Diary Of A Davison

Chapter 4

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Oh no, not already…” I groaned, swiping at my phone until the alarm went silent. The screen glowed back at me: 6:30 a.m.

“God help me. I’m not ready for today.”

I rolled out of bed slowly, dragging myself toward the bathroom. My room — light grey walls, walk-in closet, en suite bathroom — felt more like mine than it ever had when I was younger. Back then, it had been drenched in pink. Pink walls, pink curtains, pink bedding. My parents thought that because I was their little girl, the whole world had to be cotton-candy pink.

It took me until ten years old to snap.

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Flashback

“Sweetie, I think you’re not thinking straight. Pink is lovely. Every girl loves pink,” Mom had said in that soft, convincing voice of hers.

“Not this girl,” I argued. “I hate pink. I like black. I like neutral colors. Pink makes me feel like one of those plastic dolls you used to buy me.”

Dad had chuckled, glancing at her. “She knows what she wants, Kate. Maybe it’s time.”

“She’s still a little young,” Mom protested.

“Mom, I know what I want,” I insisted, arms crossed.

Dad leaned back in his chair. “She’s been a good girl. She deserves it.”

Mom sighed, then looked at me. “Fine. But only if you promise not to beg us in a few years to change it again.”

“I promise!” I’d squealed, hugging her. Dad ruffled my hair and added with a grin, “Tomorrow, your room changes. And maybe your wardrobe too?”

“Yes!”

Mom had smiled, shaking her head. “Rose will take the old things to charity. Some little girl out there will love them.”

For the first time, I felt like my room reflected me.

End of flashback

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Now, as the blow dryer hummed in my hand, I stared at my reflection. Long, black hair — Dad’s side of the family. Mom had been blonde, but I carried the Davison trademark ink-dark strands.

I slipped into my uniform, neat and pressed, as always. Rose ironed it every evening and hung it perfectly in my closet. Today I grabbed a blazer too — it made me look sharper, more serious, and the principal always liked that about me.

By the time I checked my watch, it was 7:11.

“Kyla! Breakfast is ready!” Rose’s voice floated up from the kitchen.

“I’ll be down in a minute!” I called back, adjusting my blazer in the mirror.

The dining room smelled like heaven — maple syrup and blueberries. Rose smiled as I walked in.

“Good morning, sweetheart. You look beautiful as always.”

“And you look gorgeous as always,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes, dimples flashing. “Stop it. Sit, eat.”

Blueberry pancakes, orange juice, everything perfect. Rose always said, ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’ I still heard her words even before she spoke them.

Halfway through, Jerry appeared at the doorway. “Madam, the car is ready.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” I said, watching him take my bag.

Rose poured herself juice. “So, dinner tonight?”

“Anything with meat,” I pleaded.

She laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll think of something.”

I finished the last bite, hugged her goodbye, and hurried out.

The SUV gleamed in the driveway. Jerry opened the door with his usual smile.

“You look troubled, Miss Kyla,” he said as we pulled away. “That frown gives you away.”

I sighed. “I had an argument with a friend yesterday.”

“Alec?” His tone was knowing.

My head snapped toward him. “You saw us?”

“I did.”

I slumped back in the seat. “He’s been so… different. Overprotective. Angry. It doesn’t even feel like him.”

“Then talk to him,” Jerry said simply. “You’ve known each other for years. He loves you, in his own way. Don’t let one fight ruin that.”

I chewed my lip, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “What if I lose him? What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

“You won’t,” Jerry said firmly. “Not Alec. Trust me.”

I nodded, even though my chest still ached.

When we reached the bus stop, he parked in his usual spot. “We’ve arrived, madam,” he announced lightly.

I smiled faintly. “Thanks for listening, Jerry. Sorry for dumping my drama on you.”

He winked. “Always.”

I stepped out, clutching my bag. My eyes immediately found Alec. He was there, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders tight. His expression was unreadable, but one thing was clear — he was still upset.

I drew in a sharp breath. “Here goes nothing,” I whispered to myself.

And then I started walking toward him.

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