Page 68 of Cinder
I’m not bracing anymore, and I’m definitely not sure what to do with that.
Chapter ten
I won’t let you fall
Penny
The bathwater’s gone lukewarm around me by the time I realize I’ve been staring at the same line in my journal for nearly five minutes. I shift slightly, watching the ripples push against the edge of the tub while the pen rests uselessly between my fingers.
The guest house is quiet today, but I can still hear the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the cracked bathroom window, and every now and then, the muffled bark of a dog down the street. Hopefully not Mister Gus.
I look back down at the page.
February 24th.
I’m already getting emotionally attached to a 5-year-old and a grumpy firefighter.
I stare at the sentence for a second longer, then drag a line through it hard enough to nearly tear the paper.
That’s too honest, and my pen hovers as I think about the next line already taking shape in my head.
Maybe Evan’s right.
My stomach twists immediately after I write it. I shouldn’t have folded the laundry, or reorganized his bathroom cabinet because the Band-Aids were impossible to find, or started making dinner every night like this is somehow my house too.
Heat crawls slowly up my neck, even though I’m alone. God,of coursehe said something.
“You don’t need to play house.”
I sink lower into the water until it laps at my collarbones, trying to wash the cringe away. The thing is, I know he didn’t mean it cruelly—but that almost makes it worse. If he’d snapped properly, if he’d been unfair on purpose, maybe I could’ve got angry instead of embarrassed.
Embarrassment feels awfully familiar.
Like the time I stood in the corner of a corporate dinner party while my stepmother smiled too brightly and introduced me as “our little helper” instead of the late Eric Easton’s daughter and shareholder.
Or the years I spent fixing scheduling disasters and smoothing over furious clients while pretending not to notice how often corners were being cut behind the scenes. Delayed inspections and cheap substitutions, and safety compliancy signed off too fast because deadlines mattered more than people.
“You’re so useful at handling these situations, Penelope.”
My stepmother’s words always sounded supportive right up until I realized being useful for these situations mostly meantabsorbing the fallout quietly enough that nobody looked too closely at who was actually causing it—her.
For years, I thought that if I made myself useful enough, eventually it’d turn into belonging. But useful feels a lot like being loved until it’s not.
I stare at the steam curling off the water. Maybe that’s the problem with me. I settle in too quickly and start taking care of things without thinking about it. Fill the cracks before anyone asks me to and before I realize maybe I’m actually making the cracks worse.
The worst part is, I hadn’t even realized I was doing it here, not until Evan said it.
My throat tightens unexpectedly as I look back down at my journal. He’s right. This isn’t my house, and it isn’t my kitchen. Or my family.
Outside, a car horn beeps in the distance, and I hear the muffled sound of Gus barking once. I close my journal and set it carefully on the floor beside the bath, staring up at the ceiling while the water cools around me, then force myself to get out.
***
The school bell rings, and the doors spill open in a rush of noise and backpacks and messy hair.
I spot Elle straight away. She’s halfway down the steps, talking animatedly to a girl with a glittery scrunchie, her lunchbox swinging wildly at her side. When she sees me, her whole face lifts.
“Penny!”
