She flipped her hand in a who-cares gesture. “Oh, you don’t need him. He was just practice. Larson Overstreet is the real thing. You have an opportunity here to use what I’ve worked so hard to teach you girls your whole lives. With a little work, you can show Larson that you can be just the kind of girl he likes.”
My fingernails pressed into my palms until the pain was almost as severe as the anxiety twisting my gut. She drove me insane, but she was still my mother, and I’d been raised to be respectful whether I felt like it or not.
“If I decide to go, the only thing I’ll be showing Larson is that I can be an effective field producer.”
Momma didn’t appear to have heard me. She held up a dress against her own carefully-maintained figure.
“What do you think? I don’t know, maybe something lower-cut, for when he takes you to dinner?”
“Momma.”
“What? A working dinner? People do those, don’t they?” She laughed.
Not that she’d have any idea what working people did. My mother had never worked outside the home, which was fine for some people, if homemaking and child-rearing was what they’d always wanted to do. It could be downright noble in some cases.
But in my parents’ case, some extra income would have come in handy.
Especially as Momma insisted on maintaining a certain lifestyle—one including a large house in an affluent suburb, pricey cars, certain name brands of clothing and shoes, regular visits to her medi-spa for “rejuvenation” treatments, and membership at the ultra-exclusive Cherokee Town and Country Club. They’d only been able to get in because her best friend Cricket (and her obscenely wealthy husband Chipper) had arranged a recommendation.
It was a lot for Daddy to cover. He made a decent living as a pharmacist, but decent wasn’t what Momma had in mind for herself… or her girls.
She’d been preaching to us as long as I could remember that we shouldn’t “settle” as she apparently had. We should set our sights on professional athletes and senator’s sons, CEO’s, and boys born to money.
It was only when I’d gone away to college that I realized not everyone equated money with happiness, and the “average” lifestyle I’d grown up with was perfectly extravagant in most people’s eyes.
Only then did I understand how skewed Momma’s view of the world was. It had taken even longer to realize I wasn’t required by law or the Bible or my own good-daughter morals to buy into it.
Still, I knew my parents had gone into debt to send me to the University of Georgia with a new car, new wardrobe, and impeccable sorority recs.
In return, it was my job to play a certain role and attract a certain crowd (read: rich boys). I’d done it diligently, turning down dates with perfectly nice guys, guys like my dad with good senses of humor and great work ethics.
I’d flirted with the boys I’d been told were desirable, and some of them even were. Mark, for instance.
He was cute enough. He certainly met all the other criteria. He’d taken the bait, I’d sunk in the hook, and somewhere along the way to an elaborately-planned-and-ultimately-doomed-wedding, I’d managed to fall in love with him.
At least I’d convinced myself I loved him.
“What about this one?” Momma held up a body-skimming black dress with spaghetti-straps.
“It’s winter,” I said, giving her the universal look for Really?
“Well, if you don’t want this one anymore, I’ll take it.” She wiggled her hips and did a sort of Marilyn Monroe thing with her voice. “I may catch myself a sugar-daddy yet—not that your father isn’t precious.”
She laughed brightly as if to diminish the fact she’d just suggested she might leave my father someday for a better catch.
“I’m just kidding,” she added a beat too late.
We both knew she was only half-joking, but I didn’t flinch. It wasn’t the first time Momma had mentioned it.
She reminded me regularly that, had it not been for my untimely conception, she would certainly have bagged a gazillionaire herself, thank you very much.
We all lived with her chronic low-grade disappointment in life. The way she made little cutting remarks at Daddy’s expense had always bothered me, but now that I was old enough to really understand them, it was getting harder to take. I made a mental note to give him an extra hug when he got home tonight.
“Take it.” I nodded toward the dress. “I’m sure it fits you better now, anyway.”
“Well, you’re not that much overweight. A few weeks of eating right, some dedicated time at the gym, and you’ll be back to your old self. I believe in you, sweetheart.”
All delivered with a perfectly straight face and the self-confidence of someone who knows she’s completely in the right.
I smirked, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
What could I say? There were worse mothers out there—working in news had shown me that. And as long as I lived at home, I couldn’t exactly tell her off—I didn’t know if I even had it in me.
Though I didn’t have to agree with her anymore, I couldn’t help but listen, mostly because she never stopped.
“So, all right then, if you don’t have an opinion on it, I’ll just put these things in your suitcase. Don’t forget your high-heels and your makeup bag,” she added hopefully.
I forced a polite tone. “Okay, thanks. I’ll finish the packing sometime this weekend—if I decide to go. See you downstairs.”
When Momma left the room, I removed every slinky, clingy article of clothing she’d put in my bag and replaced them with the kind of loose, practical items I wore to work these days.
The other clothes I returned to my crammed walk-in closet, though I paused after hanging the red bandage-style cocktail dress. This had been one of my very favorites. I took it back down. The feel of the soft, fine fabric under my fingers made me smile.
I held it a minute more then slipped out of my clothes and pulled it on. Peeking out of my closet and seeing the coast was clear, I darted for the bathroom attached to my bedroom.
I flipped on the light, locked the door, and turned to the full-length mirror.
And there she was—the old me—the one who’d always loved fashion and had been engaged in a passionate love affair with cosmetics since the age of twelve. I smoothed my hands over the dress, and yes, a little more in the hip department than I used to have, but it still fit beautifully.
My lank hair just looked strange with the dress, so I went to the vanity, dug out a clip and twisted my hair into a simple updo. Better.
Before I quite knew what was happening, I’d applied a full face of makeup, enjoying the pleasant scent and feel of my favorite cosmetics, the artistic act of applying them in just the right amounts to just the right places. I’d missed this.
Then I looked at the whole picture in the mirror, and the trance was broken. Mark’s Kenley—Momma’s Kenley—stared back at me.
I took out a washcloth and scrubbed away the life that makeup represented—the one where I traded my looks and my soul for the future Momma had pushed on me.
It kind of sucked because I’d always loved experimenting with different looks.
Maybe I should’ve gone to beauty school instead of college, then I could’ve indulged in makeup and fashion to my heart’s content without prostituting myself in the process.