Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Have you been listening to me?” Mom asks, fixing an earring.
“Honestly? No.”
She runs her hands down the little black dress and turns to a full-length mirror. “I don’t know why you brought a book, anyway.”
“I’m trying to feel things, Mom.”
She grins over her shoulder. “If you’d take my advice and start using men for what they’re good for, you could feel a lot of things.”
“Seriously, Mother?”
“Maybe you need to go to Charity Club with me. We can give you some pointers.”
I snort. “With all due respect, I prefer my sexual encounters not to include burning sensations.”
“That’s just Eloise. Now come here and help me zip this thing up.”
I stand and make my way to my mom.
“Did you see Josie Kipper died?” Mom asks, sucking in as I slide the zipper up her back.
“I did not.”
“It was on Social this morning. I looked everywhere to see what she passed away from, but it didn’t say.” She exhales, and the zipper stretches but thankfully doesn’t pop. “There should be a rule—if you die or get divorced and you’re going to put it on Social, then you have to state the reason.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s true,” she says, twisting and turning to see all angles of herself. “What do you think? Does it make my hips look big?”
“Your hips are fine. It makes your bank account look small. That’s the problem.”
She gives herself one final look before spinning to me. “The frugal gene is the only thing you got from your father.”
Her golden eyes meet mine before she scampers back into the dressing room.
I turn toward the mirror, taking in my reflection. Everything I see—my auburn hair, the shape of my ass, and tanned skin—all came from my mother. But a lot I can’t see came from her, too. I notice more of it all the time. And, truth be told, that scares the shit out of me.
Every day that passes, I wonder in the back of my mind if I’m destined to become my mother. Will I wind up alone, bitter at the world, and hating men? Will I amble through life without clear direction because I’m too scared to let anyone close? Will I ever find my dream?
It’s a thought that’s been lingering heavily on me since last night. Something about the evening with Ripley brought it back to the surface. Maybe it’s because he’s so calm, cool, and collected. He has a career, a pathway, and enough confidence to carry him through any bump in the road. I might hate the good-looking fucker, but he does have his shit together.
It makes me want to have mine together, too.
It also makes me think of Ripley’s response about relationships.
“One of my brothers just got married and had a baby. Watching him with his wife and little boy has made me start thinking outside of myself. If I can find the right woman to build a family with, I’d love to be able to raise my children alongside my brothers.”
His siblings are all starting to settle down. I’ve overheard him talking about it when we’re hanging out with our friend group. And his best friend is getting married soon, and if Sutton has her way, they’ll have kids soon after. So was he serious when he told me he’s looking for the right woman, or was that a part of the act?
“Okay, you’re right,” Mom says, huffing through the door. “I’m not getting the black one.” She holds up an emerald mini skirt she tried on hours ago. “This one is a winner, though, right?”
“Yes. That one is on clearance.”
“Don’t say clearance. It makes me feel cheap.”
I roll my eyes, grab my book, and shove it into my bag before we exit our dressing pod.
“What about you?” Mom asks, fingering through a rack of halter tops. “Did you want to look for anything?”
“We’ve been here for three hours. If I did want to look for myself, the feeling would’ve passed.”
She frowns. “We can do a quick shop for you, if you want. Check out these tops.”
“Mom.” I laugh. “No. I don’t need anything, and I’m starving. Let’s go.”
“Now you’re making me feel bad.”
“Don’t. I only came to ensure you don’t forget who you are and start buying five-hundred-dollar little black dresses.”
She sticks her tongue out and places the green skirt on the counter. I leave her to pay for her item and wander toward the front of the store.
Bright afternoon sunlight floods the boutique. I stand beside a mannequin with a hot pink tube top and dig my phone out of my bag. One text alert awaits my attention.
My heart beats faster as I unlock the screen. I tell myself to stop it and remind myself this is part of the contract. Still, seeing a text from Ripley—one that’s not in the group chat—makes me nervous.