I don’t have friends, so nobody but Caliah bothers me about my title.
“Aren’t you so happy?” she asks me with admiration in her eyes. I shake my head no. I only read the part of my notecard with my title on it. I don’t want to know the rest.
I wrap my arms around my little sister.
“I am going to miss you.” I murmur into her hair. She holds me tighter. She smells like soap.
“Goodbye,” I bite my lip. She suddenly looks very, very sad. She holds up her right hand and wiggles her fingers. I pick up my bags and stagger forward. I’m out the door so fast I don’t have to see her cry.
I teach myself to drive on the way to my new house.
I have to peak at my notecard for the address, but I end up stopping to read the whole thing.
Title: Rich
Address: 442 Willow Lane, Well-Off Borough
I am about to read the rest but I force myself to wait. I don’t want to know, not really. I put down the card and focus on the road, almost jumping out of my seat at every turn.
The houses on Willow Lane are overwhelmingly large. My real house could fit into one of these monstrosities at least seven times. I drive up to house 442 and park in the long driveway. A snow-white car with an open top is already sitting idly next to the house. Mine is now right beside it. I purse my lips, thinking of the stories my father told me when I was a girl.
I would fantasize about having my own wedding, maybe even wearing a beautiful white gown. After one of the fairytales, I was left for hours with a misleading buzz of excitement coursing through my veins. Now that I’m actually married, it’s meaningless. I could have a celebration – I have enough money – but I don’t want one. I’m not married because of love. Why pretend I am?
I walk to the front door, testing the handle. My house back with my sist-… family, was always locked, but this door doesn’t even have a lock.
Inside, I am amazed, but not surprised. The house is lavishly decorated with marvelous furniture. It seems as though everything is velvet or the deepest, most engineered wood I have ever seen. What will I eat? Surely not the gritty oatmeal I’m used to. But then I remember, bitterly, that I live with another person.
My irritation spikes.
“Hello?” I call into the air as loudly as I can. I hear the tumble of fast footsteps on wood, so I glance at the stairwell. A boy materializes on the steps.
Electric blue eyes. Dark, dark, hair.
I take a sharp breath.
Gabriel.
