“Snap out of it, Kat,” she muttered, shaking off the nostalgia. She pulled out a pair of jeans, considered them for a moment, then shoved them back. Maxwell. Somehow, jeans didn’t feel right for drinks with someone like him. Instead, she reached for one of the few suits she’d brought, unpairing the gray herring- bone skirt from its jacket. The silk blouse it had been hanging with—a crisp, long-sleeve white button-down—was light enough for the Florida evening. Sophisticated, but ef- fortless. Safe. She slipped into the outfit, then chose a pair of low heels, the familiar click against the trailer’s linoleum oddly comforting. She added a final touch—a few simple ban- gle bracelets, the delicate silver catching the dim light as she adjusted them on her wrist. Looking in the mirror, she felt more like her- self than she had in days. Maybe, she thought wryly, she wasn't quite ready to em- brace flowing skirts and flip-flops just yet. At exactly 4:30 PM, the low purr of an en- gine broke the quiet hum of the park. Kat stepped to the window just in time to see a sleek, black Mercedes convertible pull up in front of her trailer—top down, Maxwell at the wheel, effortlessly polished as ever. She took a breath, grabbed her bag, and stepped outside. Maxwell was already waiting, leaning against the open passenger door of his sleek Mercedes convertible as if the evening itself had been choreographed for him.
Chapter 4:
The Grip of The Past
A date? Or just drinks with a friend?
Kat really wasn’t sure which it was. But somehow, she found herself standing in front of her tiny closet, debating what to wear as she waited for Maxwell. She tugged a blouse off its hanger, hesitated, then slipped back. She really needed to carve out time for shopping. Most of her re- al wardrobe—was still in storage, neatly packed away in labeled garment bags. The legion of suits, cocktail dresses, and business -formal attire that had once defined her dai- ly life now felt excessive in her cozy trailer. But old habits died hard, and her limited op- tions left her feeling oddly unprepared. At home, in her old home—she’d had a walk-in closet bigger than this entire bed- room. The plush carpet, the built-in shelv- ing, the vanity with perfect lighting for ap- plying makeup. Even a cushioned stool where she used to sit, sipping her morning espresso before slipping into yet another per- fectly tailored suit. She wondered if the couple subleasing her apartment appreciated it as much as she had. Probably. The thought left a hollow feeling in her stomach, a brief gnawing ache of homesickness—not just for the space, but for the certainty her old life had offered.
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