A PLACE TO BELONG
4024 Words
CHAPTER ONE
VALENCIA
Yale had a way of making everyone walk faster.
Maybe it was the centuries-old buildings watching over the campus like impatient professors. Maybe it was the never-ending deadlines. Or maybe everyone simply believed the person hurrying past them was doing something more important.
I never understood the rush.
“Valencia you're late.”
I looked up to find Dale waiting outside HRAF Hall, two coffees balanced in one hand and a paper bag tucked beneath the other arm.
I glanced at my watch.
“I'm three minutes early.”
“Which is late by my standards.”
“You invented those standards five minutes ago.”
“I did.”
I took the coffee before he could reconsider his generosity.
“It's cold.”
“So is your gratitude.”
“It was an observation.”
“It was criticism.”
“Those aren't mutually exclusive.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
“You bought cinnamon rolls.”
Dale looked at the paper bag.
“...How?”
“The grease stain.”
His eyebrows knitted together.
“What grease stain?”
“The one spreading across the bottom of the bag.”
He turned it over.
A perfect circle of butter had soaked through the paper.
“Oh.”
“And...” I leaned in slightly. “...you smell like cinnamon.”
A familiar voice drifted behind us.
“I told you she'd figure it out.”
Diana appeared with three textbooks stacked against her chest, somehow managing to look elegant despite carrying enough reading material to injure someone.
Dale pointed accusingly between us.
“I don't like either of you.”
“You say that every Tuesday.”
“It's Thursday.”
“...Exactly.”
I hid my grin behind the rim of my coffee
The Frost twins had been my closest friends since my first semester at Yale.
Fraternal, thankfully.
If they had been identical, I would've spent two years apologising to the wrong sibling.
We fell into step toward the anthropology building, blending into the sea of students crossing the courtyard.
Someone hurried past us, nearly colliding with Diana.
Without looking up from her phone, she sidestepped him at the last second.
“He won't apologise,” I said.
Dale glanced over.
“Who?”
“The guy.”
“He literally bumped into her.”
“Watch.”
Three steps later, the student looked over his shoulder.
“Sorry!”
Diana shrugged.
“Told you.”
Dale narrowed his eyes at me.
“You're weird.”
“I study people.”
“You've been studying people since before anthropology.”
“I had hobbies before university.”
He shivered dramatically.
“Remind me never to lie around you.”
“You'd be terrible at it.”
“Offended.”
“You should be.”
The lecture hall slowly filled as students wandered inside in small groups.
Professor Hawthorne was already arranging his notes at the front of the room.
Always ten minutes early.
Always carrying chalk in his jacket pocket instead of using the box beside the board.
Habits fascinated me.
Everyone had them.
Most people never noticed their own.
I slipped into my usual seat near the middle of the room.
Not close enough to attract attention.
Not far enough to pretend I wasn't listening.
My backpack landed beside my chair with a dull thud.
When I unzipped it, the corner of a worn leather notebook peeked out from between two anthropology textbooks.
Grandma Élodie had given it to me on my sixteenth birthday.
The leather was scratched.
The corners had softened over the years.
Most of the damage belonged to me.
Whenever I was nervous, my thumbnail found the cover before I realised what I was doing.
It had become less of a notebook...
...and more of a witness.
I ran my thumb absentmindedly across one of the old scratches before sliding it back into my bag.
Professor Hawthorne turned to face the class.
“Good morning.”
A chorus of sleepy greetings answered him.
He smiled.
“I'll assume that enthusiasm improves after coffee.”
A few people laughed.
He picked up a piece of chalk.
“Anthropology," he began, writing the word across the board, "is often mistaken for the study of ancient bones.”
He set the chalk down and looked around the room.
“It isn't.”
Silence settled.
"It's the study of people.
Why they loved.
Why they fought.
Why they built cities.
Why they destroyed them.”
Why every civilisation believed their way of living made perfect sense.
Pens immediately began scratching across paper.
Mine didn't.
Instead, I reached for my notebook.
Not to take notes.
To write a single sentence.
‘Maybe people create stories because they're afraid of being forgotten.’
