“You know I don’t like when you say things like that, Sage,” he warns.
“I know but…” I lose my words in the middle of my sentence. Way to go, Sage.
“No buts. You’re my beautiful, unique little girl.”
“I’m nearly nineteen, Dad,” I grumble.
“Still my little girl,” he croons. I fight off a smile when he tosses his arm around my shoulders. “Listen, I know how you hate these events your mom goes to, but just humor her, okay? It’s only a few hours and you get to gamble.” He flashes a hopeful smile but I still loathe these big events.
Mom and her women’s group decided to hold a casino-style charity event to raise money to help build a school in Ethiopia one day. They thought it would be an amazing way to help kids get an education. All the publicity it’ll bring to the town of Ashton Hills is just a bonus, I’m sure.
When the chauffeured black Benz pulls around our circular driveway, I fight off an epic eye roll. “Mom had to get a driver for tonight,” I mutter as I slide in the back seat.
“You really think she’d show up to an event, she swears she organized single-handedly, without a driver? Come on, Sage. You know your mother better than that.” He’s right. There’s no way Eleanor Emerson would show up to an event driving herself. “You’ll take the first car in and Mom and I will be right behind you.”
Dad gives the top of the Benz a tap on the roof, signaling the driver to pull off. I look out of the back window as my house shrinks. For a split second, I fantasize about having the driver take off somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and country, where charity nights don’t exist and you don’t have to pose for pictures with familiar strangers.
Instead of having the balls to tell the driver to take me away from Ashton Hills, I sit in the back seat, while he drives down streets that twinkle with lights and tell false stories of a happy town. Ashton Hills is anything but happy.
The slogan on the huge yellow sign that welcomes people into town says: Quality Living with Small-town Charm.
What a crock of shit.
There is no small-town charm about Ashton Hills. Just a bunch of posers searching for the spotlight. Well, they can have it. I’ll take the comfort of sitting in front of a blank canvas with my paintbrushes any day.
My thoughts shift back to the present moment when I feel the car stop. We’re at the Ashton Hills Country Club. I peek out of the tinted window to see a red carpet and photographers lining the sides, just waiting for people to walk by.
My ears blaze with heat. The crushing stone wall is back and it’s pushing all the oxygen from my lungs. My eyes dart out of the back window and I spot my parents’ car pulling up. Thank God. Maybe I can hide behind Dad and avoid having my picture taken.
The driver opens my door and I look up at him, hoping he can see I’m being crushed. He doesn’t. He offers me a polite smile and holds his hand out so I can grab on.
“Can I just have a moment, please?” I ask. My words shake as much as my hands. I lock my fingers together and try to swallow back the thick knot of nerves in my throat.
The driver nods and closes the door. A rush of air escapes me and I try to pull myself together. I massage my tight chest and try to will the wall away.
I can do this. I can walk down the red carpet and pretend to smile. My gaze jerks to the window when I see Dad approach. He opens the door and motions for me to get out.
Like he can read my mind, he uses his body to shield me from the clicks of the cameras. Mom is front and center, smiling and posing like it’s her job. I watch as Dad tugs her inside the building before a photo shoot unfolds in front of the country club.
“Hey, kiddo, it’s okay. This will be over in no time and you can get back to painting.” Dad touches my chin, and I try to find a smile to offer him, but my mind is busy mapping out escape routes.
“How’d you know I was stressing?” I ask him. He doesn’t say anything, he just taps my ears and I sigh in response. My ears were always a dead giveaway. Hastily, I move my hair so they’re covered.
“Sage, I just saw your friends by the photo booth. They’re looking for you. Don’t stay attached to your father all night. Mingle. Have fun,” Mom says, grinning. All the words I want to say fill my mouth, until they press against my soft palate with sharp edges. I swallow the jagged ball of protests and nod at Mom. That’s what she wants. She doesn’t want me to object and run out of here like a crazy person.