it meant to care about someone, to worry about them, and to regret losing them. What a stupid, innocent time.
We went to the same elementary school and usually ended up in the same class.
Then, on the first day of fourth grade, our teacher introduced a new kid, a transfer student from the UK named Adam.
I wanted his attention so badly that I sold snacks at Little League games just to buy him the newest CD game release.
The funny part? Laird helped me. He always did.
* * *
“Oof.” I exhale, setting the box of used books on the ground, the ones we’re selling at the bazaar. My hand wipes the sweat off my forehead as I let out a slow breath.
Since around nine this morning, I’ve been helping Mom set up our stand for the fundraiser. The air’s still freezing cold, but we’re determined to raise money for the hospital’s Christmas celebration for the kids. This is our last shot at collecting donations for gifts and medical bills.
“I think that’s all, Mom,” I say, straightening my back.
She adjusts the little trinkets on the table covered in red tartan cloth. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she says with that familiar smile.
Mom isn’t young anymore, but there’s still a trace of beauty in her face. Her skin is porcelain pale, now dotted with dark spots that come with age. Wrinkles frame her mouth and eyes, and her blonde hair, mostly white now, is tied neatly in a bun. I picture myself looking like her one day.
I always wonder how she manages everything on her own while I’m in New York.
She says it’s thanks to the kids and the foundation staff who keep her company.
I say it’s because she’s strong and patient, tougher than anyone I know.
I’ve been a terrible daughter, but she’s still the same: sweet, forgiving, endlessly kind.
“Hey, Mom. Mind if I take a walk to the park for a bit?” I ask.
“Sure, honey. Go get some air. People usually come around lunchtime anyway, so we’ve got time,” she says with a nod and a smile.
“Thanks. I won’t be long,” I murmur, walking off.
The park looks almost the same as it did years ago. Not much has changed. There are a few new things—taller garden lights, polished benches, frozen fountain statues. But the place still feels familiar.
I walk toward the baseball field, full of memories from when I was a kid. Back in elementary school, I came here almost every week to watch Laird play. Now, standing here, the place looks strange and empty.
My fingers curl around the wire fence. This is where Laird and I kissed for the first time. Too many memories rush in at once, and I can’t stop them. I don’t know if it’s the cold air or everything I’ve been holding in, but something breaks inside me.
Tears fall as I stare at the empty field. I don’t want to lose Laird. I’ve always depended on him too much. All I’ve ever wanted was to be with him. Why does it have to be so damn hard?
Life’s unpredictable. Every bit of happiness hides a shadow of sadness behind it, and the other way around. When I thought I finally had everything, the man who loved me and a career I could be proud of, it all somehow turned into a mess.
I wipe my tears, exhausted. I’ve been crying too much lately. My head feels like it’s about to explode from the pressure. I thought becoming a model would bring me closer to Laird. I was wrong. When I finally had him, I could lose him just as easily because of my career.
No, wait. My career’s not even steady anymore. I could get dropped any time. If it weren’t for Alan, I’d probably be done already. He brought me back, gave me chances, made me the dream girl I thought I wanted to be.
But the career Alan gave me is like a poison. It’s what’s ruining what I have with Laird. It’s always been a losing game.
I take a deep breath. Nothing’s going my way, but I try to pull myself together. I need to be stronger, like Mom. Now’s not the time to drown in useless sadness. I should just go back to the stand and not leave her alone for too long.
* * *
“Fenella!”
“Hey, sweetheart!”
The moms crowd around me the second I show up at the bazaar stand. One by one, they pull me in for hugs and plant little kisses on both cheeks.
They’re all Mom’s friends, women from the foundation, most of them widows but full of energy and gossip. They’ve got this tight bond, and I guess that’s why this whole fundraising bazaar was their idea in the first place.
“You ladies made your stand look amazing!”
“Oh my God, are these real Oscar de Ragetti shoes?”
“This bag! Wait, this dress would be perfect for a wedding!”
“Do you think it’ll even fit you?” They tease and laugh, their voices overlapping in cheerful chaos.
“Are these all real designer pieces? Are they yours?” one of them asks, blinking at me with curiosity that’s way too sharp to ignore.
“Uh, yeah.” I nod, giving her a faint smile.
“Jeez, I don’t know if I can even afford that. The originals must cost thousands.”
“You must be so proud to have a daughter who’s a famous model.”
“Where’ve you been hiding Fenella, huh? Look at her! She’s gorgeous!”
They giggle and chatter with that familiar mix of warmth and envy. None of them seem to have seen that cursed ad, thank God.
