Today was moving day. My furniture looks so horrible in this new, nicer home but so long as I never invite anyone here no one will be any the wiser that my furniture is crap. Well, they might be if they say Brandon delivering it in his business truck.
If anyone was home and watching, they would know. The Fletcher's Junk truck gave it away.
Of course the day was not perfect. If it wasn't the truck making me die of embarrassment, it was Brandon looking like a slob. Really, the new neighbors probably think some hillbilly has moved next door. How am I going to fit in with these people?
Even the day started out horribly. Before we even left town, the truck got a flat tire. Mama came over while Brandon was fixing it and told me it was a clear sign I wasn't meant to leave.
"How could you say that?"
"You shouldn't leave, Fran. You're meant to be here."
I swallowed hard. I hoped it was all her being dramatic. If I'm meant to be stuck in our small town, then that means I'm meant to be stuck in the life I don't like -- forever.
