Destined

Day Four

Dance has never really been a 'passion' of mine, per se; sure, it was fun, but it didn't take long after I'd quit to realize that my life's revolving around dance had been a byproduct of my mother's subtle commentary that it would please my father. My father, Adrian Hawthorne, is the son of a Russian ballet dancer named Svetlana Kantenka and an American businessman named Andrew Hawthorne, who'd, apparently, had quite the passion for theater. It had been my father that had enrolled me in dance at three years old, and it had been his memory that forced me to stick with it. Ironically enough, it was my dance career that effectively ended my father and mother's marriage; Adrian had, in fact, met his mistress-turned-wife, Katarina Lemkova, at my dance studio where she worked as an instructor part-time until her modeling gig took off. I think that maybe I always felt that if I stuck with dance maybe my father would notice, maybe he'd love me, maybe he'd even come back, if just to say hello. 

None of those things happened. Instead, he'd gotten married to Katarina, helped her take off with her modeling career, and started a new family of little cookie-cutter children that helped him climb the political ladder. Now, he works as the Texas state governor never mind the fact that he and his family only settled in Texas when Katarina befriended a Texas-based on-the-rise fashion designer named Lilian Martellini who wanted to use Katarina as the face of her new campaign so Lilian could climb the ranks of the fashion world. Yeah...that's how these things work. That's also how Adrian Hawthorne II ends up in the same coffee store as me. And, hey, maybe that's not his actual name, but I wouldn't know since I've never met my half-brother. However, he's the spitting image of our father twenty years ago. 

I nearly spew my white chocolate mocha all over the barista when my eyes land on the kid, but I swallow hard, ignoring the burn as I force all the liquid down my tight throat and retreat to a table in the far back corner of the Starbucks, keeping my head down on the table. It's like attack of the family. In the last eighteen hours, I've gotten a summons from my mother, an attempt at an outreach from my wayward brother, and now an impromptu appearance of the son of Governor Adrian Hawthorne. Shoot me now. If this is how my day is going, I almost feel the need to call in sick for work at Hotel Camilla; I just don't know if I can survive anymore visits from people in my past...Godric included. 

Someone clears their throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut praying a silent prayer that I won't look up and see my half-brother before slowly gazing up into the face of the one person I didn't want to talk to. Fuck my life. I plaster on a smile at the thirteen year old who looks pale and nervous, clutching his small coffee in his hand, "Can I help you?" 

My half-brother hesitates, and I raise my eyebrows trying to keep my expression impassive, "Um...um, yeah, I'm Garrett. Garrett Hawthorne." 

"Okay," I say with confusion that isn't faked. Why is Garrett here talking to me? 

"You're Melanie, right?" 

I blink, "Alright, what the hell do you want you little punk?" It's abrupt, it's mean, and I shouldn't be talking. Garrett looks appalled, though whether it's because of my abrupt mood shift or calling him a punk I'm not sure. Honestly if anyone looks like a punk, it's me. I'm the one in my polyester uniform with a couple of tattoos showing, a nose ring, and straightened inky hair that fell to my mid-back but had been twisted up into a bun that I could practically feel falling apart. Garrett, on the other hand, was blonde, tanned, and dressed to the nines in Ralph Lauren...story of my life. 

"Look, I'm sorry...it's just...we're just..." 

"We're done," I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with where this conversation's going. I toss my bag over my shoulder and push past him towards the door, immediately heading in the direction of the hotel.