I stared at the words for a moment before closing the notebook.
I wasn't sure why I'd written them.
Only that they felt true.
....
The lecture ended the way Professor Hawthorne's lectures always did.
With more questions than answers.
Students packed their bags in a rush, conversations immediately replacing the quiet concentration that had filled the room moments before.
I stayed seated long enough to finish underlining one sentence in my notebook.
‘People rarely tell you who they are. They simply repeat themselves until you notice.’
I'd written that during my first semester.
Professor Hawthorne deserved the credit.
He'd probably deny saying it.
He denied saying most of the things we quoted back to him.
“Val?”
I looked up.
Diana had one arm through the strap of her bag, watching me with patient amusement.
“You know class ended three minutes ago, right?”
“I know.”
“You also know you're still sitting down.”
“I know.”
“So...”
I slipped my notebook into my bag and stood.
“I'm coming.”
Dale was waiting outside the lecture hall, leaning against one of the stone columns.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“I've decided something.”
“That usually ends badly,” Diana said.
“I'm going to save you both from yourselves.”
I frowned.
“...Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
He held up three glossy flyers.
The Yale Museum of Art.
New Exhibition Echoes of Civilisations Opening Tonight
“I knew you'd like it,” he said, handing one to me.
I barely glanced at the title before smiling.
“You bribed me with ancient pottery.”
“I bribed you with culture.”
“You know the quickest way to my heart.”
Diana groaned.
“You two are unbearably nerdy.”
“We're educated.”
“You're excited about broken bowls.”
“They're not bowls.”
“They're definitely bowls.”
“They're ceremonial vessels.”
“They're bowls.”
Dale looked between us.
“I refuse to get involved.”
“You started this.”
“I simply provided the bowls.”
“Ceremonial vessels.”
“Whatever lets you sleep at night.”
I laughed, folding the flyer carefully before slipping it between the pages of my notebook.
“I can't tonight.”
The words came out quieter than I'd expected.
Both twins looked at me.
“Dinner?” Diana asked.
I nodded.
Every Thursday.
Non-negotiable.
My parents called it family tradition.
Grandma called it attendance.
There was a difference.
Dale pushed himself away from the column.
“Next week, then.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
We started walking toward the main gate together.
The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the old stone paths, turning the campus almost golden.
Students sprawled across the lawns with laptops balanced on their knees.
Someone was playing violin near the library.
Two girls argued over whether they were going to fail an economics exam.
A professor hurried past with his tie half undone and a stack of papers threatening to escape his arms.
Normal.
Comfortably normal.
I wondered, not for the first time, if people realised when they were living a day they'd one day miss.
Probably not.
No one wakes up expecting their ordinary life to become a memory.
Diana nudged me.
“What are you thinking about?”
I blinked.
“...That guy's going to drop his papers.”
“What guy?”
“The professor.”
“He looks fine.”
"He keeps shifting the pile because it's heavier on the left."
Dale watched him.
Five seconds later...
A gust of wind caught the top half of the stack.
White sheets exploded into the air.
The three of us stood still.
Diana sighed dramatically.
“I hate that she's always right.”
“I'm not always right.”
Dale raised an eyebrow.
“You're thinking of correcting me.”
“I was.”
“You've noticed the eyebrow, haven't you?”
“...Maybe.”
“I hate anthropology.”
“You hate losing.”
“I do.”
The valet was already waiting when I reached the university entrance.
He smiled politely as he opened the back door of the black Bentley.
“Good afternoon, Miss Beaumont.”
“Good afternoon, James.”
The twins stopped walking.
Dale leaned down to the open window.
“Try not to let rich people exhaust you.”
“I'll do my best.”
Diana smiled.
“And text us if you survive dinner.”
“I always survive dinner.”
Neither of them answered.
James closed the door gently.
As the car pulled away from the campus, I looked back through the window.
Dale had said something that made Diana roll her eyes.
She shoved his shoulder.
He pretended to stumble.
They kept walking.
My mouth betrayed me before I could stop it.
Then Yale disappeared behind a line of trees.
Home waited ahead.
