Page 31 of Something Borrowed

Vic jumped, startled. Of course, today of all days would be the day her mother made an exception to holing up in her bedroom, watching morning TV.

“Good morning to you too,” she said—then was shocked by the next words out of her mouth. “If you could have a do-over in life, what would you do differently?”

Audra stared at Vic like she’d grown three heads. Then she chewed at the edge of her lower lip. For a moment, Vic thought she was actually contemplating the question and might answer it. She was both intrigued and slightly terrified by what the response might be—not have you, she suspected. And what would she say to that?

Nothing, Devil said snidely. Because you never say or do anything.

Audra’s reply was typical and came as no surprise—though it wasn’t as hateful as Vic had imagined. She took the coffee Vic had intended for herself and fixed her with a baleful stare. “Namby-pamby questions like this are ridiculous. There’s no such thing as ‘do-over’ nonsense. In this life, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”

Vic blinked. You get what you get. No, she didn’t buy it. Or she didn’t want to buy it. Not anymore. She stared at Audra, and something cold walked over her psyche. It was like being visited by Dickens’s The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, except that it wasn’t Christmas, of course. Not yet. Still, if she wasn’t careful, she was going to not only live with her mother, she was going to turn into her mother, bitterly unhappy with her life and everything in it, but unable—or unwilling—to see her own complicity in her unhappiness.

You get what you get. That line of thinking seemed like it might be the root of her whole problem. She’d always accepted whatever she got, not liking it, it hurting her over and over again, but never making any changes. Being so damn passive in her own life. Worse, with her stupid, compulsive behaviors, she was now actively destroying her own chances for friendships and respect—especially self-respect. Had she ever had that? She didn’t think so. And that brought Madeline to her mind. One of the reasons, she suspected, that Madeline was so unflappable and kind about seemingly everything was that she didn’t give a shit about what other people thought of her—in a nice way. She had self-respect and confidence that wasn’t based on other people’s opinions.

Vic’s mind flashed on Madeline’s discomfort when she’d thought her five-finger discount joke might’ve hurt her feelings. So, it wasn’t that she didn’t care how other people felt. The opposite, in fact. She had a high standard of how she lived—but it was her own standard, her own bar, she was concerned with meeting.

And Madeline was wonderful, yes. Creative, compassionate, hardworking, funny, generous, and so on and so on—but she wasn’t that much different than Vic might be able to be if she disciplined herself. Madeline was someone to aspire to be like, but also not totally out of the realm of possibility for her to become. Maybe.

Vic poured another cup of coffee as Audra complained there wasn’t enough sugar in “hers,” added the requisite two teaspoons of the white stuff, then traded Audra mugs.

Audra sniffed.

I think you should take the day off, hey . . . In fact, make it a couple. The words rang in Vic’s head, not in Angel or Devil’s alternating croon or shrill voices, but in Madeline’s somber, firm one. It didn’t take a genius to realize that “a couple” probably meant permanently. And that sucked because Vic finally saw things clearly.

For whatever reason, life had offered her a second chance via The Second Chance Shop. That was what Madeline had intended. And she’d blown it.

“Would you like eggs, Mom?”

Audra did not want eggs. Or cereal—hot or cold. Or fruit. After that, Vic stopped offering.

She went upstairs, studied her juvenile room for all of thirty seconds, then, in quick, decisive movements, took down every single item hanging on her walls—except for the stolen swallow. She removed them carefully. They were mint-condition vintage, after all, and she just might know a place that would sell them on consignment. If she still had even a tiny in with the owner, that is.

With the walls bare, she could already breathe easier. She stripped the bedding too. She would wash it and bag it and see if Aisha could use it for anything—well, she’d see if Aisha could use it if she got another chance with her too.

She slipped into a hooded sweatshirt, leggings, and a pair of beaten-up sneakers that must’ve been thirty-five years old. Then she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail. Without glancing in a mirror or bothering with even a stitch of makeup, not even lip gloss, she grabbed her purse and headed back downstairs.

“You’re going out like that? You look like something the cat dragged in.”

A cat! Of course. Audra’s words were like gold. How come it hadn’t occurred to her before? If it was love and affection she was longing for, she should get a cat. Audra might fight it, but, for once, Vic would put her own foot down. Probably. Maybe. She’d think about it.

She was humming when she walked into the Second Chance Shop a few minutes before closing. She had no idea what Madeline would say, and no one could’ve been more surprised than she was to realize Madeline’s response didn’t matter. She, of course, had an outcome she was hoping for, but it was secondary to her main goal. For once in her life, she was going to handle herself and own her mistakes in a way that she could be proud of. Or at least not horribly ashamed of. Baby steps, Vic, our girl, baby steps.

Chapter 18

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” Cal said, looking around Carrie’s tiny home, and he wasn’t just giving an idle compliment or being polite because she’d invited him over for dinner after asking how his “job” with Vic had gone and his one-word answer, “Fine,” had tipped her off that it hadn’t been what he was hoping for.

“You’re just saying that. You think it’s a sardine can, remember?”

Cal chuckled. He had said that. “You really wanna live in that sardine can?” he’d asked when he’d first seen the single-level, 450-square-foot home that she’d insisted was her dream house.

Actually, what she’d said was, “I had the big family house with the two-bay garage, a bathroom for each bedroom, a den and a rec room, and a kitchen and dining room made for entertaining—and I thought I had the family to go with it, but it was all a big lie, wasn’t it? This is my new dream house.”

“Well, you’ve made it a very cozy sardine can,” he said.

She handed him a cola. “I have wine for with dinner—if that’s okay with you? We can stick to soda.”

“It’ll be nice to have wine. Thanks for checking though. Can I help with anything?”

“Nope, but I should warn you, it’s nothing fancy, Chef.”