Good for Me
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Sofia Jade
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1,3M
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30
Chapter 1
RORY
āā¦and so that means weāre moving to Minnesota.ā My momās words drop like an anchor in my chest.
I blink hard, willing the sting in my eyes to pass before the tears betray me. I lose that battle quickly. They spill over anyway, hot and fast, dripping down my cheeks as I stare at her like sheās just told me weāre moving to the moon.
I swipe at my face, trying to wipe the tears away before my mom can notice, but itās too late. She leans across the table and squeezes my hand tenderly.
āI know it feels like itās all happening faster than you can keep up,ā she says softly, looking apologetic. āBut this is a good thing, Rory. Really. This is good news. Daniel and I have been seeing each other for a long time. He is good. Kind.ā
Good news?
My chest tightens. I donāt even know how to process what sheās saying. Itās always been just the two of us. Me and her. Thatās it. And I like it that way.
She gets me in ways that no one else ever has. She knows how I canāt fall asleep unless I journal all the thoughts that plague my mind before bed. How Iād rather spend a Friday night painting in the living room with headphones on than going to a party.
She knows I need stability and hate sudden changes.
And yet here she is, ripping me away from all that I know. From all that feels comfortable and safe.
I know she doesnāt intend it as such. She has always wanted the best for me. She probably thinks that Minnesota will be good for me too. More nature. More calmness. Away from the hustle and bustle of New York.
But the thing is, Iāve grown to like the hustle and bustle. Yes, New York is busy, and loud, and challenging, but itās familiar. And lately, Iāve actually started to feel like I belong in my own skin.
I have my first real boyfriend, Zander, a boy I met in art class at school. Iāve made friends this past year. Real ones. Girls who understand I need time to recharge my social battery and donāt expect me to change because I think differently.
I've finally found acceptance, on the cusp of turning eighteen. My dream of attending NYU is right around the corner. Just a year left of high school before Iāll major in art and design.
And right when it all finally seemed to come together, when it finally started to feel right, she says weāre leaving it all behind.
āIām sorry, baby. Please donāt cry.ā Mom wraps her fingers with mine tightly. āI know this is a lot. But itās a good thing. Youāll like it there, I promise. Danielās son, Forrest, is your age, and heās a big softie. Heāll help you get settled, show you around the small town that weāll live in. Youāll make friends. Youāve just started to bloom, baby. Youāll bloom there too.ā
I swallow hard, trying to imagine a new house. A new school. New friends. New everything. And now, a new stepbrother.
I nod slowly, more out of instinct than understanding because this is going to take some time, journaling, and painting to fully process.
āOkay,ā I whisper. āLetās do this.ā Because my default is to reassure her. I donāt want to make her feel bad about the fact that sheās fallen in love with a man in another state when sheās sacrificed so much for me as a single parent. So I pretend that Iām fine.
āWhen?ā I ask, trying to keep the sadness out of my voice.
She sighs, picking at her napkin before she wipes the ice cream from the corner of her red lips.
āNext month. I want to get there before the school year starts so we have time to settle in, get you registered, decorate your room, adjust. Daniel hasnāt proposed yet, but weāve talked about marrying later this year, perhaps during the holidays when Minnesota is covered in snow.ā
One month.
I have one month to say goodbye to everything. To Zander. To my friends. To our neighborhood. To the apartment in Brooklyn with the hallway where Mom hung up all my elementary school artwork like it belonged in a museum.
āIāll finish out work here and then take a few weeks off to get us settled in Minnesota,ā she says. āDanielās already got the house ready. He even built you a desk nook for writing and drawing in your new room. He remembered I told him that art was your favorite thing to do.ā
That does something weird to my chest. It presses on the part of me that wants to be mad, that wants to fight this whole thing tooth and nail. But it alsoā¦softens it because thatās one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
āHe built me a writing desk?ā I whisper.
She smiles gently. āHe can build you anything you want. I even mailed him one of your paintings, and he hung it there, waiting for you to move in. Heās a good man, sweetie. Youāll see. The forest surrounding the back of the propertyāitās beautiful. Lots of landscape to paint too. Imagine summer sitting in the backyards while looking up at nature instead of skyscrapers.ā
I want to believe her. I really do.
She gives my hand a squeeze, her fingers sticky from the mint chocolate chip ice cream thatās melting in her bowl. Thatās how itās always beenāmint chocolate chip for her, raspberry sorbet for me.
We started this tradition when I was seven, on nights when she was too tired to cook after a long shift in the call center where sheād started working when my dad left us.
Weād grab burgers and fries and end the night with ice cream while she shuffled through bills, and I recited everything that happened at school like it was breaking news.
Now, that life and rhythm are about to be rewritten. Because she fell in love. Because she met a man on a business trip who she canāt stop thinking about and loves enough to move states to move in with. She deserves this, and thatās what Iām clinging to.
Later that night, I sit cross-legged on my bed, the soft hum of my desk fan filling the silence as I pour into my journal my anxiety about the changes ahead. I glance around my room, my eyes skating over every poster, every stack of books, every random trinket that Iāve collected over the years.
