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I stare at myself in the picture. I’m smiling, but my eyes are empty, like I suspected that no one would ever look at this picture, so I’d mentally checked out. “Why are you only getting this framed now?”
Mom hesitates. “Well, if you must know, it was something Lazzaro said the other night. He pointed out that Isabel didn’t have any photographs of the four of us, and I forgot that I had these taken.” She smiles at me. “You look beautiful, don’t you? I love that color on you.”
She gives me a squeeze and turns around to place the photograph on the mantelpiece and smiles fondly at it. I cut my eyes away, unable to look at it.
“Mia? What’s wrong?”
I’m messing around with your husband behind your back.
Laz crawls into my bed in the middle of the night and we all but fuck.
My stepdad is the most dangerous and beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I can’t stop myself from thinking about touching him, kissing him, coming hard in his arms.
I imagine the way her face would fall if she heard me admit to any of that. Maybe I’ve been turning Mom into a villain so that I don’t have to feel guilty about craving Laz, kissing Laz, rubbing my pussy all over Laz.
A wave of shame and horror washes over me. How did things get so far out of hand?
I really cried to Laz because Uncle Roberto cut my birthday cake without singing happy birthday. I felt sorry for myself over abirthday cakeand used it as a reason to nearly screw my mom’s husband. Sure, my family has a tendency to treat me like an afterthought, but I’m a teenager. Don’t all teenagers think their life sucks and their family sucks even harder?
A sour taste fills my mouth. I think I’m going to be sick.
“I’m planning a party for next month,” Mom continues brightly. “My two-month anniversary with Lazzaro. Something to bring our two families closer together.”
He’ll hate that, but this is what Mom enjoys, throwing parties for people like her. Laz’s brothers will probably have a great time. They have the same polished attitude as Mom and my uncles.
“Sounds great,” I manage in a hoarse voice. “Sorry, I have to...”
I gesture over my shoulder and hurry out of the room, worried that if I stand still I’ll start retching. In my room, I curl up into a ball on my bed, hugging my knees. I feel so dirty. I let a man who’s too old for me use me to take revenge on the woman he didn’t want to marry. When he finally gets his money, he’ll disappear and leave me behind, and I’ll have nothing but regrets to show for our sordid time together.
The night passes painfully slow, and I barely sleep at all.
When I come downstairs in the morning, Mom is cooking Sunday brunch. Waffles and bacon, and she seems happier than she has in weeks. She even drops a kiss onto my head when I make myself coffee and perch on a stool.
My guilty conscious tells me it’s because she knows about me and Laz, and she’s showing me she wants me to confess and that she won’t be angry with me.
Laz comes in from the garage a few minutes later and washes the engine grease from his hands in the sink. The T-shirt he’s wearing hugs his muscles, and I look away quickly before I can start fantasizing about him.
“Just in time, darling. Sit down and have breakfast with us,” Mom coos at him.
Laz stares at Mom like he doesn’t know who she is as he shakes off his wet hands. After seeming to decide that the place settings, the bowl of strawberry pieces, and basket of waffles hold no threat to him, he shrugs and sits down at the counter with us.
Steaming waffles and bacon are set before us. I haven’t got an appetite, but I force down a tiny bit of food so Mom doesn’t figure out that anything’s wrong.
Mom turns to her husband with a bright smile on her face. “Lazzaro, you came in so late last night that I didn’t get to tell you the good news. I’m throwing us a party to celebrate our two-month anniversary.”
Laz gives a mirthless laugh and shakes his head as he reaches for the strawberries. “Oh, yeah. Something to celebrate.”
“It will bring our two families together, and everyone will get to see how well Isabel is doing since her accident. It’s the perfect occasion.”
“What day? Maybe I’m busy,” he mutters. “Or dead.”
Mom shoots him a disapproving glance and smacks the back of his hand like he’s a naughty boy. “Oh, hush. The twelfth.”
I look up in shock, a piece of bacon halfway to my lips. “The twelfth? But that’s the anniversary of Dad’s death.”
Laz looks up and frowns.
“Is it?” Mom answers vaguely, spooning sliced strawberries onto her plate. “I’d forgotten. Anyway, the party starts at two in the afternoon for drinks, canapés, and then a sit-down meal at five.”
