"𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵."
When heartbreak sends her back to the city where she was born and raised, Eleanor Marlowe returns to the...
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●'I'●'I'●'I'●'I'●'I'●'I'●
The next morning I'm up early. I get ready to spend the day at the grandparents' house—no, my house—and silently slip downstairs so I don't wake up my little sister or my parents. After all, it was early Saturday morning. I pour myself a cup of coffee, eat a simple breakfast, and quietly walk out the door.
It's seven-thirty when I turn off the engine and step out of my car, surveying the scene before me: my new project. The house stands like a stubborn relic of the past, and the overgrown lawn sprawls wild and untamed, a green wave that's long since stopped being gentle. But the first thing I notice is the silence in the neighbourhood, even when birds let out a chirp from time to time. I'm careful not to break this silence.
What should I do first?
A lawn mower is out of the question. I don't want to disturb the peace or wake the neighbours on an early Saturday morning, so the grass will have to wait. Instead, I think for a moment, then make my way to the little shed behind the house. It's just as I remember—old, weathered wood and the scent of soil and rusted metal. I grab a bucket, a few tools, and slip on a pair of gloves. My grandmother's warning about the rose bushes echoes in my mind as I approach them, a tangle of thorns and memories.
The rose garden sits between the driveway and the front path, leading to the door. It used to bloom so beautifully when my grandmother was alive, and she'd tend to it lovingly, her hands always gentle yet determined. It was her pride and joy, and now it's a mess, neglected and overgrown, a pale imitation of what it used to be.
I kneel in the dirt and get to work, pulling weeds one by one, cleaning away old leaves and pruning back dead and damaged branches. I leave only the healthy stems, the ones that are starting to bud with new life. The work is steadying, the kind of labour that keeps my hands busy and my mind just a little less so. It takes me a few hours, but when I'm finally done, the garden bed looks neater and almost hopeful. I check the time on my phone—ten A.M. As I'm about to put my phone back into my pocket, it rings in my hand. I glance at the screen. The caller ID reads: Sabrina.
What does this bitch want now and why I haven't blocked her yet?
My hand tightens around the phone and I hesitate, torn between answering and cutting her off for good. A part of me wants to hear her voice, wants to know what she could have to say after everything. But the hurt she and Jake caused—the sting of betrayal—still feels raw, a wound that hasn't even begun to heal. My thumb hovers over the decline button, and my jaw clenches.
Why am I even considering this?
I lift my eyes to the rose garden, hoping that seeing the result of my hard work, something I've started to restore, will give me the strength I need. I shouldn't have trusted Sabrina. I shouldn't have let her become my best friend. I should have seen what kind of two-faced bitch she was. She's probably calling now to twist the knife deeper, to make sure the damage she did still burns.
