Page 4 of Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls #1)

Ringlets of sweat-soaked baby hairs stick to the back of my neck as I stand on an old wooden chair, forcing a plastic spring-tension curtain rod between the center support beam and the attic wall.

If I’m going to be forced to stay here, I need some semblance of privacy should someone need to come to the attic.

Once I have rods hanging on either side of the support beam, I climb down from the chair and stand back to look at my new bedroom walls—gauzy white curtains that I made from some vintage tablecloths in the stack of clothing-donation boxes.

The lacy edges felt like the right kind of shabby-chic vibe, and, as much as I would never admit this to my mom, using my sewing machine helped quell some of my anxiety about being stuck here.

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Mom says, startling me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Those fans are loud.”

I pull open a curtain, exposing three fans, all oscillating on their highest settings. “Loud but necessary.”

“No kidding. It’s like a sauna up here.” She steps past the curtain and surveys my tiny living quarters. “I really am sorry about the attic.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Better than sleeping in Sloane’s room.”

Mom turns and sits on the bed, getting a better look at the curtains. “So you made those, huh?”

“Don’t get too excited,” I tell her. “I was sewing out of necessity, not desire.”

“Well, either way, they look great.”

“Thanks.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause before she continues. “I appreciate you making the best of this. You’re a good kid.” I nod and cross my arms over my chest as I stare at the floor.

Mom bites her lip and places her hands on her knees as the fans combat the awkward silence between us.

“Look,” she finally says, “I know you’re mad at me, but maybe try to think of this as an opportunity for you to be a normal teenager for a bit.” My eyes dart to her. “Things don’t have to be so grueling right now. You have the rest of your life to work.”

“I don’t want to be a ‘normal teenager.’ I want to get into Columbia.”

“And you will. I’m just saying, try to have some fun while you’re here. Hang out with Sloane, enjoy the town’s charm, work on your fashion stuff….” She pauses, hesitating; then: “Maybe do the things you like instead of worrying about making your dad happy.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You say that like everything I do is for Dad’s sake.” She says nothing. “You’re wrong. I am doing the things I like.”

I haven’t been working on my clothing designs lately because I haven’t had time to go thrifting, let alone spend hours constructing new pieces.

It has nothing to do with my dad.

She nods once. “Okay.”

Her tone doesn’t say okay , though. Her tone says she doesn’t believe me. It says she’s simply being agreeable. Like always.

“And I don’t want to enjoy the town’s charm,” I continue, searing irritation sweeping through me like wildfire.

“I want to be in the city, attending my prestigious high school and finishing my internship, which other people would kill to have, so that I can carry out the plans I’ve been working toward for the last three years.

We’re talking about my whole future , Mom.

Just because you don’t have a job doesn’t mean other people aren’t worried about getting one! ”

Mom’s face crumples, her calm expression turning hurt, and my stomach knots. It’s not untrue—after all, Mom gave up her career at an art gallery in the city to stay home and raise me—but I didn’t mean to make it sound like being a stay-at-home mom is a walk in the park.

I swallow and look at the floor. “I’m just saying I want to do big things, okay? So what if what I want aligns with what Dad wants for me? He’s helping me reach my goals. Being here is a step backward, so stop trying to make this a good thing.”

Mom pushes off the floral comforter and stands. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but then she presses them together instead, pivots away from me, and walks across the attic and down the steps.

I groan and flop onto the bed.

My phone has sat silently on the worn dresser next to me all day. I grab it, glancing at the time—5:46 p.m. I find Dad in my contacts and press the green call icon.

Despite Mom being the one who was home with me all the time, I’ve always been closer with my dad. Mom helped me with homework, but Dad kept me motivated. He pushed me to get perfect grades, to get involved, to work hard, to try new things, to think about the future.

He’s brilliant and selfless and adored at Street Media. Even when I was little, following him around his office carrying his stapler and the brass paperweight from his desk, I knew I wanted to be him.

He travels a lot for work, so I’ve gone weeks without seeing him. But the distance between us now feels different. I hate him for letting this happen, but I also miss him.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings. When his voice finally carries across the line, my eyes sting. You’ve reached Brad Mitchell. Leave a voicemail and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

I hang up and swipe my thumb, scrolling until I get to Fern’s name.

She answers on the first ring.

“Ellis! Tell me everything!”

My heart lurches at the sound of her voice.

“It’s awful,” I tell her.

“You haven’t even been there twelve hours yet.”

“I know, so that says something.”

She huffs. “What’s so bad about it? Other than the fact that you aren’t here with me, obviously.”