For some reason...
The smile faded before we reached the first traffic light.
....
The Beaumont estate looked exactly the way it always had.
Perfect.
The wrought-iron gates swung open without hesitation, the Beaumont crest catching the afternoon light before disappearing behind us.
Rows of trimmed hedges lined the long driveway.
The fountain in the circular courtyard still sprayed water high into the air.
The gardeners were pruning the rose bushes despite the season.
Nothing had changed.
It never did.
James brought the Bentley to a smooth stop beneath the portico.
“I hope you have a pleasant evening, Miss Beaumont.”
I smiled as I climbed out.
“Thank you, James.”
He always said pleasant.
Never good.
I sometimes wondered if he'd worked here long enough to know the difference.
The front doors opened before I reached them.
“Welcome home, Miss Valencia.”
Henri stood exactly where he always stood, dressed as impeccably as the house itself.
He'd worked for the Beaumonts longer than I'd been alive.
“Good afternoon, Henri.”
He accepted my coat with a polite nod.
“Your grandmother is in the conservatory.”
Of course she was.
She claimed the roses behaved better than people.
I slipped off my shoes and headed toward the back of the house.
The Beaumont mansion was beautiful.
Magazine beautiful.
The sort of place people admired in photographs.
Marble floors.
Towering windows.
Fresh flowers in every hallway.
Paintings worth more than most houses.
Everything carefully arranged.
Everything carefully maintained.
Sometimes I thought the house had more warmth than the people living inside it.
The conservatory door stood slightly open.
The scent of roses drifted through before I stepped inside.
Grandma Élodie was exactly where I'd expected.
Seated beside the window with a gardening book open on her lap.
She looked up before I could announce myself.
“There you are.”
Her smile reached her eyes.
It always did.
I crossed the room.
She opened one arm.
No ceremony.
No hesitation.
Just...
Come here.
I bent to hug her.
She smelled faintly of lavender and rosewater.
“My favourite granddaughter.”
I laughed into her shoulder.
“I'm your only granddaughter who still lets you fuss over her.”
“Céleste stopped when she was fourteen.”
“I remember.”
“A terrible decision on her part.”
When she finally let me go, her hands lingered lightly on my arms.
Her eyes swept over me with quiet familiarity.
“You cut your hair.”
I blinked.
“...Two inches.”
“And straightened it.”
“...Yes.”
She reached up, smoothing a loose strand behind my ear.
“I still think the curls suit you better.”
There it was.
Not criticism.
Not disappointment.
Just an opinion wrapped in affection.
“I know.”
“You don't believe me.”
I looked down at the stone tiles.
She sighed softly.
“No...”
Her fingers squeezed my hand.
“You believe everyone else.”
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
Grandma never rushed to fill silence.
She simply waited.
As though she trusted I'd speak when I was ready.
“I had a quiz today,” I said eventually.
“And?”
“I think it went well.”
“I didn't ask how you think it went.”
I looked up.
She smiled.
“I asked how it went.”
I laughed.
“It went well.”
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“You've stopped scratching your notebook.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“When you're anxious before a test, your poor notebook suffers.”
She mimed scratching the cover with her thumbnail.
“I imagine another year of this and the leather will file a complaint.”
Without thinking, my hand drifted toward my bag.
My thumb found the notebook almost instantly.
Grandma's smile widened.
“You've just proved my point.”
I shook my head.
“You're impossible.”
“No.”
She winked.
“I've simply had longer to study you than you've had to study everyone else.”
Before I could answer, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five.
Grandma glanced toward the doorway.
“Dinner in an hour.”
“Mmm.”
“You'll survive.”
“I usually do.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she reached for my hand again.
“I know.”
....
By half past six, the house had settled into its usual rhythm.
Footsteps echoed softly through the hallways.
Somewhere downstairs, porcelain clinked against silver.
Henri was directing the staff with the quiet efficiency of someone who could probably organise a state banquet in his sleep.
I stood in front of my wardrobe longer than necessary.
Dinner didn't have a dress code.
Not officially.
Still...
I reached for a navy knit dress.
Comfortable.
