I exhale hard, grinding my teeth together. I am nothing like my mother. I’m not abandoning Clay. I’ll fucking run from her.

She backs away, tossing the marker onto the table and grabs her bag, T-shirt, and phone. “Tell Lavinia I’ll be in to pick up the dress on Tuesday.”

And she spins around, heads offstage, and disappears.

I wait until I hear the heavy back door slam shut, and then I let out a breath.

A couple of tears spill to the floor as I glance down at my body. But immediately look away before I can take in everything she did to me.

I pick up the sweats and pull them on as quickly as I can, followed by the T-shirt. I look around, finding my shoes, but…

I don’t see my underwear.

Where the hell are my underwear?

I swing around left and again right, lifting up my wet clothes, but I don’t see them anywhere.

My shoulders slump. She took them. What is she going to do with them?

Goddammit. I wipe my tears before any more can fall, take my stuff, and leave the theater, shoes in hand.

It’s still raining outside, but I don’t run to my car. My energy is gone. I walk.

She knows where to hit, doesn’t she? She could do or say anything. She could have my brothers arrested with the slightest accusation.

She could have Martelle fired.

She could probably get Dartmouth to rescind my acceptance letter if she knew about it. All it would take is putting me in the path of scandal or arrest, and Dartmouth would wash their hands of me.

She didn’t go for those kills, though. Putting herself in my house, at my table, in one of my brothers’ beds… Home wouldn’t even be safe for me anymore.

I drive through town, speeding because I’m anxious, but I don’t want to go home.

Looking over, I see the dress shop ahead, the Closed sign hanging on the door. Without thinking, I swing right and pull into a parking space.

Leaving my shoes in the car, I grab my keys out of my backpack on the passenger seat and climb out of the car. I run to the shop, unlocking the door and diving inside.

Miss Lavinia must’ve decided to stay closed today with the weather, but I know she has calls forwarded in case someone has an emergency.

I twist the lock again, leaving the lights off as I trail to the workroom.

She offered to take me on as an apprentice last year, maybe run the shop together someday. While I guess I’m good at sewing, and I kind of enjoy designing, I only learned it as part of being as useful as I can be at the theater. It’s not what I want to do forever.

I’m thankful for this job, though. At least it’s not a drive-thru.

I step inside the large room, keeping the lights off, but light streams through the windows, rain pummeling the panes. There’s a couch I want to crash on below the bulletin boards on the left wall, but I spot a dress laying on the table, pins stuck in the hem. Clay had wanted the length shortened.

Walking over, I pick up the dress, looking down at the Collins’ heirloom that I knew Clay’s grandmother and mother had both worn. I’d seen the pictures.

Once in a while, after Lavinia is gone for the night, I try on some of the dresses I’ve altered. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have turned out more girly, if my mother had stuck around. By the time makeup and clothes started to interest me, she was gone and we were even poorer than when my parents were alive. A lot of what I owned before I could start making my own money was whatever no longer fit Trace.

I fist the neckline in both hands, bringing it to my nose and smell the fabric.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be up on that riser as just a girl, excited for something special to happen to me, with my mom arguing with me about what to do with my hair.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to not be me. To live a life where every single step didn’t have to be so hard.

I tighten my fists around the dress, breathing hard and shallow as my gaze grows hotter on the fabric. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be Clay.

And before I can stop myself, I stretch my arms wide, hard and fast, the ancient silk screaming as it tears in two.

“MISS CLAY?” BERNIE calls out. “Your mother—”

“Can call me if she needs me,” I snap, racing up the stairs of my house.

I jog quickly past the housekeeper, carrying my duffel bag. I dive into my room, slamming and locking the door.

Ugh, that bitch. I hate her. So calm. So smooth. So patient.

I gulp, running my hands through my hair. So beautiful with those tears in her eyes.

Keeping the lights off, I drop the bag to the floor and fall into the door.

Why did I do that? Tears immediately spill down my face as I squeeze my eyes shut. Too far. You went too far. I’ve never laid my hands on her. Ever. I just…

I just…

It feels like there are hands on me instead. On my back and on my neck, pushing me down. Pushing my head down and keeping it down. The earth piles over my head, the dirt in my mouth and my nose, more and more every day, and I can’t see me anymore. I’m small. I don’t know who I am. I’m always mad. Bitter. Afraid.

That’s all I am anymore.

I turn, pressing my forehead into the door and sob. Why did I do that to her? What does she matter anyway?

But even now, I still feel it. She’s bigger than me. She glows, and I don’t, and it’s not like I even want to push her down and make her shrink. It’s like…

It’s like being in her orbit, I can feel the shine, too. I feel bigger with her close.

Stripping off my clothes, I head into my bathroom, unable to turn on the water and climb in fast enough. I’m supposed to help Mrs. Gates at the funeral home today, and I should go, because it’s the only thing that puts my shit into perspective, but I just can’t. I can’t talk to anyone right now.

Wetting my hair and letting the hot water course down over my body, I can’t make my muscles ease, everything still as tight as a rubber band.

But the peace feels good, and my breathing starts to even out.

I sit down in the bathtub, hugging my knees to my body.

I miss my dad. I miss Angsty Teen Tuesdays where my mom and I would alternate every week—her showing me teen movies from her day, and then me showing her some of mine—complete with Melted Milk Dud Popcorn and Mountain Dew.

I miss the pills when I try not to take them. It scares me how I miss them.

I notice an ache in my hand and realize my fingers are curled into a fist. I look down, slowly opening it and find Liv’s underwear in my hand.

I took them. I knew I took them, but I forgot they were there. My stomach flips, the shower wetting the black lace. Does she normally wear pretty things like this every day?

My knees still bent, I hold up the underwear with both hands, my head going places I don’t understand. Does she sleep in them? Does she sleep in only these? How many people have seen her in them? Has Megan Martelle?

A picture forms in my head of Liv wearing these, and I hear my voice again.

I can’t believe the state of you.

My eyes burn, thinking of all the insane shit I wrote all over her today. How I violated her.

She’s not ugly. I hated that I couldn’t find anything wrong with her, and I shouldn’t have touched her. It hurt her.

I touched her skin, and she never said it was okay. My fingertips tingle, still feeling her smooth stomach and arms.