Page 4 of Trust

Two blocks later, I’m at the bus stop, chest heaving, sweaty enough to claim I actually exercised, only without the humiliation of gym shorts and whistle-blowing teachers.

The bus rattles to a stop, doors folding open, and I climb aboard. It smells faintly of unwashed bodies and old French fries. Not a single person pays me any real attention. They don’t care who I am. For ten minutes, I’m someone different than Sara-the-politician’s-daughter.

Until I spot him anyway, or them. We pass a billboard showing Richard with his running mate and best buddy since college, Philip Mendoza. I don’t know who saw this and thought, yes, that’s the vibe. It practically screams: We’ll fuck you over. They’re standing way too close, showing teeth so white they could guide ships through fog. Phil looks like he already knows the deal is done, like none of this is even up for debate. Richard tries to appear composed, posing as the savior of the city, not the liar of the year, not the reason I’m on this bus at all, visiting Mom at a place she shouldn’t be.

Five years ago, the sky sagged, a ceiling of angry clouds, rain pouring mercilessly, blending with the tears on my cheeks. My puffy eyes were locked on the bouquet of white lilies resting on her coffin, petals already bruised by the downpour. I clutched the umbrella with trembling hands, doing a terrible job of staying dry.

The sound of rain drumming against that flimsy shelter follows me as I get off the bus and approach her final resting place.

Today, the sun is out. A breeze rattles the birch leaves overhead, birds shouting at each other from the branches. The world has the nerve to move on, cheerful and alive, but the weight in my chest hasn’t changed.

I always imagine I’ll tell her things, about Holly, Gabe, about the mess I make of every single day, spinning entire conversations in my head. But once I’m here, I draw a total blank.

Sitting beside the headstone, I trace the carved letters with my index finger: In loving memory – Mariana Whitmore.

Maybe I don’t need words, and she already knows. Maybe she is watching from above.

I flatten my palm against the warm stone, waiting for a sign, for anything proving she’s still with me. But nothing happens. She stays dead, leaving only a rock, me, and a hollow space behind.

Still, I stay for a while, closing my eyes and reaching for her voice, but it slips away. Her laugh, once so vivid in my mind, is just static now. I press my hands to my ears, as if I can force it back. I can’t. Not even the perfume she used to wear, the lavender one that made our house smell like a home. Gone. Each year, the details fade further. The images grow distant, and guilt settles in. Guilt for forgetting her, for not having loved her enough.

The birds have stopped singing, and goosebumps erupt across my skin. The hairs on my nape rise in a primal warning. Something is not right, and it isn’t about my mom or the fact I’m surrounded by buried human remains.

I stiffen, scanning the rows of stones, expecting something—or someone—to jump out at me at any moment.

Reporters, probably. Hoping to snap a tragic shot of me at the grave and twist it into some headline about the future governor’s broken daughter. It may play into his hands—or not. You never know whose side they’re on or how desperate they are for clicks. Doesn’t matter. I can’t let them catch me here. Richard doesn’t need to know where I go during school hours, or that I come here at all.

Paparazzi may be annoying as hell, but they don’t scare me anymore. This is different, though, and I can’t help wondering if there’s some truth to the threats after all.

Checking my phone sends a jolt through me. It’s late, and I need to move fast if I want to avoid another suffocating parent-daughter talk.

My hair tangles in the wind as I race along the path, constantly turning back, convinced someone’s right behind me. But the cemetery stays empty.

The stop comes into view, the bus already waiting. Thankfully, a few people are still boarding. I hop on and grab the nearest pole, scanning the area through the window.

There’s movement, a shadow retreating into the trees as we pull out.

With burning lungs, I collapse into a seat, heart refusing to slow. Perhaps I saw someone, or I didn’t, and I’m turning hypervigilant. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the mayor’s tree.

◆◆◆

I slip through the hole in the fence behind the football field and climb the bleachers, wasting minutes until the final bell while the players finish their drills.

I like watching from up here: bodies colliding at full speed, voices shouting plays across the field, sweat sliding down faces, sunlight catching on every bead. It’s chaos, but the organized kind. The crash and grunt of it is almost hypnotic, my own personal ASMR, sending a soothing tingle across my scalp. Football is the one thing I’ll sit through with my father, without a phone to occupy myself and without a single complaint, when his attendance is required at local games.

The last players clear the field when a figure starts toward me. My pulse spikes, the dark silhouette at the bus stop flashing back. For one awful second, I think someone has followed me here. But as the man gets closer, I recognize the coach.

Wow. I’m being ridiculous. He’s been here the whole time—in full yellow-and-blue school colors, no less.

He stops at the bottom of the bleachers, his words stretched by a Southern drawl. “You like football?”

“Guess so.” I wait for the trespassing lecture, but instead he catches me off guard.

He dips his chin, jaw working his gum. His eyes drift toward the goalpost. “You know, cheer tryouts are next week. Best seat in the house. Get to know the guys. Cheer ‘em on. Sound good?”

For a beat I simply stare, caught between disbelief and wanting to laugh. Is he serious? Or that oblivious?

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I reply, leaving the when-hell-freezes-over part unsaid. He seems too sincere to crush with sarcasm.