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“Sorry.” Thumb swiping at a streak of paint marring her cheek, I’m momentarily distracted by the bright colors as I ponder what Ma’s painting now. Last month, she had a thing for oceans, various shades of blue streaking her skin, clothing, canvases, everything. This month, it looks like red is her thing.
Fitting, considering my mood right now.
A mood that I’m apparently not hiding very well.
Brow creased with a frown, Ma scrubs a damp rag over her paint-flecked skin, doing the same to my thumb. “You okay?”
A simple question and her probing stare are enough to have my big mouth opening and word vomit spilling out. Before I know it, I’ve relayed the entire Dylan dilemma in a perfectly dramatic rant, pacing, erratic arm gestures, spittle flying and all.
Ma regards with a mixture of amusement and concern, gaze flicking from my fidgeting hands to my marching feet as they narrowly avoid colliding with an open paint can. “Lu, did you take your meds this morning?”
With a huff, my eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Yes.” I take them every morning like clockwork, habitually, ingrained between brushing my teeth and doing my hair.
“Just checking sweets.” Ma surveys me skeptically. “You seem a little off.”
“I'm just irritated.” And I get a little more so at the assumption that me being in a bad mood automatically means I skipped my meds and I'm displaying signs of hyperactivity rather than just regular fucking emotions.
Expression shifting to one of subtle guilt, Ma swiftly changes the subject. Ushering me downstairs, she deposits me by the small table separating kitchen from living room, commanding me to sit down before snatching up the kettle; it’s a strong Isla Evans belief that tea can fix anything. “Any plans for tonight?”
“Going out with Eva and Bea.”
Ma grimaces at the mugs—handmade by her—lining our kitchen cabinets. She’s never been the biggest fan of my high school friends.Snootyanduptightis what she’s always called them, and honestly, after spending time away from them and returning with fresh eyes, I’m inclined to agree.
When I came home last Christmas, it was a veil lifted and suddenly revealed how rude and self-involved they are. Spending any time with them felt akin to torture. Every conversation felt like a competition, a sneaky battle over who was having the best college experience. And, God, the way they spoke to everyone around them? Bartenders, hostesses, waitresses, old classmates who deigned to say hello? I was in a state of permanent cringe.
Over Spring Break, when I brought Amelia and Kate home, I successfully avoided them for the entire week. Alas, I’m not that lucky twice in a row; my plane had barely landed before Eva was calling, insisting on a catch-up, and I’ve been bracing myself for scrutiny and pushy questions ever since.
The only silver lining; I’ll have alcohol to cushion the experience.
* * *
I look fucking hot.
Clad in a little black dress, hair floating around me like a halo, make-up done to fucking perfection. The thumping music guides my body, my fake ID and phone secured in my bra so my hands are free to thread through my hair, gathering it in my hands away from my sticky neck.
Eva and Bea dance beside me, albeit a lot stiffer, more focused on throwing flirty lances and pouty lips at the guys surrounding us, dancing for them while I’m dancing for me. At the risk of sounding like a conceited bitch, I don’t need to beg for attention.
They'll come to me.
It's amazing what a head of blonde hair, a decent pair of boobs and a sliver of black material covering next-to-nothing will do. Miraculous, really, especially when they earn me free drinks like the one I receive within minutes of leaving the dance floor in favor of the bar.
If I were a better person, I would reject the gratuitous vodka cranberry gifted from a slightly creepy, greasy-looking man I have zero interest in.
Goodis not something I’ve ever claimed to be.
Snatching the condensation-streaked glass with a coy, grateful smile, my free hand discreetly crumples the accompanying napkin scrawled with his number and drops it into one of the many dirty glasses littering the bar.
“That wasn’t very nice, darling.”
Another thing I have never claimed to be.
The instinctive grimace that always comes out to play when a man in a nightclub invades my personal space is only slightly tempered by the familiarity of the voice crooning in my ear. “Darling?” I twist to frown at the man behind me. “Really?”
Owen’s laughter tickles my brow. “Princess? Lover? Sugarplum?“
“Enough,“ I groan, shaking my head like that might rid my mind of the offensive pet names. Wretched things. Never seen the appeal.
When you get called 'baby' by some meaningless, random man yelling across the street one too many times, it kind of loses its allure.
