Page 40 of I Choose You

Since when?

“You’re single too,” I retorted playfully.

“That’s not my choice. Besides, I’m looking.”

I arched my brows. Well, that was new. Where was she looking? “You are?”

She shimmied her shoulders and lifted her nose in the air. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

I giggled and shook my head.

“I’m a beauty, just like you.”

You are. I had to work on believing that most days. Since my adolescence, I’d learned that beauty could come in many different ways. A beautiful mind, for example, mattered to me as much as anything else. And I knew I had a good head on my shoulders.

“Mom, I’m too busy to date.”

She sighed. “You’re too busy to do much of anything these days. All you do is work and work out.”

That’s not entirely true. I wasn’t in the mood for a guilt trip, but I wondered if she might be right—just a bit.

“I ran into Rena the other day. She was telling me all about that Comiki Tour.”

I smiled. “Contiki.”

“It sounds so exciting. And she said she invited you.” She frowned and played with the edge of her napkin, not making eye contact for a moment. “Why don’t you go?”

I debated the best way to answer her. “It’s not that I don’t want to go. I have priorities.” Rena might be the kind of person to be swayed by trending philosophical lines on social media, but I wasn’t.

“I can travel later.”

Screw that crap about burning the fancy candles now. I preferred organic incense anyway.

I cleared the dishes, letting her tend to a text from her friend. As I carried the plates inside, grateful she let go about the vacation and my priorities, I headed back and forth. I caught my reflection in the sliding glass door. The glass was smudged, but I winced.

Had I been walking around with a greasy forehead all day? I stepped closer, shifting the plates to one hand to rub at my brow. Upon closer inspection, I cringed at the sight of my smeared eye shadow. While I was at it, my hair. I sighed, my shoulders slumping as I tried to tuck the errant strands back into place. It wasn’t humid. I hadn’t been working out or doing anything strenuous to look like a mess. My disheveled appearance bothered me on a level I couldn’t ignore, and I hurried to smooth my hair back into place.

Mom stepped up, finished on her phone. “Brooke,” she began gently. “You look beautiful.”

I softened and smiled.

“You always do.”

Of course, you would say that. It was her job to. She was my parent. She’d claim I looked gorgeous no matter what. I appreciated it, and I never took her love for granted, but they were platitudes, not honest criticism.

“You don’t need to obsess about your looks.”

“I don’t—”

I clamped my lips shut. I wasn’t going through that argument again. I wasn’t obsessed. Just particular, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that.

Instead of replying, I stared into the door and saw my teenage self in the reflection. Young and gangly. Awkward and pimply. That frizzy untamable hair and girlish figure.

I felt unlovable as a teen, and it had taken years to find a sense of self-worth.

Mom came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She rested her chin on my shoulder and stared at my reflection. “Have you ever thought about talking to someone?”

I’d thought about it, but after a couple of attempts of finding a therapist who seemed like a good fit, I’d gone about finding my worth my own way. I was too stubborn not to.