Simple.
Easy.
I pulled it on before smoothing invisible creases from the fabric.
Old habit.
I caught my reflection for barely a second before reaching for the brush.
The straightened strands fell neatly over my shoulders.
Good enough.
A knock sounded at my door.
“Miss Valencia?”
Henri.
“Dinner will be served in five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed again, I picked up my notebook from the bedside table.
My thumb found one of the scratches on the leather cover almost immediately.
I stopped myself.
Carefully placed it back down.
Then headed downstairs.
....
The dining room could comfortably seat twenty.
There were seven of us.
Mother insisted on using it anyway.
Father sat at the head of the table, already unfolding his napkin.
Mother sat opposite him.
Adrien was scrolling through something on his phone until Father cleared his throat.
The screen disappeared immediately.
Céleste looked immaculate, as always.
Not a strand of hair out of place.
Grandma was the last to arrive.
She smiled when she saw me.
The smile lasted only a second.
Long enough.
Henri pulled out my chair.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once before stepping away.
Dinner began the way it always did.
Soup.
Fresh bread.
Silence.
Father broke it first.
“So.”
He looked toward Adrien.
“How's Wharton?”
Adrien finally looked up.
“It's good.”
“Only good?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Father's mouth.
“You usually have more to say than that.”
“They're discussing internship placements.”
Father leaned forward with genuine interest.
“Already?”
“For summer.”
“And?”
“I've narrowed it down.”
For the next several minutes, the conversation revolved around investment firms, networking events and professors whose names meant absolutely nothing to me.
Mother asked thoughtful questions.
Father offered advice.
Even Céleste joined in.
I buttered another piece of bread.
Across the table, Grandma quietly placed the bread basket closer to me without interrupting anyone.
She'd noticed I'd been reaching.
Of course she had.
Eventually Father's attention shifted.
“And Harvard?”
Céleste smiled.
“They're already assigning us mock trials.”
“So soon?”
“It's competitive.”
“When isn't Harvard competitive?” Adrien muttered.
Céleste smiled sweetly.
“When you're not there.”
He rolled his eyes.
Mother laughed.
Father did too.
The conversation drifted effortlessly toward professors, internships and networking dinners.
I reached for my water.
Henri refilled the glass before I could.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome, Miss Valencia.”
It was the longest conversation I'd had since sitting down.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
“Valencia.”
Grandma's voice was gentle.
“How was College today?”
I looked up.
“It went we...”
“Oh.”
Mother looked toward Céleste.
“I almost forgot.”
Everyone turned to her.
“The dean emailed this afternoon.”
Céleste frowned.
“The dean?”
Mother's smile widened.
“He personally recommended you for the international legal symposium in Geneva.”
Father looked genuinely pleased.
“I wondered when they'd ask.”
“I haven't even accepted yet.”
“You will.”
“I probably will.”
Congratulations circled the table.
Adrien teased her.
Mother beamed.
Father looked proud.
I lowered my spoon.
Grandma looked at me.
Just for a moment.
She remembered.
She always remembered.
The conversation continued without me.
It wasn't deliberate.
No one had interrupted me because they wanted to.
Something simply seemed...
More important.
That was usually how it happened.
Henri appeared beside my chair.
“More potatoes, Miss Valencia?”
I smiled.
“Yes, please.”
He served me before moving away.
Across the table, Grandma reached for her wine.
Our eyes met briefly.
She smiled again.
Small.
Apologetic.
As though she wished she could answer the question she'd asked me herself.
I smiled back.
It wasn't her fault.
Dinner carried on.
Around me.
Without me.
....
Dinner ended the way it always did.
Not with laughter.
Not with arguments.
Simply...
“...Excuse me.”
Chairs scraped softly against the polished floor as everyone stood.
Father folded his napkin with practiced precision before placing it beside his plate.
“I have an early meeting.”
Mother nodded.
“So do I.”
Adrien slipped his phone back into his pocket.
“I should finish an assignment.”
Céleste checked her watch.
“I have a call with my study group.”
One by one, they disappeared.
The dining room felt strangely larger every time they left.
