AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I started making my own clothes as a kid, back when I used to live with Alondra. It was that orscream.She would dress me like I was a doll. An accessory. She obsessed over my appearance and imperfections.”
Trace’s face darkened. “Imperfections? She pointed out to you, to a child, what she perceived to be imperfections?”
“It wasn’t in an effort to make me feel bad about myself, just as the times that she complimented any of my ‘positive physical traits’ weren’t efforts to praise me,” I told him. “Those were merely clinical observations. But like I said, she could be obsessive about it, much as she’s obsessive about her own appearance.”
“In her mind, every single detail about you reflected on her,” Trace surmised, giving my thigh a soothing rub.
“Exactly. I hated that I never got to choose what I wore or how I looked. So I would revamp my stuff, or make clothes and costumes out of pillow cases or whatever.” Feeling my lips curve, I added, “It infuriated her, but she got so tired of giving me shit about it that she eventually let it go.”
“And that’s how your love of costume design began,” Kaleb guessed.
I dipped my chin. “Yes. My dads bought me my first sewing machine and textiles. They even arranged for a professional designer to come talk to me and give me pointers and stuff.”
“Why did you end up living with Ansel and Troy?” asked Kaleb. “Did they file for custody?”
I shook my head. “Alondra shipped me off to them.”
Kaleb’s brows drew together. “The fuck?”
“According to her, I’m high-maintenance.” I wasn’t surprised when both men barked a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, it’s the pot calling the kettle black, right? By high-maintenance, she means that she can’t make me follow her every directive like a good little puppet. When I was a kid, she didn’t seem to know how to cope with the fact that I had a mind of my own. As if she hadn’t counted on that ever being the case.”
Trace inched his hand further up my thigh. “So she gave you up.”
“It didn’t bother me,” I assured him. “I was genuinely excited when she told me that I’d be living with my dads.”
Kaleb frowned. “How could it not bother you? She’s your mother, Briar.”
“She’s not a mom, though,” I said. “Alondra has no clue how to be one and no real interest in trying to figure it out. She’s too self-focused for that.”
“And that doesn’t hurt you?” asked Kaleb, sliding a hand up my back.
“A part of me mourns that I never had a true mom. There’s this absence where a mom-daughter bond should be, and that sucks. But it’s not something I dwell over. I don’t have mommy issues or anything. For me, it always felt like my dads were my parents; that she was more like a distant aunt that I called ‘Mom’ and lived with for a short while. My dads more than made up for that—they’re the fucking best.”
Trace slanted his head. “You’re close to them?”
I nodded. “Very. I only ever felt at home with them even when I did live with Alondra.”
Kaleb blew out a breath, shaking his head. “It’s a wonder you have any contact with her. In your shoes, I don’t think I would.”
I’d heard that before. “She’s not as stone cold as she might seem.”
Trace let out a soft snort. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Once, when I was a kid, the paparazzi swarmed and knocked us both to the ground,” I said. “Alondra wasallpissed-off lioness that day. She went ballistic on them and held me tight. She comforted me and cleaned my scrapes—a small, surely natural thing for most women, but not for her. It was one of thevery few times she wasn’t solely focused on her own feelings. She cares for me, but not in a way that you or I would care for someone. She can’t.” And for that, I pitied her.Sodone discussing the woman, I said, “So, tell me aboutyourfamilies. Tit for tat and all that.” I poked Kaleb’s chest. “You can go first.”
His mouth hitched up. “I can?”
“Yes. So spill.”
He shrugged. “There’s not a lot to tell. My mom died of a heart attack when I was nineteen. It was all very sudden. So my two younger sisters lived with me until they were ready to flee the nest.”
My chest went tight. I gave his upper arm a quick, comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom. How old were your sisters when she died?”
“Ten and thirteen,” he replied.
So young. “It must have been one hell of a hard time for you. You not only lost your mom, you had to take responsibility for your sisters when you were just a teenager yourself.”
“It wasn’t as hard to act as their guardian as you might think. I was used to it. Our dad left when I was seven and my mom worked a lot, so I was essentially the other parent in the house while growing up. She hated that for me, but I didn’t mind. I knew it was important that she worked—we didn’t have much.” He sighed. “I honestly don’t know how we never ended up homeless.”
