AllFreeNovel
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I’m not him.
I’ll shave before we head out to the party. I’ll change clothes, and pretend like I didn’t have a breakdown in the bathroom of Deliverance just an hour before. I can knock knuckles with random dude-bros, and grin at pretty girls, and say no to drugs and alcohol.
I just have to make an appearance, then I can go home and workout until my body is too exhausted to move. Until I can’t breathe or think.
Until I can’t remember.
And I’ll do it all again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after.
This is my life now.
My penance.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I murmur, sliding the potholders from my hands and tossing them on the counter as I eye the perfectly cooked roast. It took me nearly all day, but seeing Mama's recipe turn out so well made it all worth it.
Smiling to myself, I spin around, turning my attention back to the salad. I chop a fresh tomato and add it to the heavy glass dish along with the lettuce, cucumbers, and feta. The walnuts I roasted this afternoon get sprinkled over the top with a dash of seasonings.
Happy to be almost done, I cover the salad, slide it into the fridge, and make quick work of finishing the homemade peach dressing Isaac loves so much.
Everything has to be perfect tonight.
Just as I’ve finished the dressing, the timer on the oven goes off. The beeping fills the kitchen, temporarily drowning out the sounds of Stubborn Love by The Lumineers.
I rinse my sticky hands and dry them off on my apron before sliding the garlic bread from beneath the broiler. Golden, buttery goodness wafts from the loaves, making my stomach growl and mouth water.
I’m starving.
My eyes flick up to the clock on the wall. Half after five. Shit. How did the entire day pass without me realizing it? My gaze slips from the clock to my body, and I grimace.
I’m still wearing my workout clothes from this afternoon, and I feel disgusting.
Exhaling roughly, I rush through the rest of my chores. Setting the table, cleaning the few dishes in the sink, fluffing the pillows in the living room.
Perfect. It has to be perfect.
I cleaned the house this morning after Isaac left for work. I’d had just enough time to get a quick yoga routine in but got distracted by the complicated roast recipe.
After covering all the dishes with foil, I grab my phone and run to my room, stripping off my clothes as I go. I toss them all into the hamper and turn the shower on. While it heats, I pile my thick blonde hair into a bun on the top of my head. With only twenty minutes until he gets home, there’s no way I’ll have time to wash and dry it.
My eyes flick over my naked body. I’ve never been one to care too much about appearances, especially my own. I’m pretty. I know I am. It’s not a cocky or conceited statement. It’s just true.
Up until recently, I never paid much attention to it—my body, my face, my hair. None of it.
But growing up the way I did, there was an unspoken pressure to behave and look a certain way. Mama and Daddy would never have told me to put any stock in the way I look. They cared about the heart of a person, not their external beauty, so that’s what I cared about, too. But being the only child of a small town's golden family came with a notoriety the three of us never asked for.
But it was there just the same.
Mama was beautiful, and I was—am—her spitting image. Or so everyone constantly told me.
Tells me.
I swallow thickly, my eyes gliding over my heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, thick, pink lips, and my wild golden hair, all my mother.
My body is not like hers, though.
Jane Meyer was a short, thin woman with minimal curves. She was effortless and natural. Bright. My father, however, was tall and broad. Those who didn’t know him would likely call him intimidating based on his size alone, but when he smiled or laughed, there was no denying his pure, kind soul.
Much like my mama, my waist is slim, but my breasts, thick thighs, and ass are definitely not. Thankfully, I got some of my dad's height, so my exaggerated curves are somewhat proportional and don’t stand out.