Itās not perfect. But itās mine. The idea of trading it in for some strange new space with strange new rules and a strange new family makes my stomach twist. I let out a sigh and try to shake myself out of the anxiety spiral. I think of Mom, of how happy she has looked these past couple of months. Now it makes sense why.
She deserves it. And I donāt want to hold her back from pursuing that happiness. So, I try to look for a new angle. A way of reframing this situation from something that scares the shit out of me to something exciting.
What if this isnāt the end of something, but the start? What if despite how it feels right now, this change isnāt a curse, but an opening? A clean slate. A chance to become someone new, someone more spontaneous and outgoing.
Maybe I could let go of the version of me that always played it safe, that always stayed small. Maybe I could reinvent myself. Grow into someone even I havenāt met yet.
And maybeā¦my new stepbrother wonāt be so bad.
FORREST
Thereās nothing like the sticky, unforgiving humidity of Minnesota in late August. It clings to your skin, sits heavy on your shoulders, makes every breath feel like youāre inhaling through warm cotton. And after a full day of hauling lumber and dragging myself across a job site, I feel like Iām drowning in it.
I swing my truck into the gravel driveway of my home, and as soon as I get out, I peel off my T-shirt and jeans. Standing in nothing but my soaked boxers, I grab the garden hose, twist the knob, and crank it on. Cold water blasts out instantly.
I tilt my head back and let it hit my face, run down my chest, drench my abs. Relief floods me. I could stay like this all day.
That is, until I see her.
Sheās in the hammock, swaying back and forth gently with the hot summer breeze.
Sheās seated sideways, legs curled up beneath her, a canvas balanced in her lap and a paintbrush dancing across it. Sheās biting her bottom lip as she works, completely focused on her painting, headphones in her ears, lost to the world.
And Iām standing here soaked, shirtless, in my damn underwear staring at her like I canāt breathe.
She hops out of the hammock, her tiny cotton shorts hugging her hips. She tiptoes barefoot into the sunlight and tilts her head, smiling up at the sky, totally unaware sheās got an audience. The trees frame her like sheās part of the sceneryālike she was painted into this place with the same brush that sheās holding.
I should turn around. I should go inside, grab some dry clothes, and pretend this never happened.
But I donāt.
I walk toward her, drawn by something that I canāt explain. Her head is still tilted as she sways slightly to the music, her hips rocking back and forth.
āHey,ā I finally say.
She jumps, startled. The canvas slips from her fingers, and I lunge forward, catching it just in time to save it from being ruined. Itās stunning. The trees, the sunlight, the soft green shadows. Itās my backyard exactly, but through her eyes. Sheās somehow found a way to make it look even more magical. I wonder if she sees magic in every aspect of her life.
I wonder if sheāll see any when she looks at me.
āOh my God,ā she says, laughing nervously as she pulls her headphones off. āI didnāt see you there. Hi.ā
Her smile is blinding. Her eyes, this deep shade of moss green, lock onto mine and hold. And just like that, Iām not hot or tired anymore. My bodyās awake and Iām caught in her gaze, completely stunned.
She leans forward like sheās about to offer her hand in a shake, then quickly pulls it back. But even that small movement is enough to make me feel like sheās one end of a magnet and Iām the other. Pulled to her in every possible way.
āWhat are you doing out here?ā I ask, voice rough.
āPainting,ā she says. āThese trees are incredible. Youāre lucky.ā
I want to tell her sheās the one thatās incredible. That she looks like something out of a dream I didnāt know I had.
I nod my head instead. āYeah, itās not bad living here.ā
She tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear shyly. āIāve never been surrounded by this much nature before. Itās wonderful. Did you know these are eastern white pines?ā
I rub at the back of my neck. So, sheās beautiful, creative, and knows her trees. āYeah, I think my dad might have mentioned that to me. Weāve got them all over town.ā
She smiles. āThe Native American tribes that live here call them the Tree of Peace. What a beautiful name to have.āHer gaze returns to the forest as she looks up at the tall centennials that are towering over us. Meanwhile, I canāt look away from her.
āSongbirds love these trees. I bet itās simply magical out here in the mornings.ā She shifts on her feet, her gaze dropping to my boxers for half a second before darting back up. Her cheeks pink as if sheās suddenly realizing somethingās off. āOhā¦are youā¦Forrest?ā
Thatās when it hits me. Of all the girls in the world to crash into my life and instantly fall for, it had to be her.
Rory.
My dadās new girlfriendās daughter. The girl I was told last night would be moving in for her senior year. The girl who, until this moment, I assumed would be some awkward transplant who stayed out of the way.
Instead, sheās this. This beautiful, creative angel, sent here to ruin my last year of high school.
I clear my throat and shift uncomfortably, suddenly very aware now of how naked I am. āYeah. Thatās me. You must be Rory.ā
She bites her lip and nods, her eyes lingering for just a second too long before flicking away.
I drag a hand through my wet hair, my jaw tight. āAll right, well, see you around.ā
Then I turn and bolt like Iām being chased by demons. Because maybe I am.
Because that girl is going to be sleeping under the same roof as me for the next year, and somehow, Iām expected not to look at her.
