Page 35 of Don't Leave Me Behind
I sit in front of it, nibbling on the world’s most delicious brown butter cookie, reading through her half-written post. It’s a mess. I’m not sure if she’s trying to encourage people to come back, or if she’s writing an expose on how hard it is to run her business. Either way, this isn’t usually her job. Last I knew, there was an employee who wrote the blog posts and ran her socials. Staring at the screen, I let my brain wander, rearrangingsentences and writing new ones. Giving a more eloquent spin to what I think Ma might be trying to say.
I’m tempted to put the words into the post, but instead, I navigate to her social accounts. There hasn’t been any interaction in months. Some people have asked basic questions, and there’s no reply. Not even an automated one inviting them to message for more information.
I chew on my fingernail, itching to write out a basic reply. If only so it doesn’t look like the business is going under.
The sound of a car door has me scrambling to set the computer screen back to how it was. Bursting out of the kitchen, I slip down the hall toward the family rooms.
The Main house is more of a mansion. Great-Grandpa Kane called it a lodge, and I guess it is, but it’s massive. There are eight family rooms on the East wing. Twelve guest rooms in the center of the house, and well, there used to be another seven on the West wing, but Adler has taken that over. I don’t know what he’s done to it, probably stuffed it full of arcade games and Sports Illustrated posters. Actually, they’re probably half-dressed cowgirls, but whatever, my point stands.
The second my feet hit the worn-out boards of the hallway, I pause. When I came back the first time, I had one condition: I wouldn’t stay here. The compromise was the cabin because you can see it from the main house. So, everyone could still “keep an eye on me,” but it also meant I got to avoid the main house for the better part of ten years. When I am here, I tend to stick to the kitchen area for meals and holidays. It feels easier that way, more detached.
I slip into my bedroom, avoiding the memories of playing hallway hockey with the younger boys. Ethan stomping down the hardwood planks, a serious lawyer look on his face, before he tells me all the shit I’m doing wrong. God, if only they weren’t omniscient andsoooosmart.
I roll my eyes.
My room looks mostly the same. There isn’t a single speck of dust, and no dirty clothes are strewn about the floor. Overall, it’s barely changed. The same wildflower comforter with soft pink sheets underneath. I wonder…walking around to the head, I stick my hand under the pillow, grinning when I pull out a soft brown horse. Even as a teenager, I kept Speckles close. He does, in fact, not have a single speckle on him, and yet, I couldn’t be convinced to change his name. No matter how much the boys teased me.
Pa gifted him when I was seven. I never took him out of the house, and I always slept with him. I set him on the end of the bed, fully intending to take him with me. I doubt Ma does much with the linens; she won’t notice.
Across from my bed is a vanity, which is white with little pink flowers decorating the edges. The mirror is streak-free. Old makeup and knick-knacks scatter across the vanity counter. I used to keep my diary in the side drawer. Miya helped me build a false bottom to it, so I had a proper hiding spot. I took the diary with me when I left, one hundred percent aware that the boys would go through my shit once I wasn’t here to monitor it.
Nosy bastards.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, taken aback. I haven’t seen myself in this room in nearly a decade. Whenever I’m here, looking at that bed, I can’t help but remember Clay. The first night he snuck in, the bed shook with his tears before he finally fell into a restful sleep. That memory always leads to the next, which was the last time he was here. The time he kissed me, then snuck away and pretended I didn’t exist afterward. That should have been my first sign he didn’t want me.
Pushing those thoughts back, I consider that I’ve never seenadult Leni here. You’d think the differences would be subtle, but they’re jarring.
Where a flat-chested, little twig of a girl should be, I see a woman. Thick thighs, the flare of my hips accentuated by my workout clothes, and man, my tits look huge here. I didn’t get a chest until after high school. Not sure why they didn’t come in with puberty, but the second I moved out, I suddenly looked all grown up.
Another thing that the boys probably hated was me coming home after a year, looking nothing like the scrawny kid they said goodbye to.
I shake my head and walk in the opposite direction, toward the bathroom, perks of being the only girl in the family. I had my own ensuite and walk-in closet.
The shower curtain and rug have changed to a soft sage green. It looks much better than the black and white zebra print I had chosen. The counter has little hotel toiletries, like Ma was hoping I’d come back. She has a million other guest rooms; I know they don’t use this for visitors.
The closet, to my memory, is also the same, stuffed full of outfits I wore in my teens. I pick up a pair of denim shorts that look like they’re made for toddlers. Double zero. Holy shit. Was I actually that tiny?
Holding them up to my hips in the full-length mirror, I have to smother a laugh. Oh my God, these wouldn’t even make it up one thigh now. I turn to the side, running a hand down my leg. I used to be self-conscious about the weight I gained once I moved out. Now, I kind of like my curves. I like the swing of my hips and the power I wield when a man shows interest.
I might not be the perfect picture of mental health, but at least I like my body now. It helps on days when I don’t particularly care for the rest of me. I should probably considerscheduling a video therapy session soon. Being here, seeing Clay, it’s bringing up a lot of old shit that I thought I dealt with.
Moving down to my knees, I shuffle the shoe rack, cringing at the multiple pairs of platforms I have. I should sell these online; I bet I could call them vintage and make a decent little chunk of change.
I feel around by memory, finding the little hole in the wall where I stuffed a narrow shoebox. Pa would probably have a heart attack if he knew I butchered the drywall, but it’s hidden enough that no one will ever find it. Unless they clear everything out.
I run my fingers over the lid of the box. A light and warm feeling consumes my belly. To anyone else, these letters would be boring. They’re mostly Clay talking about his day. One of them is about the time he broke his toe while on a march. Another about how the pears are always crunchy and never fully ripe. Little details that made me smile and made me think I was important to him.
How wrong I was.
My shoulders droop, the lightness replaced with a heavy weight I can never quite shake. He stopped writing after that summer. I offered to go back with him. To help him sleep better. I realized then that I was in love with him. That I’d happily give up any kind of future, if it meant I could help him not hurt so much.
When he left, it was the first time I realized that maybe he didn’t want me to. When the letters started coming in for Mercer or the others, but never for me, I realized I was losing him. I wrote him through the fall, until I turned eighteen and went to find him.
Somehow, I convinced myself that he did want me; he was just being noble. Being honorable because I was still underage. Turning eighteen was the catalyst I thought would bring ustogether. Clearly, I’d been wrong. Shoving the box back into the hole, I shake my head. There’s no use pining for something that was never going to happen. For someone who was never going to let himself want me back.
I do a slow circle, standing in the middle of the closet, looking for something to do, some reason to stay. Dark blue sequins peek out of the back corner. Running the scratchy material through my hand, I pull the body con dress off the hanger.
I wore this on my twenty-first birthday. Miya and I got a small group of girls from college together and decided to hit up a couple of nightclubs. I was drinking, obviously, but not enough to impair my decisions. Some of the girls were getting tipsy, but Miya wasn’t drinking at all. We made a pact at our first college party that one of us would always stay sober to make sure both of us got home safe.