“Valencia.”
I turned.
For the briefest moment, something embarrassingly hopeful fluttered in my chest.
Father looked at me from the doorway.
“Tell Henri I'd like the Bentley ready by eight tomorrow morning.”
“...Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Then he was gone.
The flutter disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Grandma watched me over the rim of her teacup.
She hadn't missed it.
She rarely missed anything.
“Come,” she said, setting her cup down. “Walk with me.”
....
The evening air carried the scent of damp earth and roses.
Tiny lights hidden beneath the hedges bathed the gardens in a warm glow.
Grandma linked her arm through mine as we wandered along the stone path.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
She liked silence.
Not because she had nothing to say.
Because she believed people eventually filled silence with the truth.
“I saw the exhibition flyer.”
I looked at her.
“The one sticking out of your notebook.”
Heat crept into my cheeks.
“I forgot it was there.”
“You wanted to go.”
It wasn't a question.
“Dale found it.”
“And?”
“I couldn't.”
“Thursday dinner.”
I nodded.
Grandma sighed, though there wasn't any annoyance in it.
“Your friends seem kind.”
“They are.”
“They make you laugh.”
“They do.”
“I'm glad.”
I glanced at her.
“Why?”
She smiled gently.
“Because everyone deserves somewhere they don't have to earn their place.”
The words settled quietly between us.
I wasn't sure what to say.
So I squeezed her hand instead.
She squeezed back.
....
We were halfway to the gazebo when voices drifted from the library.
The doors weren't completely closed.
Father.
Mother.
I slowed without thinking.
“...we can't keep delaying it.”
Mother's voice.
Low.
Tight.
“We're trying.”
Father sounded tired.
Not angry.
Just...
Exhausted.
“It's not enough anymore.”
A long silence followed.
Then...
“The bank won't agree to another extension.”
My fingers tightened instinctively around Grandma's arm.
She noticed immediately.
Her eyes flickered toward the library.
Then back to me.
Very gently, she guided me forward.
“Come.”
I hesitated.
“But....”
“Come, darling.”
There was something in her voice.
Not fear.
Protection.
I let her lead me away.
The voices disappeared behind us.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I looked at her.
“...Is everything alright?”
She stopped walking.
The garden lights reflected softly in her eyes.
She smiled.
The kind of smile adults wore when they hadn't decided how much truth a child was ready to hear.
“Families,” she said quietly, brushing a leaf from my sleeve, “go through difficult seasons.”
“I'm not a child anymore.”
“I know.”
She cupped my cheek for a brief moment.
“I only wish the world remembered that.”
She kissed my forehead.
“Now...”
A brighter smile.
“Tell me about this anthropology quiz.”
I laughed softly.
“You already asked me.”
“And I'll ask again.”
“You really like anthropology.”
“I really like listening to you.”
....
As I climbed the stairs later that night, the house felt different.
Nothing had changed.
The paintings still hung exactly where they always had.
The chandeliers still glowed warmly overhead.
Henri was still reminding one of the staff not to overwater Mother's orchids.
Everything looked...
Normal.
Yet Father's voice lingered in the back of my mind.
The bank won't agree to another extension.
I wasn't sure what it meant.
Only that I'd never heard him sound so tired.
....
I closed my bedroom door behind me and crossed to my desk.
The leather notebook was waiting exactly where I'd left it.
I opened it to a fresh page.
For a long moment...
I simply stared.
Then I wrote.
‘Grandma says families go through difficult seasons.
I hope this one passes quickly.’
I paused.
My thumb drifted to the edge of the leather cover.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
I frowned at the new marks.
“...Sorry.”
The apology slipped out before I could stop it.
As if the notebook could hear me.
A quiet laugh escaped me, I closed it gently, and switched off the bedside lamp.
I paused outside my bedroom window.
From there, I could see almost the entire east wing of the house.
Every window was dark.
Except one.
The library.
A thin strip of golden light spilled across the lawn.
I stared at it for a moment before drawing the curtains shut.
Tomorrow, I told myself.
Whatever they were worried about...
It would probably make sense tomorrow.
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