Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Yup. This was my life. And every single one of those pets were carefully selected to be photogenic, to complete the picture-perfect rural childhood fantasy everyone was buying into.
"They were rotated out," I say. Just because I need her to know. "When they grew too big or stopped being cute enough. Nothing stayed, June. Nothing was permanent. I'm not even sure any of it was real. I mean, it wasn't real. It was a stage, I know that. But there's a little part of my brain that wonders… maybe it was all made up. Just some Little-House fever-dream that only existed in Eleanor Ashby's living diorama.
"Yeah," June says. "I get it. Your life was something out of a storybook," She scrapes diced carrots into a bowl with the edge of her knife. Then she looks at me. "But that's all life is, Savannah. A story. It's nothing but a story. And I think your mother was brave."
"Brave?" I nearly snort.
"Yes. Brave. Because she had the guts to shape it into whatever she wanted. Now…" June pauses her chopping and looks at me, really looks at me, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she sees more than I want her to. That this woman in her vintage house dress can see right through the carefully constructed facade to the hollow space behind it. "I get it. She stole your story to write hers. She plagiarized you, Savannah. You have every right to resent that. To pledge that you'll never do the same to your daughter. But don't be one of those people who rebel for rebellion's sake. It's a waste."
We just stare at each other until it gets uncomfortable. She says, "Here," and hands me a knife. Then she pushes a cutting board toward me. "Make yourself useful. Those potatoes won't dice themselves."
I take the knife, grateful for something to do with my hands. I haven't actually prepared food in... I can't remember how long. There were always staff for that. Chefs who appeared and disappeared without names, leaving perfect meals that photographed well but tasted like nothing.
"I'll give you the tour after we get the food ready," June says, moving to check something in the oven. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon intensifies as she opens the door, revealing what looks like a cobbler bubbling with dark berries. "I've made sides and dessert to go with Havoc's ribs. The man thinks meat is the only food group, but the kids need vegetables. And us girls need dessert."
She winks at me. And I smile. And then we work in companionable silence for a few minutes. I'm sure my potato dicing is amateur at best—uneven chunks that would make any chef cringe—but June doesn't comment. She just sweeps them into a pot with a practiced motion.
"Your life is very photogenic as well," I finally break the silence, because it feels like I should say something. Because her kitchen makes me ache with a longing I didn't know I had.
June's smile is genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "I'll take that compliment. Especially coming from Savannah Ashby, queen of the perfect golden-hour shot."
The way she says my name—like it means something beyond me—makes me wonder who she thinks I am. Who everyone thinks I am. This woman who's watched me grow up through a carefully curated lens, who probably knows more about the fiction of my life than I know of the reality.
After we finish preparing the food, June leads me through the rest of the house, givin’ me the tour. Each room feels lived-in and loved. Children's artwork hangs in frames next to family photos—not professional portraits, but candid snapshots of real moments. Books are stacked on bedside tables—actual books with dog-eared pages and cracked spines, not decorative hardcovers arranged by color for aesthetic appeal.
I comment on things. Genuine comments, only. June and her farmhouse are probably the most authentic things I’ve seen in years. So tell I her I like the mix-matched patterns of her linen sheets. I like the antique furniture and cotton rugs. I like the texture of her floors and the panes in her windows.
Little details that almost no one mentions. Most people, when they see a house they like immediately identify why they like it.
I am not most people when it comes to details like that.
I see everything.
And June seems to enjoy my compliments. Telling me little stories as we walk, about how this house matured its way into a home.
After the tour, we carry the food outside to picnic tables set up under a wooden pavilion strung with simple white lights. Havoc is still at the grill, Legion beside him, both men talking in low voices that stop when we approach. Legion's eyes find mine immediately, checking in without words, his gaze searching for any sign of discomfort.