FIFTEEN
On good days, Rebecca felt like a survivor. On days like this, she felt like an imposter. The gentle tinkling of silverware against plates and ice cubes against glass grated against her eardrums and made the muscles in her neck tighten. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at Bitching Brunch with her friends, telling them how she’d somehow managed to get involved in a food-truck project and how she was spending time with the man she’d once gone up against in court.
Instead, her dad had convinced her to do this speech under the auspices of it being an important way to give back to the community, but she knew it was more about being good for the campaign. This was his dog-and-pony show, and she was the pony. Giddyup, girlfriend.
The speaker before her had wrapped up an inspiring talk about her fight against cancer, making everyone break out the tissues to dab their eyes and then rise to their feet in a standing ovation at the end. Rebecca was up next, and her fight-or-flight reflex was so ramped up over what she was going to have to talk about that she worried she’d sprout wings and fly out of the room.
Everyone took their seats again, and her gaze drifted over the audience, finding her father sitting a few tables back from the stage. Every salt-and-pepper hair in place. Suit perfectly ironed. Attention of the guests at the table solidly on him. Even though Rebecca was doing this for him, he hadn’t looked her way once since she’d walked to the front of the room. Not that she’d expected him to. Because why would he be checking on her? What would he have to worry about?
Rebecca was as reliable and predictable as the sunrise peeking through the high windows on the side of the ballroom. She’d vowed from a hospital bed many years ago that she would never cause him worry again. She’d stuck to it.
But right now, she felt more like her fifteen-year-old self right before her first running-for-class-secretary speech than the accomplished attorney she’d become.
Her heartbeat
thumped in her ears, and her fingernails dug into her palms as the emcee went to the stage to thank the previous speaker and to introduce Rebecca. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed one of the dry pastries on the tables whole. She didn’t want to be introduced. She didn’t want to tell her story. She wanted to be at brunch with her friends or talking about the food truck with Wes or back at work where she was the confident lawyer doing her thing.
Here she felt too exposed, too…observed. It wasn’t the public speaking part. She did that for her job all the time. But this wasn’t a courtroom or a divorce mediation. This was a charity brunch full of society’s ruling class, and there were reporters here. And gawking people. And she was one of the spectacles. Again.
All because of that documentary on the shooting. She’d thought this part was done. People had short memories and there were always new tragedies, so Long Acre High’s prom night had gotten filed away in people’s minds after a few years. Not forgotten but no longer a fascination. She didn’t think the documentary would be anything but a blip in the news cycle. But the thing hadn’t even premiered yet, and there was buzz building, clips leaked. She was that girl again. One of the lucky few. One of the ones who got away.
But she didn’t see how that was an accomplishment. She’d been shot in the leg instead of somewhere more deadly. That had been pure dumb luck and Finn throwing himself in front of her to throw off the shooter’s aim. And now, because she hadn’t turned into a complete disaster, she was an “inspiration.”
Such a farce. She had no business inspiring anyone. If these people knew the whole story, they’d run her out of here with pitchforks.
She was an imposter.
Still, here she stood. Because this would help her dad. Because the movers and shakers of Austin were in this room and this was good PR for him. Because she couldn’t tell the truth about why she shouldn’t be giving speeches like this or why she should be the last person people looked to for inspiration.
So here she was, about to vomit on her shoes.
The emcee was reading her bio. Something about valedictorian and top of her class in law school and successful divorce attorney—all the stuff that she’d spent her life busting her ass to accomplish but that somehow rang hollow in this moment.
Who the hell cares?
She clutched her notes in her hand, the cards crinkling under her grip.
“Please welcome Ms. Rebecca Lindt.”
The claps and camera clicks were amplified in her head, the claustrophobic feeling growing. Her feet froze in place. Anticipatory glances slid her way because she hadn’t moved yet. Her father finally looked at her. His brow wrinkled, and he tilted his head toward the stage as if she needed to be reminded what direction to walk.
She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She could do this. She could get through her speech, answer a few questions, and be done. If she made some sort of scene, it’d be more newsworthy, would bring her more of what she didn’t want.
Pretend it’s a courtroom.
Yes, she could do that. Court was safe. Court was her domain. Where she was in control. Where fear and memories didn’t touch her.
She opened her eyes and made her way to the stage, fighting hard to disguise her limp. Everyone in this room knew she’d been injured all those years ago, but she didn’t want that pity directed her way. She didn’t deserve it. Her heart was still beating. She got to wake up every day and see the sun. So many of her classmates hadn’t gotten that chance. No sympathy should be wasted on her.
The lights on the stage were bright, blinding her view of the audience except for the first row of tables, and she braced her hands on the podium. There was a sheet of paper taped to it, listing the presenter schedule. The top of the page had the slogan for the event.
Be the Voice That Makes a Difference
The words landed like stones in her gut. Make a difference. What if the difference wasn’t a good one? What if you made a difference that ruined everything?
“Hello.” The word came out as little more than a choked whisper, and she breathed through the growing panic, trying to find someone to focus on in the front row. Talk to one person. That had been a trick she’d learned in speech class in high school. But her gaze caught on a young male face near the stage. One that looked all too familiar as he slouched in his seat. One whose dark eyes seemed to see into her, to dare her. Just like the night she’d been mugged, a rush of dread flooded her. Everything blurred together. Past. Present. Leaving her in some nightmarish space in between.
The boy sneered. Go ahead, Becca, tell them just how great you are. Lie to these nice people and look like a hero.