Sisters
Becky
The dining room of Rosewood Hall is enormous, all soaring ceilings and white-paneled walls polished to a soft sheen. One entire side of the room is made of French doors, their glass panes stretching nearly floor to ceiling, opening out onto the shared lawn behind the house. Beyond them, the grounds stretch into darkness, the edge of Ashford House barely visible in the distance.Above the doors, arched transom windows frame the night sky, stars splashed across the dark, sparkling like jewels on velvet.
Long tables run the length of the space, flanked by wooden benches already filled with women. There are more of them than I expect, rows and rows, stretching far, and before I can stop myself, I’m counting. Twenty-five tables. Ten to each.
Around 250 people.
The number sticks in my head, as I take it all in. How everything gleams. Crystal glasses catch the light. Linen napkins folded neatly. Conversation spills in every direction, laughter, the low clink of glasses. It’s loud but not chaotic. There’s a rhythm to it. A warmth.
It’s beautiful.
And overwhelming.
I hover inside the doorway, my senses snagging on every detail. The brightness. The noise. The easy way they lean into each other, shoulders brushing, voices unguarded.
I’m not used to this.
Growing up, our house was always quiet. Any sudden sound felt as though it might break our fragile balance. Conversations happened in low voices, if they happened at all. Meals were small. Quick. Functional. Half the time eaten alone or beside a hospital bed that smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers.
There was no laughter like this.
I swallow as I step further in, unsure what to do or where I’m supposed to fit.
“Becky.”
Louellen’s gentle voice breaks through the noise. A light touch on the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding rather than pushing.
I glance over, a little startled, and find her next to me, smiling as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
“C’mon,” she says, tilting her head toward the tables. “You’re with me.”
“Oh. Okay.” I fall into step beside her, careful to stay close. I’ve already figured out that Louellen is the head of this place. Being seen with her feels like a kind of protection, a signal to the other girls that I belong. Or at least that I’m allowed to stay for now.
She leads me to a table right in the center of the room. Two empty spots wait like they were reserved for us.
Did Lou plan this? For me to sit with her?
Or did Carrson set this up? Ask her to include me?
He doesn’t seem like the type to care.
Which is probably why I want him to.
My mind wanders, wondering what he’s doing right now. Eating dinner? Alone or with the rest of the fraternity?
I slide into place next to Lou, and she quickly introduces me to the other women who sit around us. They smile and pull me into the conversation, asking simple questions, filling the space so I don’t have to.
One of them leans down, her hair slipping over her shoulder as she studies my boots.
“Oh my god, I love these,” she says, glancing up at me with a grin. I smile back, feeling lighter than when I first walked in.
“I like yours too,” I tell her, and I mean it. My gaze drops to her shoes, slim and perfectly fitted, the leather soft, the stitching delicate, the wedge high enough to be glamorous.
Around the table, it’s the same story. Clothes perfectly tailored. Jewelry chosen to match. Diamonds shine at ears and throats, flashing when the women turn their heads, when they laugh.
I glance down at myself and wipe my hands on my jeans, wishing I hadn’t ruined the jumpsuit Lou lent me.
