Page 59 of Saint Céline
The sentence died halfway out of her mouth. Silence settled heavily between us. France. Céline. The fake cousin story hadexisted so long that sometimes even Katherine forgot where it started.
I stared down at the cream-colored sweater in my hands and felt the familiar twist of envy curl low in my stomach. Not the sharp kind that made me cruel. The quiet kind that made me ache. I envied the ease with which she could say things like that, the way her life unfolded in summers spent in places I had only seen in magazines or on television. She complained about packing the way normal people complained about homework. None of it felt extraordinary to her. That was the part I could never forgive the rich for. Not the money itself. The blindness. The complete inability to understand what their lives looked like from the outside.
“You’re getting weird again,” Katherine said carefully, tilting her head the way she did when she sensed something shifting in me.
“I’m not weird.”
“You’ve folded the same sweater three times.”
I looked down. She was right. I set it aside too quickly.
“Sorry.”
Katherine studied me for another moment before shifting closer across the bed.
“You can stay in my room while we’re gone.”
I laughed once under my breath.
“Katherine.”
“What?”
“You say things like that as if your house belongs to me too.”
Her expression changed instantly. Not offended, but confused.
“Well,” she said slowly, “you practically live here already.”
There it was again. That invisible line neither of us fully understood. Because in Katherine’s mind, loving someone meant offering access. She truly believed generosity erasedinequality. If she shared enough with me, then eventually the distance between us would disappear naturally. But the distance never disappeared. It simply became easier to ignore until moments like this reminded me exactly where I stood. I was still the housekeeper’s daughter. Still temporary. Still, someone allowed inside the world rather than born into it.
Katherine noticed the shift in my face immediately.
“Céline .”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re upset.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You always do that.” Frustration crept quietly into her voice. “You get angry at me for things I don’t even understand.”
The words landed harder than she intended. Because she was right. I looked away toward the rain-covered windows.
“I should help my mom downstairs.”
Katherine sighed softly behind me as I stood. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“You always leave when conversations get uncomfortable.”
I turned toward the door before answering. “Maybe you should think about why they get uncomfortable.”
Then I left her sitting there surrounded by half-packed suitcases and expensive clothes she would wear in countries I would probably never see in this lifetime.
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