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CHARLOTTE

Lavish mansions fly by, and familiar clusters of shrubbery line the streets, a stark reminder I’m nearing a place that still doesn’t feel like home. As I pull into the lengthy driveway, my eyes wander over the estate’s dark brickwork, a fitting representation of its haunting history. Hallways that once held childhood memories now echo ominous whispers from my grandmother who died there. I keep waiting for her ghost to shush me for stepping too loudly down the opulent winding staircase.

“Bensons mustn’t stomp. We glide.”

As my car rolls to a stop, my mother exits the front door, strolling towards her SUV. She’s perfectly put together, like always. A black leather Chanel tote is flung over her shoulder—inherited from my grandmother, like the Benson estate and everything else inside it.

Placing my hand on the gear shift, I put my car in park and swallow down the anxiety that always buzzes through me when she’s around.

“Charlie, fix your hair.”

“Charlie, why did you get a B on your English test?”

“Charlie, smile, people are watching.”

Stepping out, I send a practiced smile her way.

“Hey,” she says, her manicured fingers gripping the handle of her Porsche Macan. “I thought you were in Miami?”

“Came home for the weekend,” I say, unsurprised she either forgot or simply doesn’t care.

“The twins will be thrilled.” She dons a politician’s smile, opening the car door. “I’m off to a ribbon cutting at the new Longwood Humane Society. See you after.”

“I was actually hoping we could get dinner.” The words tumble out. There’s a conversation I’d like to get over sooner rather than later. In a public place. With witnesses.

“Sorry, but Mayor’s duty calls,” she says, getting inside the car. “Rain check?” She blows me a kiss and closes her door before I’m able to respond.

I wave as she heads down the driveway. “Sure, rain check.”

I shove away the annoyance and remind myself of the main reason I came home in the first place.

After grabbing my cheer duffle from the backseat, I make my way to the house. The ornate front door creaks open, and I’m met with giggles, tiny feet padding through the halls, and background noise of the greatest children’s show of all time: Bluey . I swear they put some type of crack in it because even as a nineteen-year-old, I can’t stop watching it.

“Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!” I shout.

“Lottie!” a high-pitched six-year-old squeals, rounding the corner and flying into my arms.

“Hey, Denny,” I say, spinning her in circles until her giggles fill every inch of the foyer.

“Patricia’s setting up painting in the playroom,” Denny tells me. “Want to join?”

“In a bit. I’ve got to shower and finish up some schoolwork that’s due Monday.”

“Who assigns homework over spring break?” Patricia, the live-in nanny, says, coming into view. Her smile is wide, and she pulls me in for a tight hug. How a mother should. My parents hired her after inheriting the estate, and I hope she never leaves.

“A monster, that’s who,” I say with a laugh. “Where’s Nash?”

“At Taekwondo,” Patricia tells me. “Your dad’s picking him up on the way home from the airport.”

“Dad’s coming home?” I ask, trying to contain my excitement.

“Yes, but he’ll be leaving tomorrow night,” Patricia says with a sad smile.

Typical .

His visits are usually quick and lacking in quality time. I suppose that’s the problem with having a dad who flies 747s for a living.

I thought my parents would slow down after inheriting the estate, but it only made them more distant.

Not only from each other, but from us as well.

Dad spends all his time working, and Mom spends her time, well, anywhere but here.

* * *

“Hiiiiiii- yah !” A tiny foot connects with my hip, sending me stumbling, and the cup of flour in my hand litters the entire counter.

And me.

“Ow!” I huff a laugh, turning my attention to the little karate kid. “Can we keep the drop kicks to the dojo?”

“Nope,” Nash, my younger brother, says while performing what can’t possibly be any type of actual Taekwondo move. “Gotta practice.”

“I’m not trying to stifle your progress. Just don’t want my hip blown out in the process.”

He stands straight, puts a fist against his palm, and bows slightly, then runs away.

Six-year-olds are so bizarre.

Turning back to the counter, I examine the mess, then pull the trash can directly under the edge and swipe the wasted flour into it. After a thorough wipe down, I’ve finally got my workstation clean again, and I continue dumping ingredients into the bowl.

