Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Poppy

Three years later.

"One more signature right here, Miss. Moore," my lawyer's voice cuts through the suffocating air in the dimly lit room.

My eyes drifted up to the empty seat. The seat I had hoped my brother Henry would occupy.

He didn't show.

Three years have passed since Henry walked out the door, leaving me without a single word or glance in my direction. He transferred to a different college, finished his degree, and started working at our parents' company.

He moved on, but I hadn't yet.

I have tried to mend the wreckage. Trust me, I have tried countless times to bridge the chasm that had formed between Henry and me. I took a job at the family company, taking a position that would force Henry to see me every single day. I was the receptionist, the greeter, and I prayed he'd greet me one day.

Even a glance would have made me smile again.

I watched him rise the ladder quickly, and then he took over and became the company's youngest CEO.

I observed every person who walked through the lobby doors, holding my breath each morning as Henry strolled in. His eyes steadfastly avoided mine, no matter how many times I placed myself in his path.

Not one glance.

Not a word.

He made me feel like a ghost, wandering without cause.

Each morning, as I watched Henry's back disappear into the elevator, a lone tear escaped my eye. At least he is alive and safe. That's all that matters.

I was determined to fight for a relationship and live a life on a sinking ship until he threw me a life jacket and offered me a chance to explain or, at the very least, apologize.

Harper, my best friend, was right; I should have moved away years ago. I can't continue to fight for a brother who seems determined to stay distant and detached no matter what the cost.

I have been fighting a losing battle for three long years.

It's time to move on.

It's time to run.

It's time to start living with hope and not fear.

People have conveniently forgotten what happened three years ago. Time just breezed on for them. For me, time felt like hurricane-force winds trying to topple me over, but now things are starting to settle. The storm has passed, and shockingly, I survived.

As for Andrew, well, he likes his toys close, and since I wasn't trapped in his toy box, time allowed him to forget about me. He really did give me time, but the best part about time is new, shiny toys caught his attention.

He's trapped another.

Of course, I feel bad. Terrible. Guilty.

I also feel free.

Does that make me a monster? Debatable.

Paranoid? Absolutely.

Maybe that is the punishment Andrew wanted me to endure. He never truly wanted me; he just wanted to break me. Scare me.

He did.

I realized during this time away from him that it wasn't just physical abuse Andrew loved—it was more mental. You see, physical pain is fleeting, bruises fade, but mental scars linger. Andrew wanted to taint my future. He wanted to poison me for others. He liked to trap me in my own mind. His threats turned my own thoughts into cage bars. It was all just a mind game I allowed him to play.

My mental fear of Andrew returning has led me to google him weekly to make sure he is still dating the other poor girl. It also allows me to see where he's at, which so far has been far away from our hometown. I half-expected Andrew to resurface like an incurable disease, but nope. I thought he'd send a letter or a text to ensure I remain 'smart' and not do something 'stupid,' but he's too cunning for that; he can't leave a paper trail.

His little act of radio silence? Best fear tactic in the book. Not a peep, and it had me on edge that entire first year. In the second year, his family packed up and moved to D.C. to fulfill his father's political dreams. Then, just three months ago, I stumbled upon an article that I practically memorized. Andrew got engaged to Kimberly Prescott.

I'm just a fading memory of a sick game.

But you know what doesn't fade? The nightmarish replay of that night etched in my dreams. Every time I catch a glimpse of Andrew's smug mug in a gossip rag or on the news, I can't help but recall every damn detail. They all see the golden boy; they refer to him as America's prince. Young and handsome, and the odds are stacked for his dad's shot at the presidency.

Me? I've seen the other side—the one they conveniently ignore. Politics is fitting for his family. No politician has clean hands.

I owe it to Peter, my parents, and Harper, who has never abandoned me, to try to not just survive but actually start living. The pain I have felt amounts to a thousand love stories with brutal endings. No one should have to suffer this.

I'm finally tired of exposing myself to it.

That's what I have been doing, purposely putting myself in Henry's path, shoving more self-inflicted emotions down my throat. Forcing myself to swallow. Mentally making myself insane. I continually check up on Andrew's social media to know where he is so I can sleep at night, knowing he won't burst through my door.

No more.

With my trust fund now safely in my account, I can run far, far away. If I can't repair my family, I'll just make a new one.

Just before my parents tragically passed away, their business soared to new heights. They secured multimillion-dollar contracts, licensing their software to government entities and major corporations. In preparation for unforeseen circumstances, they had set up a trust for all of us. Now, all that remains of them are cherished memories, our childhood home, and a steadily growing bank account, a testament to their hard work and dedication.

My eyes burn into that empty chair where I had hoped Henry would be sitting since he also had to sign off on the paperwork. He chose not to do so in person. You won, Henry. I'm out of your life.

