“Oh honey,” she drawls, her fingers sliding off of my chin as a smile spreads across her face. “You don’t need no politics when Timothy is good and ready to take care of you.” She looks at her reflection one more time and fluffs up her hair. “He's going to be a rich man.”
I nod, tossing the paper towel into the trash. “I know, Mama. I keep him happy.”
She looks me up and down, before turning to the door with a small chuckle. “I know you do. Now hurry, future rich men don’t wait. No matter how pretty the girl is.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I turn back to the mirror, swiping on a thin layer of lip gloss with hands steadier than Ifeel. I have to remind myself—every time I step into this place—that this isn’t really me. This is the version of Brooke du Pont that fits the frame.
The Brooke who recites Bible verses like lullabies, who plays piano at garden parties to make the ladies sigh and the men smile. The Brooke who once snuck cigarettes with her best friend Taylor behind the barn, and still knows how to slip a wallet from a jacket without making a sound. The Brooke who pretends to love Timothy Keiths, football, and God—always in that order.
This girl in the mirror, draped in ivory and pale pink, her dress reaching mid-calf, her red curls cascading perfectly down her back—she’s not me. She’s the du Ponts’ masterpiece. Their pride. Their polished doll.
I’mthe one underneath. The one they don’t see. The one they wouldn’t want if they did.
I rub my lips together and paste on my Sunday best smile—the kind that stretches just wide enough to look polite, just soft enough to keep people from asking questions—and push open the bathroom door.
The foyer is humming with post-service chatter, the faint notes of organ music drifting through the air like smoke. My rose-gold heels click against the marble floor as I step into the light, spine straight, steps measured.
I spot him instantly.
Timothy’s standing near the entrance to the sanctuary, shoulder propped against a column, that easy golden-boy grin plastered across his face. He’s laughing at something Michael Richardsjust said, probably some outdated joke dressed up as Southern charm.
Timothy looks like every Southern mama’s dream come to life. Broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair that sweeps across his forehead in just the right way, a jaw so sharp it could cut glass. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was carved in a lab to sell varsity letterman jackets and church marriage retreats.
He glances over his shoulder as I walk up, his eyes skimming over me like I’m the love of his life. He doesn’t say anything, but the way his mouth tilts says enough to the onlookers -- it saysI am irrevocably in love with Brooke du Pont. I smile back, the perfect little church girlfriend that loves him back.
“Mr. Richards,” I say sweetly, stepping up beside Timothy like I’ve always belonged there. “It’s been a while.”
Michael’s eyes rake over me, not even bothering to hide it. “Miss du Pont,” he says, voice smooth like bourbon left out too long. “Looking like springtime itself.”
I laugh softly. Not because he’s funny—but because I was raised to laugh at men like him. Because it’s easier than making a scene. I push slide a strand of my hair behind my ear and flash a smile that looks like heaven to a guy like Micheal Richards.
“I am so sorry to interrupt you two gentlemen, but you know Mama doesn’t allow people to be late to her dinner table.”
They both chuckle politely, and Micheal grabs his belly with one hand as his hand points a pudgy finger at me. “You better get then. A du Pont woman is no joke.”
Timothy slides an arm around my shoulders and nods. “Don’t I know it.”
We turn to walk away, as Micheal calls after us. “ I’ll be betting on you boy! Go Tigers!”
Timothy puts a fist up as we cross the threshold to the church, yelling. “Go Tigers.”
The people loitering outside yell in approval, and my stomach drops at the attention. Timothy Keiths is this town's golden boy and I am the golden church girl. People are biting their nails in anticipation for our future wedding. I should be happy.
Timothy opens his car door for me and I slide in. The minute I buckle in he slides in, slams the door, and sighs out aloud.
“Your daddy is going to kill me if I don’t propose soon,” Timothy mutters, tugging at the knot of his tie. His fingers work it loose with practiced ease, but he glances at me from the corner of his eye like he’s only half-joking.
“I’ll kill you if you do propose,” I grumble, kicking off one rose-gold heel and rubbing at the sore spot on the side of my foot. He slides a piece of gum between his teeth, grinning like the menace he is.
“You know back at UT, I’m hot stuff, du Pont. There’s a line of ladies just waiting for me to say yes.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick. “Please, you say that like you’re not hot stuff here.”
He smirks. “Yeah, but here I gotta behave. Over there, I’m king of the frat basement and the photography darkroom.”
“If I was straight,” I say, waving a hand like I’m setting up a dramatic monologue, “Timothy Keiths would be the dream. Nice country boy with a truck and a six-pack of morals, can tie a tie and make a mean apple pie. You’d be unstoppable.”
He chuckles. “Say it louder. Boost my ego, Brooke.”
