“Finn, I—” Paper streamers dance between us. “Fine, purple,” I groan, giving in.
My brother is relentless.
“I-I like blue too,” I backtrack when his face falls. “I like them both. Both are good choices,” I defend, unsure why I care so much when if you’d asked me back at Alma’s, I would have told you I wasn’t staying.
Eighteen is supposed to be my year of freedom. Something earned after all my struggle.
Now that I’ve been back at the Caspers’ for a bit, I’m starting to wonder what that freedom means. When I ran away, I had nothing. A backpack and some anger. Here I at least have a proper bed, food, a few friends, and the potential for a solid future.
What do I have if I leave? Myself.
Before all this, that’s all I thought I wanted, the solitude.
I’m not sure if that’s enough anymore. What if the freedom I thought I’d always wanted had really been disguised as security? I mean, I did just get a new—
“You’re a jerk!” I deride. Jerking at Finn’s shoulder playfully.
That sad little expression on his face moments earlier purely of manipulation. His smile serendipitous now.
“Geesh, you’re gullible.” He rubs at his arm. “Don’t worry, lil sis, I can use both. I just always pegged you as a blue type of girl. I mean, hello, you have the whole teenage moody angst thing down to a science.”
I jab at the other.
“Uh, ouch!” he mocks, rubbing at the opposite arm. “Learn to take a joke.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m not the one who purposefully buys jeans that look like they’d been run through a blender first.”
“They’re called holes, and you should try plugging the one below your nose sometimes.”
“Mmhmm, right,” he agrees. Snatching the dessert off my plate and slamming the door closed to his room before I could get it back.
“Finn!” I yell, banging my fist, already knowing it’s going to go unanswered.
On a sigh, I head back downstairs after I hear his music start, hoping I might find one leftover. If not, at least I can drop off the now empty plate.
“Stop being so naive, Madison. Grow up!”
My footsteps stall around the corner from the kitchen.
“I told you it won’t work,” Madison defends.
“Try harder. You’re a Montgomery. We don’t lose. We aren’t losers, are we?”
I scoot closer to the edge but backtrack, nearly jumping out of my skin at the backhandedness of Madison’s mother’s tone.
“Answer me,” she snarls. “I said…”
The sound of skin contacting skin fills the place of the rest of her sentence. The sharp blow of a slap rings in my ears, ricocheting off the walls.
My pulse thunders as I chance a peek around the corner. The bright redness of Madison’s cheek confirms my theory.
“No, Mother.”
“No, what?”
“No, Mother, we are not losers,” Madison murmurs with more confidence than I expect. Eyes wild but never relenting. Fearful but never cowering.