“Depends on the people.”
“And me?”
He glances at me. “The jury is still out on you.”
“And why is that?”
“You haven’t decided what kind of rich girl you want to be yet.”
I blink. “That’s . . . not wrong.”
He looks back at the garden.
“Most of the people here are trying so hard to belong. You look like you’re trying to fly away.”
My throat feels tight.
He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it like the truth.
And still, it rattles something deep inside me. Something small and trapped. I turn away before he can see my face.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Lorenzo. I’m delicate.”
“You’re not delicate, Little Bird. You’re just bored.”
He’s right. Again.
I pick up a fallen petal from the path and twist it between my fingers.
“Little Bird. Shouldn’t it be Rapunzel if I’m watching from a tower?”
He looks at me for a long time.
“You might be perched in glass towers, but you act like your wings are broken.”
“Aren’t they?” I whisper under my breath.
“No. They’re not. You just haven’t figured out where to fly yet.”
Silence. The kind that fills all the spaces words fail to reach.
I drop the petal. It floats down like something surrendering.
“I should go,” I say softly.
“You should.”
I don’t, not right away, because I want to stay. I want to ask more questions. Push past the guard-dog glare and dig until I find whatever fire burns beneath that skin.
But I don’t.
Because I’m not stupid.
And if I stay, I will burn too.
So I leave.
But I don’t fly.