Flour.

Active dry yeast.

Salt.

Baking is my preferred method of stress relief, and Noah once mentioned he makes pizza dough from scratch that is unmatched, so, challenge accepted. My phone buzzes, and I glance at it on the counter.

Jonathan

I’m sorry.

My blood boils. Two stupid, meaningless words. He can’t be that sorry if he did it in the first place. I snatch up the phone and add him to my block list, along with his social media accounts. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I return to the stress relief session.

After thoroughly mixing in the cold water, I pretend the dough is Jonathan’s stupid fucking face as I knead it into the counter.

Cheating. Plop. Mother. Plop. Fucker. Plop.

“You alright there?” Dad says, leaning against the door frame.

“Fine,” I quip.

“You don’t look fine,” he presses, tone curious.

My chest squeezes, trying to contain the hurt. “I am.”

“You can talk to me.” Footsteps grow louder until he’s directly next to me. “That’s what dads are for.”

I slam the dough against the counter once more and side-eye him. He may travel a lot, but the reason I’m upset about it is I miss him when he’s gone. He’s the only one I’m able to talk to in this family. The only parent who actually cares.

“Jonathan and I broke up,” I blurt, eyes stinging as I fight tears that cheating motherfucker definitely does not deserve.

Dad remains quiet for a moment. “And how are we feeling about that?”

I blow out a breath. Plop. “Like I’m gonna need more dough.”

“Mm-hmm.” He taps his fingers against the counter. “Whose idea was it?”

I roll the sticky glob into a large ball. “ Technically , I guess it was mine.”

Although it’s not like Jonathan made any effort to reconcile. He didn’t even chase after me when I fled the Dangling Pool Noodle Orange Chicken Catastrophe. And one bullshit “I’m sorry” text does not make an apology.

Dad leans against the counter, folding his arms. “And what did Jonathan do for you to come to that decision?”

My gaze connects with his. “You can’t shoot him.”

Dad holds his hands up. “I won’t.”

“You also can’t hit him with your car, have him arrested, or drop a bag of flaming shit from your airplane.” I reconsider. “Actually the last one would be pretty cool.”

He sighs, a frown present. “He must’ve really messed up, huh?”

“Big time.” I knead my knuckles into the dough, contemplating telling him.

Typically, I keep everything relationship-related bottled up, because if Jonathan and I got in a fight, I always forgave him, but I learned early in our relationship parents don’t forgive as easily. And they certainly never forget. Dad still brings up the time Jonathan left me stranded at a party and I had to call him for a ride.

And I damn sure never told Dad about Halloween. I’d dare to say Noah was furious enough for the both of them.

But I don’t foresee myself forgiving Jonathan this time, which is why I admit, “He cheated on me.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dad mumbles under his breath, pushing off the counter. “Is he in town?”

“Dad,” I say firmly, stopping him from grabbing his keys. “He’s not worth your time. Or mine.”

“Not worth my time?” Dad fumes. “He disrespected my daughter! He needs to be reminded of his manners. Linda raised him better than that.”

“It’s not her fault,” I say, referring to Jonathan’s mother. “It’s his. And I just want to move on.”

He releases a heavy breath. “If you change your mind, you’ll let me know?”

“I will.”

Two beeps from the security alarm sound, paired with the creaking opening and closing of the front door.

“Hi,” Mom says, walking into the kitchen with a practiced smile, setting her purse on the counter. My eyes widen at the small patch of flour next to it. Her gaze follows mine, noticing the same. “Charlie,” she snaps, snatching up the bag and dusting it off. “How many times do I have to tell you not to get flour all over the house when you bake your little cookies?”

“Sorry, I was jus?—”

“It’s fine.” She waves me off with the flick of her wrist. “I’m glad you’re here.” Hope blossoms within me. Is this actually going to be a nice visit? “We need to discuss the email I received regarding your declaration of major.” And the hope shrivels up like a sun-dried tomato.

My mother really needs to be removed from my campus email updates, but she says, “If I pay the bills, all communications come to me.”

