Chapter 5

Martha snatched my dress, wore it, and then ruined it. Monroe said, "She didn't do it on purpose. Just let her have it."

On my birthday, Martha pretended to be sick and made our parents leave with her. Monroe said, "She has a fever. Just give in to her."

I'd been giving in for six years.

Now, even my fiancé was someone I was expected to hand over.

"Fine." I nodded. "I'll let her have it."

Everyone in the living room froze.

Maurice was the first to react. "Adelaide, what did you say?"

"I said I'd let her have it," I said, looking at them. "You want to be together? Be together then. The wedding's already a mess. Everyone's embarrassed, so I'll just help you out."

"Adelaide, I—" Maurice started.

"Maurice," I cut him off. "Everyone here heard what you said to your buddy and Martha. Now you're saying you don't want this? Do you think I'm an idiot, or are you saying all two hundred guests here are idiots?"

Maurice opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Hector cleared his throat. "Adelaide, things are what they are now. Try not to take it too hard. As for the shares, just come to the office tomorrow and I'll have HR sort it out for you."

"Alright." I nodded. "I'm heading upstairs."

"Wait," Monroe called out. "Are you staying here tonight?"

"What do you think?" I turned to look at her. "Am I supposed to sleep on the street?"

Monroe's expression froze, and she didn't say another word.

I went upstairs, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

From downstairs, Martha's sobs and Maurice's comforting murmurs floated up to me.

Wasn't that just precious?

I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains.

The moonlight streamed in, cold and quiet.

I dug out an old wallet from my bag, opened it, and found a photo tucked inside.

It was a boy in a white T-shirt, riding a bike, turning back to smile at the camera.

It was Branson.

This was the only photo I had of him.

I'd cut it out from our high school graduation picture and had it printed.

The photo was already yellowed, its edges frayed.

I sat on the windowsill, pressing the photo to my chest.

"Branson," I whispered. "It's almost time. Just wait a little longer."

I closed my eyes, and memories flooded in.

I first met Branson when I was fifteen.

Back then, I was still living with the folks who raised me. Every morning, I'd get up at 4:30, help Monroe with breakfast, then head out to work in the fields till seven, and only then rush off to school.

Hector ran a little shop in town, so after school, I'd have to help out there, usually not getting home till after nine, then squeezing in my homework.

Being hungry was just normal for me.

One time, I was so hungry I felt dizzy, crouched by the school gate, when a boy on a bike pulled up in front of me.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I looked up, squinting against the sunlight, and all I could make out was his outline, backlit by the sun.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You look really pale," he said, hopping off his bike and digging a piece of bread out of his backpack. "Here, eat this."

I didn't take it.

He just shoved the bun into my hand and rode off.

That was Branson.

Later, I found out he was from the class next door. His family didn't have much either, but at least they were better off than me.

After that, he'd always bring me something to eat—sometimes just a piece of bread, sometimes a bottle of water, and sometimes a bag of snacks.

I asked him why he did all that for me.

He just said, "Because you looked like you needed someone in your corner."

When I was sixteen, Branson noticed my eyes were swollen and asked me what happened.

I didn't say a word.

But he seemed to figure it out.

That day after school, he walked me home and said to Hector, "Sir, from now on, I'll pick Adelaide up after school."

Hector just looked at him and stayed silent.

From then on, Branson picked me up after school every single day, rain or shine.

We'd ride our bikes through the rows of crops, the spring breeze filled with the scent of lilacs.

He'd pedal fast, and I'd sit on the back, clutching his shirt. Sometimes I was so exhausted I couldn't keep my eyes open, so I'd just lean against his back and drift off.

He never said I was heavy or that I was a bother.

Once, I asked him, "Branson, what do you want to do in the future?"

"I want to study architecture," he said. "Build a bunch of houses."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you don't even have a proper room," he said, glancing back at me with that crooked smile in his eyes. "I'll build you a big house, with a yard, and I'll plant it full of lilacs."

My heart skipped a beat.

At eighteen, we finally became a couple.

There was no grand confession, no flowers, and no gifts.

That evening, he gave me a ride home, stopped his bike at the edge of the village, and turned to look at me.

"Adelaide, I just want to protect you, always," he said.

I replied, "Yeah."

He smiled, and honestly, his smile was even more beautiful than the sunset.

That was the happiest month of my life.

We were still broke, and I still had to work hard every day, but with him around, everything felt a little easier.