Page 42 of How Sweet It Is (Willow Shade Island #3)

I ’m trimming stems, listening to “A Whole New World” on my Disney playlist because I am wallowing in self-pity, and all I can think about is that dance I shared with Levi as Skyler giggled and jumped up and down around my living room. My eyes sting, but I blink fast, refusing to cry. Again.

The shop is quiet, the air heavy with the scent of the wilting roses and baby’s breath I haven’t had a chance to throw out.

The counter is a mess, half-finished centerpieces for the Wilson wedding and unpaid invoices beneath them.

I’ve been trying to hold it all together, but nothing feels enough.

The Wilson wedding was the priority, and I haven’t had time to get much else done.

The bell on the door jingles. I flinch, turning just as my mother steps inside, purse clutched in the crook of her arm like a badge of authority.

“You’re not done with the centerpieces?” she asks, frowning. “I thought you’d be done, considering how little else you’ve managed to accomplish today.”

I straighten, pruning shears clenched in my hand. “I’m trying to catch up. Things are a disaster here. I’m cutting stems to try to save some of these flowers, but a lot of this needs to be tossed.”

She waves a dismissive hand, already surveying the chaos. “Excuses, Claire. I’ve been telling you for years we have to step up our game. Did you even start on the bridesmaids’ bouquets?”

I stiffen. “Half the flowers I need weren’t ordered, and the other half were wilting. What did you do while I was gone?” I almost gasp at my audacity. I don’t talk to my mother that way.

“I worked my fingers to the bone,” she says, eyes narrowing. “And I did place those orders. You must’ve misunderstood. I assumed you’d step up, especially with all the free time you now have, what with losing your other job.”

My jaw drops. “I’ve been here every day since the trial. I’ve come early, and I’ve stayed late trying to get all of this back in order. Mom, why didn’t you keep up with flower rotation? You know how important that is.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Well, you left. What was I supposed to do? You’ve done that for years, and now it’s my fault things aren’t getting done? You’re the one who abandoned us. You need to deal with your own mess.”

My heart pounds, anger and pain tangling in my throat. “You mean your mess. You’re the one who let the shop get like this. And now you’re acting like I’m the reason it’s falling apart? You didn’t want help. You wanted someone to blame when things went wrong.”

Her mouth flattens. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Wow. I cannot believe she’s blaming me for all of this.

And all of a sudden, I see things clearly.

Zoey is right. My mother doesn’t need me .

She’s using me . I take a breath and say it before I lose the nerve.

“You’ve been controlling me. You made me think I was needed here, but the truth is, you just didn’t want to take responsibility. You’ve been using me.”

Her eyes narrow, lips pressed in a tight line. “You know who never talked to me like this? Natalie.”

There it is. The comparison. The knife she always keeps sharpened.

“You know, Natalie would have finished everything early. She wouldn’t complain. She handled her responsibilities with grace. She didn’t run away to an island every time things got hard.”

The words slice through me, just like they always do. But this time? This time, I see it for what it is—manipulation.

“I don’t need this right now, Mother. Just leave. I need to finish my work.”

My mother scoffs, reaching for the door. “Don’t forget the boutonnieres.”

She yanks the door open then lets it slam behind her like a gavel. I sag against the counter, heart racing. My fingers are still wrapped around the shears like they’re the only thing keeping me upright.

Then I grab my phone and call Natalie.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey. Everything okay?”

That’s appropriate. I never call her unless I have to, and I wonder now how much of the distance between us is my fault. I swallow. “Not really. I just had it out with Mom.”

A pause. “You had a fight with Mom? What about?”

“The shop,” I say quietly. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I think I finally see through her. I always thought you were the golden child, the one who had it all together. The one Mom praised and adored.”

A bitter laugh comes through the phone. “Me? The golden child? You were the golden child, Claire. You were the one with the perfect grades, sailing through school early. You were the one Mom praised and adored. Mom always told me to do better because of you.”

I blink back hot tears, finally seeing it. “She pitted us against each other.”

There’s a long silence. Then Natalie finally asks, “What?”

“Yeah. She was always telling me to do better, to be more like you.”

“No way. It was always, ‘Why can’t you be more focused, like Claire? Why can’t you get a good job, like Claire?’ I didn’t even want that presidential award. I was just trying to feel like I was enough.”

My throat grows tight. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I think I’m done being what she wants me to be,” I whisper. “I don’t want to be her puppet anymore.”

“Good,” Natalie says. “You should get away from her. It was the best thing I ever did.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to allow the bitterness in my voice. “I should.”

“Hey, I saw the trial on the news. I’m glad you helped put away that scumbag.”

We talk for a little about the trial and about my time in witness protection. I even tell her a little about Levi, which is odd, because Natalie and I don’t ever talk like that.

“You should totally call him,” she says at the end of our conversation. “He sounds like a real catch.”

I hang up, breathing deeply, feeling like I just broke through the surface after drowning for years. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel trapped. The guilt, the obligation, the constant weight of trying to earn love that should’ve been given freely is starting to lift.

Maybe I don’t owe my mom my life just because she gave me one. Maybe love isn’t meant to feel like a job you can’t clock out of.

I think of Levi. His steady hands, that lopsided smile with the dimple on one side, and the way he looked at me like I was worth fighting for. Zoey’s words echo in my head: You’re allowed to want something for yourself.

I want him.

I want a life that feels like mine.

And maybe for the first time, I believe I’m allowed to have it.