The lawyer taps his finger on the document before me. Bright pink sticker tabs mark each spot where my signature is required, almost mocking me with their simplicity. A child could follow these instructions; they seemed to taunt me, but my trembling fingers betray the inner turmoil I feel.

Harper whispers in my ear, her voice barely audible above the chaos in my mind. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got a bottle of Tequila in the car."

That comment is why everyone needs a bestie like Harper. Even when I feel hopeless, like I'm stranded on an island, she shines a light and brings the booze. She always sees the glass half full and fills it to the brim when it nears empty.

Suppressing a grin, I reply, "Drinking and driving is illegal, Harps."

She rolls her eyes and flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder, "Obviously." She points to herself, "Mother Teressa right here. That's why I'll be doing the drinking, and you'll be doing the driving."

A real laugh slips from my lips.

Oh, I remember that feeling. It's been so long since I genuinely laughed. Her words provide a flicker of comfort, a reminder that I'm not alone. When you google ‘ride or die,' a picture of Harper fills the search results.

The lawyer clears his throat and points to where I need to sign. Again.

I nod mechanically like a bobblehead on a dashboard, my gaze fixed on the paper before me. The fancy fountain pen I hold in my hand feels foreign, a tool of power and responsibility that I am unprepared to wield.

As the pen's tip touches the paper, the ink flows effortlessly, staining the page like black blood.

"Tequila is waiting to wash it all away, baby," Harper whispers. Her hand slips under the table, resting on my bouncing leg.

"Shouldn't my best friend be talking me out of becoming an alcoholic?" I begin the curve of the first letter of my name.

"Please, you have been an isolated cat lady for far too long. I successfully nagged you enough to move on and start over. It's time to be wild. Go braless; shed your panties."

"Jesus, Harper," I shush her. In case it's not obvious, Harper is Mother Teresa's complete opposite.

"And I don't have any cats," I grumble as I sign my name.

"Thank the Lord for that," she leans closer, a sly grin on her face. That look has caused me years of embarrassment.

"It always starts with one pussy, then another enters the scene. You think it will be fun." She shakes her head, and I sink further into my seat. Please let it swallow me!

"Before you know it, you're stuck in an orgy with a bunch of pussies with long claws and bad attitudes. Don't even get me started about the hairballs; fake extensions never withstand that kind of endurance."

I land a swift kick to her feet under the table. "Are we talking about cats or a bad date you had?" I whisper with a wry smile.

"Cats, of course. One muff is enough." She glances down at her zipper and then winks at me.

I know what she is doing. It's her superpower. Harper hates awkward or emotional air, so she makes everything funny, or her version of funny, which is often at my expense. That's my fault, too, because the events that happened to me didn't just affect me; they affected Harper as well. We all handled our grief in different ways. She claims to be fearless, but the truth is, she's filled with a deep fear of dying young and suddenly. That's why she lives her life to the fullest.

Opposites attract. They become best friends.

Harper is just what the doctor ordered. God put her in my life for a reason. The big man upstairs knew the shit I would have to overcome, so he sent me Harper, who would somehow make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.

I drop the pen with a ceremonial thump.

There, it's done.

The weight of everything presses heavily upon me. A month ago, I was content to be alone, reading a good book to fall asleep to. Going to work and living on a fucked up false hope that Henry would glance at me. I worked, came home, and pressed repeat. It's easy to repeat and harder to change the track. You might hate the next song, or you could love it—but you won't know until you make the change.

I was a stark contrast from the girl Harper used to know. I built a shell around myself, but as Harper described it, sometimes you build a shell only to crack it open and emerge into a beautiful new creature.

I don't feel beautiful. I feel more monstrous. Nothing but raw skin and broken bones.

Harper nagged me constantly. Every night when we talked to each other over the phone, I was lectured about the effects of being a cat lady and how a neon sign above my head would ward away men.

Harper moved to Maryland and tried to convince me to join her, but I didn't want to leave. All my memories were here: my childhood home, the tree my brother Peter taught me to climb, the backyard where Peter and Henry used to chase me, and the road where I had my bike accident after Dad took off my training wheels. This place held the essence of my past, the roots of my identity, and I wasn't ready to let it go.

I was surrounded here by the good memories…and the bad.

"That's that!" the lawyer exclaims, clapping his hands together with finality. His cheerfulness contrasts sharply with the emotions engulfing me.

What did he have for breakfast? An espresso enema.

"That is that," I murmur. On paper, I am now a millionaire, a person who should be free from cares and worries. But the truth is far from it. The riches I have inherited only magnify the fear and grief that plague me. The only solace they offer is the ability to run.

Harper keeps telling me to reach for the stars, but what if I'm so far down in my hole that I can't even see the sky?

What then?

"Thank fuck." Harper's murmurs. Grasping my hand, she pulls me to stand, "Now let's go celebrate."