I was hoping I could approach the subject before she got the chance, hence the dinner request. “What is there to talk about?” I ask, buying time to rethink my game plan.

“For starters, you can explain why you’re confirmed as majoring in early childhood education.” Her jaw is tight, furious eyes holding mine.

My heart races. “Because that’s what I chose.”

“Oh, really?” she asks, brows shooting to her hairline as she folds her arms over her chest. “Just like that? You decided?”

I swallow hard, glancing to Dad for help, but all I get in return is a look saying, You’re on your own, kid.

Thanks for the backup.

Straightening my shoulders, I attempt to exude confidence. “It’s my life. I get to choose what I do with my future. So, yes. I decided.”

“We agreed you would major in pre-law,” Mom grits out. “You want to be a lawyer.”

“No, you want me to be a lawyer,” I remind her.

“Yes, because I want you to obtain a quality education,” she says, tone laced with irritation. “Not to study the most up-to-date way to divide numbers by one.”

“That’s not even what I’ll do,” I argue, frustration coursing through me. “We’re trained to teach up-and-coming generations.”

“Let someone else teach them,” she snarks.

The hope of a career I’m excited about is crumbling like shortbread. “But it’s my passion!”

“Passion is a luxury that families like ours do not have.”

“Why?” I shriek, rage erupting under the surface. “The only reason you care is so you’ll have another thing you can boast about to the media.” I raise my tone an octave, impersonating her. “My darling daughter just graduated summa cum laude from Harvard.”

“Do you even realize what I’ve had to do to get us where we are?” Mom snaps a manicured finger in my face, and my breath hitches. “You have everything you could possibly want and need. I’ve paid for cheer camp, the extra tutoring for the SATs, the clothes on your back, and the roof over your head. And this is how you thank me?”

“Stop acting like we have all this because of you,” I say, waving around at the residence. “You’re a small-town mayor, and Dad makes good money. But not this good. We’re only here because Grandma died.”

Her palm flies through the air, serving a stinging slap against my cheek. My lips part, and my hand finds my tingling face, covering it.

“Georgia!” Dad exclaims.

“Do you know what my mother did when I got pregnant with you at nineteen?” Mom snarls. “She cut me off. Not a damn dime for anything. Yet here I am, trying to be different. To do better. And this is how you treat me?” Her eyes dart to mine. “Disrespecting all I’ve done for you. And not even a conversation before you change your degree?”

“If you weren’t so busy with all your political bullshit, you’d realize I’ve been trying to talk to you about this!” My chest heaves as I struggle for composure.

“I’m busy trying to support this family,” she fumes. “One day you’ll realize you can’t pay the bills with papier-maché hearts.” She shakes her head. “You’re not majoring in early education. Not while I’m paying for it.”

“Then I’ll pay for it myself!” Fuck.

“Okay,” Dad says, finally stepping in. “Everybody calm down.”

“With what money?” she asks smugly, folding her arms. “Because you’re certainly not using your trust fund.” My mother thinks she can dictate everything I do just because she currently controls my inheritance. Well, she can keep the damn money.

“I’ve got savings,” I say nervously, thinking of the tiny bank account I had long before our family inherited the estate.

“Have you forgotten I can see all your accounts?” she asks, huffing a laugh. I really need to get her off my stuff. “How far do you think a little birthday and Christmas money will get you?”

My shoulders tense. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re majoring in pre-law,” she says firmly.

“No.” I grind my teeth, heels digging in. “I’m not.”

“Then you’re doing it without our support,” she says, and panic wraps around me like a tight noose, squeezing the air from my lungs. Guess I’m really doing this.

“Fine.” My heart pounds against my ribcage, my cheeks blazing.

“And while we’re at it, you can go ahead and leave your keys too. Since we’re not doing anything for you, you don’t need our car either.”

“Now, hold on,” Dad attempts, and she cuts him off with a glare. The room spins as my mind struggles to formulate a solution. No financial support I can deal with, I think , but no car?

“How am I supposed to get to school?” I protest.

“Guess your first lesson will be public transportation.”

My mother and I don’t have much in common, but I sure as hell got her stubbornness.

Guess we’ll see who caves first.