Page 147 of Trapped With You

The Present

The Hill residence was an imposing beauty with a Greek Revival architecture, flanked by tall pillars, weeping willows, limestone fountain, and white and red roses across the courtyard.

My stomach flipped when I pulled into the driveway. I hadn’t been here in months, and I didn’t expect to be hit with such a strong wave of nostalgia. This place was like a second home for me. I grew up here with Darla and her sister Dacia, who was two years older than us.

I remembered playing with Barbie dolls as little girls on a picnic blanket, while Alberto—their butler and the closest thing to a father figure for the Hills—waited on us with iced tea. I remembered driving the staff wild with worry as we spent the day playing hide-and-seek, holed up in the kitchen cupboard with fluffernutter sandwiches and giggling amongst ourselves because nobody could find us. I remembered practicing cheerleading routines in the backyard when Darla and I first joined the team in high school. I recalled so many memories with fondness—the smiles, the laughter, the tears—and I couldn’t believe I let it all go without a fight.

I should have come here long before now.

And I should have tried harder to communicate with Darla to figure out what went wrong between us.

As I jogged to the front doors, a pair of crows cawed. Either a bad omen or a sigh of good luck. Regardless, I wasn’t leaving Hill residence without my cell phone and some form of closure.

I didn’t even have the chance to ring their bell when the doors opened and a curious Alberto regarded me. “Miss Cordova?”

“Hi, Berto! Long time no see. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” He smoothed his white-gloved hand over his greying hair. “And yourself?”

“Great.” I smiled sheepishly. “I’m here to see Darla.”

“Is Miss Hill expecting you?”

A little white lie never hurt anybody, right? “Yeah, she is. We’re supposed to hang out tonight and watch a movie.”

His features perked up with joy. “I’m very glad to hear it. I’ve not seen you here for quite some time and was worried you were no longer friends.”

My smile wavered. “We…We’ve just been busy with our respective lives. You know how it is, Berto.”

Seeming to sympathize with our situation, Alberto let me inside and I kissed his cheek in gratitude before climbing the grand staircase two steps at a time. Eager to see Darla and adamant on avoiding Principal Hill.

When I reached Darla’s room, her door was shut.

I gingerly knocked three times.

A faint, “Who is it?” came from the other side.

“It’s Ella.”

Silence echoed for six seconds before I heard footsteps. The door swung open to reveal a stunned Darla. “Ella?”

I tried to remain calm and steady. “Hey.”

She assessed me the way you would a serial killer on trial. “What are you doing here?

The sharp tone, so unlike her, caused me to flinch. I steeled myself quickly. “I just want to talk. Please,darling.”

When I was seven, I learned that Darla was named after the affectionate term. I found it so adorable that I spent the better part of second grade refusing to call her anything but ‘darling.’ The same kids who occasionally bullied me for my sectoral heterochromia were the same ones who teased her for loving bright colours and making eclectic fashion choices. I called her darling incessantly because I wanted my best friend to know she was dearly beloved. And that it was okay to be different. It’s what made us unique and special.

Plus, I’d threaten to beat those kids with tree branches and push them off slides if they ever dared to bully her in my presence.

The term of endearment softened Darla. She hesitated for a split second before allowing me entry. “Fine. Come in.”

Her room was as I last remembered it. Crème and gold accents, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, canopy bed sitting on a dais, and a work desk fitting for a queen. A laptop was opened on a page of her manuscript.

Darla had been writing romance novels secretly for a few years now. I had the honour of reading her first drafts and she was extremely talented. Fear of the unknown and Principal Hill’s reaction—who was very harsh and strict with her daughters—held her back from publishing. I wished she’d take the leap. Last time we spoke, I was encouraging her to do so.

“What are you currently working on?”