Page 4 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
The rain soaks through my clothes in seconds, cold and relentless. Above us, thunder rumbles like an angry beast, and I sink to my knees on the wet asphalt.
This is how they felt. Driving through the storm, maybe scared, maybe trying to call me to say they were okay but couldn’t get through because of the weather. This is what killed them.
“Alice!” Mrs. Rodriguez crouches beside me, her voice cutting through the storm. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Do you remember the breathing technique Dr. Timms taught you?”
I force myself to look up at her kind but worried eyes, and nod through the constriction in my throat. She counts with me—four breaths in, hold for four, four breaths out—until the world stops spinning and I can stand up again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as we get back in the car, both of us dripping wet. “Storms... since the accident...”
“No need to apologize, Alice. We’ll take it slow.”
But taking it slow doesn’t make the mountains any less foreboding. As we drive closer to Victoria Falls, the landscape becomes more dramatic. Towering evergreens line the road with occasional glimpses into deep valleys that could swallow you whole.
The towns we pass through get smaller and smaller. A few have names I recognize from my parents’ stories about catering mountain weddings, but most are just dots on the map.
“Almost there,” Mrs. Rodriguez says as we turn off the main highway onto a winding road that climbs even higher into the mountains.
We pass a sign that reads: “Victoria Falls - 15 miles” in elegant script, and my stomach churns with more than car sickness.
“Your aunt lives out of town,” Mrs. Rodriguez says. “Only about two miles to go.”
This is really happening.
In two miles, I’ll meet the aunt who cut my mother out of her life for twelve years.
In two miles, I’ll start over in a place where no one knows me or remembers my parents.
The rain has stopped, but the clouds still hang low and threatening. We drive through a valley filled with evergreens so tall they seem to scrape the sky, and then the road curves sharply to the right.
“There it is,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, and I follow her gaze to see a house perched on a ridge overlooking the valley.
Houseis definitely the wrong word.
It’s a mansion, but not the kind you see in movies with white columns and manicured gardens. This place looks built for somebody who wants to hide from the world. Dark stone walls rise three stories into the air, partially covered in ivy. Arched windows with heavy, wooden shutters that stare down at us like eyes.
Wrought-iron gates surround the property. They stand open, but that doesn’t stop them from feeling ominous. It’s like they’re waiting to snap shut and trap whoever ventures inside.
A long gravel driveway winds through the grounds, which are wild with weeds and unkempt plant life on the verge of death. Okay, so my aunt doesn’t take lawn maintenance seriously.
Mrs. Rodriguez whistles low under her breath. “Well. Your aunt certainly has done well for herself.”
As we pull up the driveway, I spy the massive front door made of dark wood that looks able to withstand a siege. Windows glow with warm light from inside, but all I can imagine is eyes watching our approach.
The house sits alone on its ridge, surrounded by miles of forest. The nearest building we passed was at least ten miles back, a gas station that looked like it was from the 1980s. Apparently this place is fifteen miles from town, but it looks cut off from the entire world.
Mrs. Rodriguez turns off the car engine, and the following silence is heavy and expectant. No sounds of traffic, neighbors, or civilization. Just the whisper of wind through the trees and the distant warning call of fleeing birds.
“Ready?” she asks, but it’s not really a question.
Ready or not, I have to go in.
With a dry swallow, I stare up at the house that’s supposed to be my new home. What kind of person lives here? My aunt must be the antithesis of my mother, because Mom wouldn’t take one more step towards this unruly monstrosity.
Mrs. Rodriguez thinks this home is a sign of wealth. To me, it looks like the three-story walls of a recluse. And I have a sinking feeling that whatever caused the fight between my mom and Aunt Miranda twelve years ago was just the beginning of the story.
Two
Thefrontdooropensbefore we reach it. A woman steps out onto the stone porch, and I know immediately this is Aunt Miranda. She has the same dark hair as Mom, though hers is styled in a sleek bob. She’s tall and elegant in a way that makes me feel like a rumpled mess, wearing designer clothing when she’s just at home.
