I gave him a smile of silent thanks. “Hi Daddy.”
Momma’s knife slapped against the cutting board as she chopped a head of romaine.
“You’re not helping her, Kevin. You’re just enabling this little rebellion or pity party or whatever it is she’s got going on. How will she ever find a new boyfriend worth anything if she walks around town looking like a middle-aged housewife?”
“You’re a middle-aged housewife,” Daddy said, picking up a stack of plates and heading to the dining room.
She called back over her shoulder. “But I don’t look like one—and you should be glad I don’t. All I’m saying is men are visual creatures, and I just don’t understand this sudden aversion she has to fixing herself up.”
I let out an aggravated sigh. “I’m still right here, Momma.”
She turned her attention back to me. “You used to be beautiful—you are a beautiful girl… when you do your hair and makeup and you’re at your target weight. And you’ve got a hundred cute, expensive outfits in your closet. Why do you insist on leaving the house like… this?”
Extending an arm, she gestured up and down at my apparently offensive attire.
“Are you depressed over Mark or something? Because you’ll never get him back looking like that.”
“Lisbeth,” my father warned, coming back into the room.
I took a breath, counted to five, and resisted the urge to smash the full glasses of tea against the tile floor.
“I don’t want him back, Momma. He cheated on me, if you’ll remember. No amount of money in the world is worth that.”
“Well the Fitzsimmons money surely wouldn’t have hurt anything…” Of course. According to Momma, who’d grown up dirt poor, money was the answer to everything. Even infidelity, apparently.
The door from the garage opened, and Cinda came in, slipping off her muddy cleats and saving me from the rest of the tirade. I hoped. She was sweaty, pink-cheeked, and utterly gorgeous in her lacrosse uniform and messy ponytail.
“Hey y’all. We won.”
“Great! How’d you play?” I asked.
Momma wasn’t distracted by something as inconsequential as her daughter’s athletic
prowess. She continued as if Cinda hadn’t said a thing.
“And you’re setting a terrible example for your sister, Kenley—look at you two—a mess, both of you. I might as well have raised two boys,” she scolded, and shaking her head, walked off toward the pantry.
Cinda gave me an amused look, one blonde brow arched and her lips on the verge of a smile. She crossed the kitchen to me and slung an arm around my shoulder.
“What have you done to me this time, Kenley? I hope you’re not going to encourage me to use my brain again. I might get it in my head to actually pursue a career instead of an M.R.S. degree.”
I giggled, loving my sister in that moment even more than usual. Somehow, Momma’s antics never seemed to bother her. She’d been born with alligator skin, while mine was made of rice paper.
And thank God she wasn’t sensitive. It had always driven me crazy the way Momma fussed over me, while treating Cinda’s talents and achievements as if they were somehow… less than.
A weaker person might have translated such second-class treatment into hatred for her older sister or have suffered from poor self-esteem, but Cinda was amazing. She just laughed at Momma’s subtle rejections. I envied her that ability.
We set the dining room table together, chatting about my workday and her classes. Dinner was frostier than usual, with stilted conversation and a recap of Cinda’s match.
“I wish I could’ve seen it, honey,” Daddy said. “I hate that these long hours are keeping me from being there for your last few years at home.”
Cinda patted Daddy’s hand. “It’s okay. You are here for us. Anyway—I play because I love it, not because I’m trying to impress anyone. I’d play whether there was anyone watching or not.”
“Hmmph.” Momma made a prissy noise of disapproval and lifted her tea glass to her lips.
She never went to Cinda’s games. She’d wanted her youngest daughter to pursue beauty pageant crowns instead of sports trophies.
But Cinda hadn’t been the compliant little dress-up doll I’d been. She’d promptly ruined every fancy church dress Momma put her in and flat-out refused to wear makeup, even as a teen, while I’d started begging for cosmetics at age eleven.
“Meeting any nice boys in your classes?” Momma asked her.
There was the one thing she was keenly interested in—her daughters’ husband-hunting scorecards. Now that I’d failed so miserably, Momma was probably pinning all her hopes on daughter number two.
“I did meet one great guy—he’s there on full financial aid—so cute,” Cinda gushed. Her wicked grin told me there probably was no such guy. She was just enjoying tormenting our mother with the financial aid line.
Momma didn’t react, just took a final bite of her own salad (dressing-free of course) and pushed back from the table to carry her plate to the kitchen.
When she was out of earshot, Cinda whispered, “So—I’m freaking starved. Wanna go grab a burger at Sonic with me?”
“Absolutely,” I whispered back, and we both giggled, trying to keep the sound down.
“Bring me back a number four,” Daddy said. “And a Master Blast.”
Three
Not Lovely
When I got in to work the next day, Larson was leaning against my desk talking to Deb.
Shoot. He looked amazing as usual.
His dark suit pants draped perfectly over his miles-long legs. His arms were folded across his chest, highlighting some very solid biceps under the fine fabric of his dress shirt.
He hadn’t put on his jacket and tie yet, and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened. He didn’t go to hair and makeup until just before the show—his hair now was a bit windblown, making him look a little less put-together and a little more yummy than usual.
Seeing me approach, he gave me a bright crinkly-eyed smile.
Shoot, shoot, shoot.
“We missed you last night—you should’ve come. A certain network veteran stopped by and started telling war stories from the early days of cable news. It got very colorful.”
“I’ll bet it was interesting,” I said, keeping my tone polite, but not overly engaged.
My gaze bounced around the newsroom, settling on anything but his face. We were more or less eye level with each other as he still hadn’t gotten off my desk.
“So what was on the menu for the family dinner?” he asked.
Why the heck would you care?
That’s what I was thinking. What I actually said was, “Chicken and dumplings.”
“Sounds tempting,” he murmured.
And my focus flew to his face. Blue. His eyes were very, very blue. Not pale like mine, but a deeper, sort of bluebonnet color. You could tell on camera he had blue eyes, but they were different up close in person—prettier. I shifted my gaze to my feet.
“Oh, you probably want your desk back. I guess I’ll move my lazy ass and let you sit down,” he said with a low laugh.