“…ifyou did something with your hair.”
“…ifyou wore clothes that flattered your figure.”
“…ifyou wore makeup.”
“…ifyou managed your weight better.”
“…if”
“…if”
“…if”
“…if”
What makes this so sad is that I wasn’t opposed to some of her “suggestions.” Sure, I didn’t stand a chance in hell of fixing my weight issue when I was younger, and trust me, I tried. It wasn’t until this past year, when I put on the much-needed “Freshman Fifteen,” that my body finally reached a healthy weight for the first time in almost a decade. As for the other hundred and twelve things where I fell short?
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to wear makeup, or have pretty clothes, or do something with my hair. I just couldn’t bring myself to follow through with any of the changes. Not while I still lived at home. The few small things I put the tiniest effort into, I would immediately be met with criticism, so I quickly learned it was best not to try. Ultimately, I found it far easier being hypothetically pretty than outright proving to Blythe that I was a lost cause.
And I think my stepmother preferred it that way.
“Hey.” Maggie checks my shoulder lightly with her elbow. “Lighten up. If the Stepmonster has a problem with the way you look, then that’s her own fucking problem. Tell her to go kick rocks.”
I chuckle, but it lacks any genuine amusement. “Yeah, there’s one fatal flaw with that plan.”
“Such as?”
“You know that really expensive place we just spent the last three hours driving away from? How do you think I pay to go there?”
My friend looks back at the gigantic monstrosity otherwise known as my family’s house. “Up until a few minutes ago? I figured it was scholarships and grants.”
“Yeah, sadly not. Those barely cover half the costs, and as you can see, I’m not exactly favored to get any financial aid. If I don’t want to spend the next twenty years paying off student loans, I’ve gotta suck it up and play nice with the Stepmonster.”
Looking down at myself, I realize my attempts at appearing “presentable” are pathetic at best. I’m tempted to grab a makeup wipe out of my purse and trade my contact lens for my glasses again when—
“Alley Cat? Is that you?” The deep baritone voice snaps me out of my stupor as I look back up to the house to see my brother, Derek, bolting down the front steps. I barely have enough time to climb out of the car when he comes up and damn near tackles me with a bear hug.
“Bubba?”Yes, I know that’s not his name, but what can I say? Old habits die hard. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce Derek’s name to save my ass, and for some inexplicable reason, I wound up calling him Bubba instead.
Derek is nearly six-foot-six, built like a linebacker (which he formerly was), and happens to be the sweetest guy you could ever meet. A hug from my brother is like being attacked by a massive teddy bear. Figures. The one person I’m related to who isn’t a complete douchenozzle doesn’t even live at home anymore.
God, I missed him.
I say as much, and his hold on me only tightens until I’m pretty sure he’s going to suffocate me. Thankfully, he lets up before I black out from oxygen deprivation, but I still can’t conceal my surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He groans. “Blythe and Vanessa were supposed to go over a bunch of wedding stuff with Lauren, but she had to work, so I somehow got dragged into it. And they may as well be speaking Greek in there. Seriously, do you guys know anything about door trim and aisle markers?”
Maggie laughs. “We’re college students. The only decorations we put on our doors are socks on the knobs.”
My brother’s eyes sharpen into a mocking glare as he helps us carry my stuff inside. “Is that so?”
“Yep, your sis here is a regular sex addict,” my roommate purrs. “Despite my best efforts, there are still hordes of hot males flocking in and out of the dorm room every night. She’s like a carousel. Up and down and goes all night long.”
Yeah, sadly, that’s the farthest thing from the truth. It’s not that I’m a total prude. I’ve just been hung up on a certain British import.
The three of us laugh…until we step into the foyer. My stepmother’s voice carries on from somewhere in the back of the house, but her heels click-clack across the floor, indicating she’s coming closer.
No one needs to be told twice.
