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“I’m not sure what would be more priceless, if we all bought her or…” Sean’s voice fades.
It’s a game to them. An evil plot. I’m crushed.
I stare at my phone. Why haven’t my girls texted back?
“I’m heading to the bar,” Marks says. Their door slams.
My stomach sinks. It’s lose-lose. My grand plan that my brothers bid on me can’t happen if they spend their normal Friday night with friends. But if they show up, there will be collateral damage.
Fantasy might not have been king when it comes to them.
Or perhaps queen was the overstatement. Court jester? Family fuck up? The first college dropout?
I try to focus on the positive…nope. My splurge on the adorable Santa’s helper costume and black knee-high boots that have white fur around the top is a waste.
I’ve practiced strutting in my boots so the soles are bound to show wear. I can’t return them.
“Are you snooping on your stepbrothers?” The nasal accusation of my stepmom’s voice smacks me from behind as her too-much floral scent invades my nose.
Gripping one hand on the rail and using the other to comb through my hair, I stand taller and turn. Her bright magenta suit is as potent as her perfume.
“No. Why would I do that?” The elevated pitch of my voice and the way the words spew from my mouth betray me.
“I could ask that of most things about you. Like why you threw college away just because your boyfriend found someone new. It’s quite—”
“I didn’t throw college away.”
“Two F’s, a D—”
“Stop.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take a deep breath.
“How do you plan on taking care of yourself without a college degree?”
“I’m filling out applications. I’ll find somewhere to go.” Vulnerability eats at me as her eyes rake up and down my body. I cross my arms and look at the mountains.
“Now, to earn your keep, I need you to pick up the invitations for my gala.” She hands me a business card I hadn’t noticed she was holding. “They’re open for one more hour, and the guest list is on your desk. They need to be delivered to the post office tomorrow at the latest.”
I laugh.
That was the wrong thing to do. She’s serious.
“It’s hardly funny that the printer forgot to emboss the filigree on the envelopes. Their delay puts me perilously close to only getting the invitations out two months in advance.”
I laugh again, although it’s actually a scoff of disbelief if I was forced to categorize the sound.
Her scowl indicates it’s still the wrong thing to do.
“The post office closes at two on Saturday,” I say, as if she cares about mortal constraints.
“I suppose you can’t sleep until two then.”
Tension in my jaw has to be nearing teeth-shattering levels.
No matter how much I despise my stepmom, I appreciate that she’s the one who convinced my dad to let me stay here. I don’t know if he agreed, but he’s out of the country so there wasn’t much he could do.
My real mom, who I always lived with, just moved in with a guy. She says it’s too early in the relationship for me to complicate things by moving in, which basically means I’ve become her baggage.
So, my stepmom’s offer of penthouse living, where she might consider me her personal assistant, won out over being homeless.
