Page 2 of Trust

A GOOD DAY

Sara – Today

The seat at the far end of the kitchen table is empty. Every dish sits exactly where it should. The surfaces are spotless, without a crumb or trace of clutter in sight. This place could be straight out of a furniture magazine. The only hint of life is the faint smell of coffee and a folded newspaper on the counter. Today’s thrilling headline: Mayor Praises Strategic Land Use in Latest Growth Initiative.

Go, Richard Whitmore, worst dad of the year, or rather the decade.

Last week, I found a ‘media prep guide’ on the fridge, printed in bold letters with my name on top. That’s how I know he’s been home; he leaves notes behind. Not that I mind. It’s a relief not having to explain why I’m late or defend what I’m wearing. Now that Richard’s gunning for governor, the pressure of portraying his perfect daughter has only gotten worse. It’s suffocating. Every smile, every outfit, every word out of my mouth has to fit his narrative. I’m not a person anymore. I’m a campaign strategy. In a few days I’ll be eighteen, and the performance ends. I’m done with the rallies, done with the scripted soundbites about how Mom is watching over us. The memory turns my stomach.

Enjoying his absence, I fire up the coffee machine, its hiss slicing through the quiet house. I slump into my chair at the table, warm my hands on the mug and watch the steam coil upward. A couple of years ago, it would’ve been hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a whole selection of bread, fruit, eggs, and nuts spread out on the table for me to choose from. Sometimes my dad joined us for breakfast. While he lost himself in the newspaper, Mom quizzed me on my schoolwork and was proud of every correct answer. I studied for her, for the moments her face lit up when I mastered a difficult question, and for the giggly jumps she couldn’t hold back when I brought home an A.

The coffee, on the contrary, reminds me of him: efficient and functional.

A knock snaps me back to the present. “Miss Sara, it’s time to go. We’re late,” my driver calls from the hallway, urgency threading through Gabe’s attempt at politeness.

I sip my coffee slower, scroll through my phone, and let him wait. I bet he’s out there shifting his weight from one leg to the other, checking his watch every ten seconds like it’s going to help.

Footsteps approach. We must be seriously behind schedule if he makes the effort to get me.

“Let’s get moving,” he urges, leaning into the room, his mouth set in a tight line.

I sigh. “Be right there,” I sing, watching a TikTok about getting out of cable ties. Could be useful information, you never know. So I watch till the end.

After Richard became mayor, the threats started, mostly letters and emails. His team decided it was safer if someone drove me to school. Instead of doing it himself, he hired Gabe, who’s probably as thrilled to be here as I am.

“Please?” He’s right behind me now.

“Aww, Gabe,” I squeak, “you said please, how could I resist?”

“Come on,” he says, his voice low. “You know your dad’s gonna hear about it. Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

And there it is: the magic word. Dad. He’s the reason Gabe gets chewed out for my tardiness. He’s the reason I’m not already halfway across town on my bike, or crammed into a bus, or driving the car he never let me have. Richard doesn’t trust me to face the public alone. There are too many reporters, too many enemies, and too many chances for me to embarrass him and tarnish his precious image as the perfect widowed single parent. Unimaginable how many votes that would cost him.

I empty my mug and shove my phone into my backpack. “Fine. But only because I don’t want you to cry.” I give him a crooked smile and nudge his shoulder as I pass.

He falls into step behind me as we go outside. The black SUV waits in the driveway, engine idling, tinted windows reflecting the sky back at me. From the outside, it’s a fortress on wheels, built to intimidate. From the inside, it’s a hearse.

The drive drags. Gabe’s a pro at silence. He could teach monks how to shut up. But today he clears his throat. “You’ve got bio first, right?”

I blink at him through the rearview mirror. Is this small talk? From Gabe? “Wow. Someone’s been paying attention. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

He focuses back on the road. So much for conversation.

I rest my head against the sun-warmed glass and watch the houses blur by. Normal life carries on around me: joggers on sidewalks, dogs chasing each other in the park, cars packed with people aiming for somewhere important. The world keeps moving, but I’m stuck in rewind, tangled in memories. I haven’t figured out how to move on, not until I know what really happened to Mom. It’s weird Richard fears every puny threat but never questioned Mom’s accident. There were no arrests, not a single news article. Even fatal car crashes don’t usually result in a sealed police file, right?

I tried asking once. Went into the station at thirteen, sneakers squeaking with every tentative step. I told the officer I needed to speak to Eddie, the cop who investigated the case. I said I had questions and needed someone to talk to. When I gave the officer my name, he got right on the phone to my father, and what did Richard do? Screamed at me, threatened to lock me in my room for the rest of the year.

I never tried again. I couldn’t have, not with Gabe stepping into my life shortly after.

The car slows. I grip my bag and reach for the handle, determined to get out before Gabe can pull off his chauffeur routine. Being driven to school is bad enough. Having the door opened for me? Worse.

“Bye, Gabe,” I call as I hop out and make my way toward the entrance, taking my sweet time. A few more minutes won’t matter now. Before entering, I glance back. He’s still there, waiting, making sure I don’t bail and disappear somewhere else. Not that I would. Not yet.

On the way to my class, I run into Holly coming from the restrooms. My insides twist. The sight of her still hurts, reminding me of spontaneous sleepovers and how we used to dance around our living room with Mom singing karaoke. Her interpretation of Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” was a disaster, not a single note in tune. We were rolling with laughter.

Holly stopped coming after Mom was gone, as if she’d only been friends with the version of me who had a mother. Now, we barely manage a hello. Since we share bio, we walk side by side, neither of us speaking. Not awkward at all.

“So—you good?” she asks.