“Oh, please. I had to call her a bunch of times just to make her come home and help me with this stand,” Mom says with a laugh, though her cheeks go pink.
She looks happy. Proud, even. It’s rare to see her like this, and of course now that she finally approves of my career, I mess it all up. I can breathe a little easier knowing no one’s mentioned the condom commercial. If they had, they’d probably be side-eyeing me like I was contagious.
“Come on, don’t just stand there. You girls gotta try my eggnog,” Mom says, pulling out the paper cups she’s prepared.
“She should come home more often and share those fancy designer clothes she gets for free,” one of them says, smirking.
“Remember, this is for charity,” Mom cuts in quickly, earning a round of playful groans.
“No one here can afford that stuff anyway!” another laughs.
“So how much are you selling these for, Fenella?” They all turn to me, eyes wide, breaths held like they’re waiting for a big reveal.
Damn. I forgot to put the price tag for them or even use my brain to decide their worth. “Well, since it’s for the fundraiser, I guess a hundred bucks each?” I say, shrugging.
They all scream in excitement at once.
“Are you crazy, honey? You should auction them off!”
“Oh, hell no. I’m not fighting you in a bidding war!”
“What if I buy them for five hundred each instead? Take whatever you want, and I’ll pay to donate it.”
The chatter dies instantly. Every woman goes silent as a tall man walks toward us with a confident stride and that devastating smile.
He’s offering a deal no one here could possibly refuse, and something in his smile makes my stomach flip.
There are about thirty items on our stand. If each one goes for five hundred, then God, even Mom would probably dive into a frozen lake for that kind of money going to charity.
But it’s him. How the hell does he dare show up here?
“Stay away from me,” I whisper, my voice trembling with anger. My hands are shaking, slick with cold sweat.
“Don’t be so cold, Fenella. The air’s already freezing enough to keep me out here.” He flashes that crooked smile, the one I used to fall for and now can’t stand. The women around us are mesmerized, staring at him with their mouths half open like they just saw a celebrity walk in.
“Hi, are you a friend of Fenella’s?” Mom asks, finally breaking the tension.
“No, he’s not my friend,” I snap before he can answer. I’m not giving him that satisfaction.
“Is it true you’re paying for everything? Free for grabs?” one of the older ladies gasps, clutching a Baumer scarf like it’s treasure.
“Yes, that’s right. Take whatever you want, I’ll cover it,” Alan says with that easy nod that always makes people believe him.
“Don’t listen to him!” I try to stop them, but the crowd’s already buzzing. The older women are thrilled, their eyes sparkling like kids at Christmas.
“Even this book? You’ll pay five hundred dollars for it?” one of them asks, waving one of my old bedtime storybooks, a frown forming between her brows.
“Yes, anything,” Alan says again, still calm, still confident.
“Oh no, that’s not how this works. We’re selling everything at regular secondhand prices,” Mom says, shaking her head.
“Yes, but this is my donation,” Alan replies, smiling so bright it practically lights up the stand. “Please don’t hesitate. Consider it a Christmas gift from me, ma’am.”
And just like that, he wins them over. The air shifts. His presence, that charm, infects the whole group. They’re smiling at him, murmuring blessings like he’s a grand priest walking out of church.
“God bless you, son.”
“What a kind-hearted angel,” another one says, almost swooning.
“No! Just ignore him. Please, go away.” I push at his chest, but he doesn’t move an inch. The women barely notice me now, too busy praising their new hero.
“Hey! Why are you grabbing stuff first? That’s cheating!” someone yells, and chaos breaks loose.
“Ladies, please, I still need to note down the items you’re taking. Don’t push,” Mom says, trying to calm them, but it’s useless.
The second they hear ‘free’ and ‘take whatever you like’, it’s over. People from the other stands, bystanders, mom’s friends, all swarm our stand, hands grabbing everything in sight. My neat little display turns into a battlefield.
“Look what you’ve done!” I yell at Alan, but he just laughs like some devil enjoying the show.
“Stop!” I shout, but no one listens. The women are pushing, yelling, fighting over bags and shoes like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Someone shoves me hard and knocks into the table. The bottle of Mom’s eggnog tips over, about to spill all over my feet. But Alan dives in, kicks it out of the way.
The lid bursts open, and hot eggnog splashes across his leg. The sharp, sweet smell fills the air. He lets out a scream, crouching and clutching his calf while the crowd freezes in shock.
Everything stops. The chaos, the shouting—gone. All eyes are on him as he writhes in pain on the ground. For a moment, I forget how much I hate him.