Chapter 4
FOUR
I tap my nails on my vanity as the minutes count down.
Normally, I have enough confidence to fill a well, but right now I’m anxious.
Maybe it’s because of the way I dress, how much my pink and bubbly dress will stand out in the crowd at the race, but I can’t bring myself to change it.
There is a ton of stuff I have to hide about myself, but my fashion taste is not one of them.
I may as well stamp “From Greenwood” on my forehead before heading into the wolf’s den.
Still, the excitement overrides any misgiving and settles on my skin like a propellant. I can picture the cars now, all different models and speeds, the engines revving up and sparks flying off the tires. To finally experience it in person will make all the anxiety worth it.
I put the makeup brush down as a text comes through. When I see the new contact titled “A” pop up on my screen, something flutters in my stomach. The address sits there in the thread from earlier, but a new one comes in now and all it says is: See you there.
Years of knowing each other and we’ve never exchanged communication details, not once.
I rarely see him outside of school as it is, but he’s going to be there tonight, and he expects me to stay by his side.
I know I gave him my word, but something about it twists my stomach, indicating it’s a bad idea.
I think for both our sakes, I should avoid him altogether.
He gave me the address and that’s all I needed. There’s no other reason to talk to him, not one bit.
I slide my phone inside my purse and sling it over my shoulder.
I adjust the spaghetti strap of my dress that’s biting into my skin with a sharp sting and relax when the pain alleviates.
I throw on a few more items to help me battle the cool autumn air and head downstairs, ready to embark on this new adventure that’s long overdue.
My mom screeches when I come around the corner, her hand sliding over her heart. “Stacey! You scared me!”
“Sorry,” I say half-heartedly.
Victoria Hawthorne is every bit a trophy wife from Greenwood.
Her hair is dyed too blonde, her nails are always flawless, and her closet contains the perfect combination of classy designer clothes for any given occasion.
She looks at my outfit now, eyeing me up and down with a sour disdain on her lip. She points at my boots.
“I hate when you wear those things,” she comments. “You could have at least gotten the beige pair I see everywhere. Not these—”
“They’re black, they match everything,” I argue, trying my best not to roll my eyes. It’s like she doesn’t even see I’m wearing a pink dress that I know she loves or my Burberry black coat. She only sees what she dislikes and ignores the rest; it’s utterly exhausting.
“Well,” she says, letting the conversation die before I can even prove a point. “Where are you going so late?”
I flatten my lips, holding back the truth. Just like everyone else, she has a misguided distrust in Oakson Lake and anything that happens there. So I do what I do best and lie. “I’m hanging out with Brent.”
Her eyes light up like they always do when I mention my somewhat boyfriend. “Oh good!” she exclaims. “He’s such a good man, Stacey. When do you think you’ll get married?”
My visceral reaction is to gag, but I hold it in. “What?”
“Well, you’re both about to turn twenty-two. You’re not getting any younger, so I was curious when you two planned to finally get hitched.”
“Mom, we haven’t been dating that long,” I tell her, trying to highlight any kind of reason that explains why marriage isn’t on my radar besides “Ew, gross, Mom. I don’t think I’ll ever marry Brent? He can’t even remember what kind of sandwich I want for lunch.”
Instead, I settle with, “We’re both still in college.”
“So? Your father and I were married right out of high school.”
“Yeah and look how that turned out,” I mutter as quietly as I can. My parents are still together, but they really should have divorced a long time ago. But that would be a scandal, and Hawthornes don’t have scandals. Or believe in happiness, apparently.
I hate that I’m going down the same path as them. Hate that I can’t seem to find the courage to speak out or be myself completely. Hate that if you’re not comfortable in the status quo, you’re a threat to the system.
I could at least be rebellious toward my mother, but there’s a tiny piece of me that is still holding onto the idea that I can earn her love somehow.
Be the person she wants, not cause any drama or let anyone see me fall, and she will give me the love and affection a daughter needs from her mother.
And it’s that tiny part that makes it hard for me to tell her how I really feel or think.
“He’s a good alpha,” my mother says suddenly. “And who knows if you’ll ever be able to pull an alpha again?”
I practically flinch at that, defiance bubbling underneath my skin. “What do you mean by that?”
“Betas don’t get to be with alphas often. This is a good opportunity for you.”
I fight hard not to roll my eyes. No wonder I’m a master at hiding my emotions. The number of times my mother invokes this anger in me is astounding, and practice makes perfect.
Why should my goal be snagging myself an alpha?
Why can’t she be more concerned with my grades or if I’m going to have a job after graduation?
Why can’t I focus on my passions rather than worry about whether or not I’m going to marry a stupid alpha?
I haven’t seen her this interested in anything else in my life in a long time, and that makes my heart ache in an indescribable way.
“Okay, Mom, well…” I spin my keys on my finger and point at the door. “I’m going to go.”
“Say hi to Brent for me,” she says with a smile that’s a bit too sweet. I bite my tongue and step away, my body itching for something more satisfying than cheerleading or galas or my mother’s white kitchen. I’m ready for grime, for dirt, for the sound of wheels screeching against asphalt.
I’m ready for something worthwhile.