On the other end of the line, something scrapes across the floor. I picture my best friend pulling a chair out from her small white kitchen table and folding herself into it like a pretzel, the way she always does when she talks on the phone. It makes me homesick.

“They don’t have PSLs here for starters.” Fern gasps. She might be a foodie, but we both lean into our most basic instincts when it comes to fall. “Exactly. And I’m pretty sure the guy who works at the coffee shop hates me.”

“You’ve already made an enemy? I’m impressed.”

“My mom got me registered for school, but they don’t have a large enough student body to offer AP classes here. And they don’t have a school newspaper.”

“This is, like, your worst nightmare.”

“It gets worse,” I tell her. “I’m staying in the attic.”

“Ellis, no. Hop on a bus out of there right now. You can live with me,” Fern says. And I know she means it.

“If only. At least then I wouldn’t keep fighting with my mom.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Worse than bad.” I sigh. “Tell me something about home. How was your housewarming? I can’t believe I missed it.”

As real estate investors, Fern’s wealthy parents got her an apartment for her eighteenth birthday. We have plans to live together while I attend Columbia.

“Oh my god, I wish you would have come. It was wild.”

Fern proceeds to tell me about her night of boys and drinking and karaoke and her encounter with the NYPD and her old, grumpy neighbor. She lists every New York City influencer who attended and all the plans they made to collaborate.

I met Fern when we were both on the school newspaper two years ago.

At the time, she dreamed of having her own advice column, but ultimately—and accidentally—she made a name for herself as a restaurant reviewer on social media.

With untamable red curls, fair skin, and bright green eyes, she’s undeniably gorgeous.

She’s also inarguably hilarious. And in the last year, she’s risen to fame, traveling the country and finishing school online while making tons of money in endorsements as a teen food critic—both because her videos are entertaining and because she’s always right about the food.

We’ve barely been able to keep up our weekly Thursday night dinners at Nom Wah, our favorite dim sum place in Chinatown, thanks to her heightened profile.

Her name and career are taking off, and opportunities are presenting themselves left and right. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here in a stalemate.

“Jordan kept asking about you,” she says before I hear her take a sip of what I’d guess is her green smoothie. I roll my eyes. “Stop rolling your eyes.”

“How do you know I rolled my eyes?” I laugh—a sound foreign to me at this point. Between working constantly and listening to my parents’ endless fighting these last few months, it’s been hard to muster a sincere smile, much less an actual laugh.

“I know you. Look, I know you say boys are a distraction—”

“Because they are,” I shoot back.

“But they don’t have to be. He knows you’re busy, and he’s okay with it. Give him a chance.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Relationships are time-sucking obstacles on the way to a destination.

“Okay, but it doesn’t have to be something serious,” Fern says. “Once you’re back, you could just have some fun. Be casual.”

Casual is all Fern knows—she’s commitment-averse.

Unfortunately, I made time to go to Fern’s rooftop party four months ago and found myself staring into Jordan’s dark eyes, lined with thick black lashes, his impeccable black hair blowing in the breeze, and I kissed him. I tried fun and casual, but then he got attached.

And even if I knew him well enough to like him, I’m too busy for a relationship. So, lesson learned.

“I don’t do fun and casual. I’m not interested, Fernie. I’m sorry.” Maybe I’ll have time for boys after I get into Columbia, but until then, I’m laser-focused.

Fern’s sigh nearly blows me over all the way from New York. “Just think about it, Ellis. Listen, I gotta go. I’m meeting up with Franky for dinner at the Nervous Donkey.”

My stomach grumbles. “Ugh, I’ve been dying to eat there since they opened.”

“I know, babes. We’ll go when you’re back.”

“Let me know how it is,” I say.

“You can watch my video,” Fern says. There’s some shuffling on her end. “Let me know how school goes Tuesday.”

I smother my groan. “Yeah, sure.”

“Love you, Ell. Bye!”

The line goes dead. I toss my phone on the mattress next to me and lie like a starfish, closing my eyes and letting the air from the fans wash over me. Maybe this is where I wake up and find out this has all been a nightmare.

I’ll open my eyes and be in my bedroom in NYC, sunlight pouring through my giant window, photos of Fern and me tacked up on the pale pink walls, my toes sinking into my soft white rug on my way to sit in my armchair and sketch some designs.

A soft knock pulls me from my daydream.

“Ellis, we’re coming up,” my mom calls from downstairs. She hasn’t once announced herself today. I sit up and listen closely.

“Of course I remember you,” my mom says as two pairs of footsteps grow closer. “Ellis talked about you for months after we last left here. I think it was the best summer she ever had.”

“Oh yeah?” a deep voice full of doubt says.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I completely forgot Cooper Barnett was coming over.