Page 10 of Wicked Love

How many times had I heard her saying the same exact thing since I was old enough to understand her words? Mom had been a runway sensation back when she was eighteen. She hadn’t eaten carbs in over twenty years and still watched each calorie entering her body every day. To her great despair, I was born with thick hips, no gap between my thighs, and a stature that was more like a body builder than the only daughter of a pageant queen.

Last month, in a moment of rebellion, I had bleached my brown hair and switched the proper demoiselle makeup for thick kohl lines and dark eyeshadows.

Let’s just say it hadn’t been well-received.

My mother always expected me to be picture-perfect for any occasion.

Now, my dark roots showed, and I didn’t know whether I should dye my hair back to its original brown hue or fix the roots. I knew it grated on her last nerve, but I didn’t care. Each time she booked me a hair appointment, I found a way out of it.

“What time are we leaving?” I asked, putting as much annoyance into my tone as I could muster, and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Six twelve,” Mom said.

“Six twelve? Can you be less precise, please?” I rolled my eyes, wishing she’d noticed. And yet she was already too busy inspecting her manicure to give me any attention. “It’s like three fifteen now. I think I have enough time to get ready later.”

Mom sighed. “You should plan ahead. At least two hours for dressing, hair, and makeup, Grace. You know the drill.”

“You can never be perfect enough,” I repeated the words she had told me my entire life.

“Exactly. What about time to shower, wash your hair, do your routine, and any setbacks? You better start now because it will take over three hours. Don’t neglect your appearance. First impressions are the most important.”

“And you want me to impress whom? The hostess? The servers? Or maybe your boyfriend?”

She glared at me.

“We’re having a family dinner in a restaurant. I’m not gonna be crowned Queen of England.”

“Tonight, you’re meeting your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Yes, Philip’s son. I would very much like for him to think you’re a well-behaved young lady than some wannabe rock star in your…your rebel make-up and punk-band shirts.” She scrunched up her nose as if the mere idea of my not dressing as a fashion show model repulsed her.

“And you want me to impress my brother why? And, by the way, we’re not related, so brother sounds kind of creepy. He’s Phil’s son, nothing more to me.”

“Philip, Grace. Not Phil.” She said Phil as if she was about to die from food poisoning.

“Fine. Anyway, his son is not my brother. And we’re not a happily-ever-after family either. I’m moving out for college next year. I’m just biding my time here for now.”

Mom and I moved in with Philip two months ago. I had drunk my sorrows for a few days after he flew us from Texas to Pennsylvania. I didn’t like it here. Sure, the house was nice enough. Three-story, red-bricked exterior, and white columns with a large, fenced backyard. Four garage doors. And a semi-circled driveway big enough to park ten cars. The inside was all white walls and marble floors. I had my own bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a Juliet balcony at the back of the house. My brother didn’t live here but had a room similar to mine down the hall for when he visited, which by now had been never. I couldn’t blame him. He met my mother once and probably got scarred for life. Our parents’ bedroom occupied the entire third floor. It included a media room, a small gym—there was a bigger one on the main floor by the garages—a jacuzzi, a terrace, and a beauty station worthy of a movie set. My mother’s dreams.

As much as my mother was a snob, Philip was the most normal man she had ever dated. He didn’t care about money or fancy cars. He bought them because he could, not to flash his wealth. It was my mom who had insisted they join the country club. It was also she who begged him to get a maid. And a chef. Why Philip indulged her, I couldn’t tell. Their relationship was a mystery, yet they seemed perfectly happy.

I entered the kitchen, looking for a snack. One I was aware would be confiscated if Mom caught me. But a girl was allowed to try. Risks made things more interesting. And after my night of binge drinking, I required some sugar to ease the tumble in my stomach.

After waking up with a hangover and a smile—something that rarely occurred nowadays—I came back here with a to-go coffee cup I picked up on the way, pretending I had woken up early because I had a caffeine craving. My mother was so focused on herself she didn’t even notice I wore the same clothes as the night before, but she made sure to inspect the beverage I sipped on. And it was then she informed me I had reached the limit of sweets I was allowed for the day and wouldn’t get any desserts at dinner unless I went on a five-mile run or spent an hour sweating the calories off at the gym, which I declined. There was nothing wrong with my figure. She just couldn’t accept the fact that I didn’t inherit her slim genes and starving diet dedication.

I stole a batch of freshly baked cookies from the kitchen and stuffed them in my pocket when I crossed paths with my mother again. It was time for her cucumber-infused water. Her daily afternoon regimen. And one she stopped forcing upon me a few years ago after I threw up the concoction all over her favorite rug.

In my bedroom, I admired my hair in the wall-length mirror. I had no idea what to do with it. Dye it again, cut it short, or let it grow.

I took my time to shower and heard voices coming from downstairs. Curious, I put on one of my vintage band T-shirts and a pair of light gray baggy sweatpants, drying my wet hair with a towel. Deep down, I hoped Mom would be too busy with whatever she did and wouldn’t notice how I dressed so I could wear this to dinner. Just a little act of rebellion that would be so satisfying.

If I discarded the sweatpants, turned the T-shirt into a dress, and added a belt and the ankle boots I got at the thrift store last weekend along with a few bracelets, it’d look great. If only… A girl was allowed to dream.

One voice amongst the others in the foyer caught my attention, and I stopped mid-stairs. It couldn’t be. I had to be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Dropping the towel, I locked eyes with a guy a little older than me. Blond messy hair, hazel eyes, chin dimple, and almost six-foot tall, he looked as hot as he did the last time I saw him. His presence couldn’t be a coincidence. All the air left my lungs at the thought. This couldn’t be.

No. No, no, no. It must be a joke.