Page 46 of Haunt Me

Graham isn’t cruel. He isn’t controlling, unfaithful, or careless. He’s kind and successful. Handsome in a polished, expensive way that makes strangers trust him before he opens his mouth.

He graduated from Princeton, earned his MBA, and now works for an investment firm on Wall Street where his father’s been a senior partner for more than twenty years. He wears custom suits without looking uncomfortable in them, knows which fork to use without glancing around the table, and can discuss market projections with my father for hours.

He would give me a beautiful life.

It just wouldn’t be mine.

Three different replies get typed and deleted before I give up entirely. There’s nothing I can say in a text message that won’t sound cruel. There’s probably nothing I can say at all.

After silencing the phone, I set it face down and return to the suitcase.

Jeans.

T-shirts.

Sweaters.

Underwear.

A pair of sneakers.

The faded Columbia sweatshirt I’ve had since freshman year, even though the sight of the school’s name now makes my stomach tighten.

My acceptance to law school arrived in March. My mother had the letter framed. It sits on my desk beside a photograph of Graham and me at graduation, both of us smiling toward the camera while his arm circles my waist. I remember how proud everyone was that day. My father told at least six people I’d make an exceptional attorney, just like my mother.

I never told him I hadn’t applied anywhere else. Neither of them ever heard about the hour I spent sitting in my car outside the admissions building after my interview, crying too hard to drive home.

Law school was simply the next step in the plan. In their plan.

My mother’s one of the most respected corporate attorneys in New York. She built her career in rooms where men underestimated her, dismissed her, and learned too late that she was smarter than all of them. Her name appears in magazines. She speaks on panels. Young women ask her for advice.

My father’s a cardiothoracic surgeon whose patients travel from across the country to see him. He’s performed procedures other doctors said were impossible and saved people who’d already been told to say goodbye to their families.

They worked for everything they have.

They gave me every opportunity. The best schools. Private tutors. Music lessons. Summer programs. Internships arranged through people whose names opened doors.

How am I supposed to explain that none of it made me happy? How do I look at two people who clawed their way into rooms that were never meant for people with their skin color and tell them I don’t want the seat waiting for me?

A knock sounds at my door, and I freeze with a sweater clutched against my chest.

“Astra?” My mother’s voice carries through the wood.

Air fills my lungs, slow and deliberate, before I trust myself to answer. “Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“No, I’m answering you in my sleep.”

There’s a pause, then the quiet laugh I’ve heard all my life.

“Very funny. May I come in?”

My eyes move to the suitcase.

“No. I’m changing.” It comes out too quickly.

Another pause.