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It doesn’t matter how much I lipstick, flat-iron, or push-up, my smile misses the mark, my hair has too much kink, and my black-and-white dress requires double D’s when I have B’s.
Chugging mytranquility pepperminttea, I check out my red heels. They’re perfect. For a pole dancer.
The hallway door opens, and Vi and her lavender bedhead spill into the room, crumpled pantyhose in one hand, yesterday’s dignity in the other. A glance between me and her unmade bed holds a flash of what might be guilt.
I’m sheltered, not stupid. It’s not like I haven’t already figured out she test drove one of the cover-model contestants she met in the bar last night.
“Love the shoes.” She beams at my feet. Scowls at my chest. “In your case, less is not more.” She tosses her pantyhose onto the chair, takes my tea, and messes with my scooped neckline until my dress has a major malfunction. “You’re not in the one-room schoolhouse anymore, Little House on the Prairie.”
This nickname I could do without. I can’t get behind that show. Not just because I watched every season with Mom during one of Dad’s longer deployments, but because there’s always a happy ending, and I can’t deal with happy endings anymore.They make me sad. “You know your idea of homeschooling is totally warped,” I tell Vi. Her idea of a lot of things is totally warped.
She frowns. “You need to get out more with your friends.”
If I admit the only friends I’ve had since theincidentat my former school are the friends who hang out inside my head, she’ll round up some live ones—whether I want them or not. Ignoring the comment, I tug up my plunging V, which takes my hem for a ride up my thigh. “This dress was supposed to sell me as stylish, not give me away for free.”
“Never doanythingfor free.” She works the fabric until she manages to cover enough leg so I won’t get arrested, then grabs my conference badge off the desk.
My heart catches on my penname,Jessica Thorne. Not because it’s my way to avoid the Trevor Gray gravy train, but because it’s Mom’s maiden name—my way to stay connected. And in hindsight, probably a huge mistake.
“There.” Vi slips the lanyard over my head and frees my hair to tumble over my shoulders and down my back. “Now you’re official.”
I don’t feel anything close to official. I feel like a reality show reject. And a fraud. How am I supposed to sit on the debut author panel—with real writers—and dissect a story process I don’t own?
An anxious itch skates along the skin on the inside of my wrist. “I should skip the panel.”
“You’re not skipping. I went to a lot of trouble to get you a seat.”
“What if I can’t breathe? What if I pass out? What if I can’t answer the questions?” I grab her wrist above her new chunky silver bracelet and squeeze. What if someone asks about my second book? Or worse, how I came up withHaunted?
“Sweet Mary and Joseph.” Vi’s recovering Catholic flares. “Get a grip.” She pries my fingers off. “Panel.” She points a fuchsia fingernail toward the door. “Twenty minutes. Don’t make me look bad.”
“You’re not coming?” That anxious itch intensifies. I scrape at the spot until tiny red bumps pop up.
“Stop scratching.” She bats at my hand but softens her voice. “I have appointments all morning, but I asked Donna to swing by our room on her way. She’s hosting the panel.”
“Super.” Perfectly put-together Donna. Also Vi’s client. And the author of an email rant thataccidentlywent agency wide on why I shouldn’t be the exception to the conference’s eighteen-and-over policy.
Swiveling me toward the full-length mirror, Vi sets her hands on my stiff shoulders and stands behind me. “Who I wouldn’t push under a bus for this waist and those hips.” She gives my reflection a longing glance, even though she’s curvy everywhere I want to be. “You look—”
“Exactly like my mom,” I whisper. Right down to the makeup that pops the green in my eyes and slight wave that shows off the faint red highlights in my dark brown hair.
No wonder Dad doesn’t like to look at me.
I fluff my hair to try to bring back the curls and reach for the makeup wipes on the desk.
Vi hides them behind her back. “Your mom is gorgeous, so you’re good to go.”
I freeze. “How do you know that?”
“I found a picture of the three of you in your dad’s bottom desk drawer this morning.” When I lift my eyes to hers in the mirror, she shrugs. “I’m nosey. This is not a surprise.”
I thought the only picture of Mom he didn’t banish to the attic was the one I stuffed under the bras in my top dresser draw—someplace he’ll never venture. Does that mean thereisa chance he hasn’t completely cut her out of his heart the way he cut her out of our lives?
“And Trevor being Trevor”—Vi waves her hand in the air—“took it and put it face down on a shelf I can’t reach.”
I tip my chin away so neither of us see my eyes get blurry.
“Now go and be all the awesomeness that is Jessica Thorne.” She grabs a silk robe from her suitcase. “And smile.” She tugs my neckline lower, kisses my cheeks like she’s suddenly gone European, and disappears into the bathroom with the makeup wipes, leaving me alone with my slutty dress and an unsettling resemblance to the woman Dad hates.
