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She peers up at me. “When was the last time you did anything crafty?”
“Art class in high school.”
My mother’s hand moves to her hip, her eyes going narrow. “You got a C.”
Harlow coughs, her eyes going wide like she’s just uncovered my greatest shame and doesn’t quite know how to face me.
Jesus.
“C-plus.”
“Only because Sandy White did half your projects.”
How the hell does Mom know that?
I straighten, digging in because I can’t fucking help it. “The bad half.”
And then I’m pulling out my chair and sitting down. End of discussion.
Two hours later, I’m going blind beneath the glare of my mother’s makeup mirror, my two favorite women in my face, both fussing at once.
“I told you not to touch your eyes.”
“Jesus, it’s in his ear.”
“Have you seenhis hair?”
“We may have to cut that out.”
I try to push them away—gently—but my mother says my name in that way that has me slumping back.
“It was anaccident,” I groan.
“We have more glue, honey.”
“I can drive back out for more of those card things.”
Harlow pauses from working the coconut oil into my face. “This one’s like a glittery beauty mark. I kind of want to leave it.”
They both fall into another bout of teary-eyed laughter, and suddenly, I don’t really mind at all.
When they can breathe again, my mom pats my chest and then sighs at the fresh coating of glitter on her hand. “Honey, don’t worry about the place cards. I only gave you the ones for the guests that canceled after we placed the order.”
“What?”
My mom points at my left eye. “Get his lashes.”
I’m sentenced to a shower, but first I’m forced to endure the indignity of standing in the backyard while my mom empties a can of Aqua Net, spraying down my clothes. I don’t even get to use my own shower, instead being banished to the first-floor shoebox off the utility room where I strip and hand my glitter-coated, hairspray-soaked clothing to Harlow through the door.
After washing my hair with olive oil and then a crusty bottle of baby shampoo I suspect has been squatting under our sink for the last twenty-five years, I dry off with a torn towel from the rag pile. When I’m done, there’s a neat stack of folded clothes waiting outside the door, probably left behind from my college days.
I pull them on and mutter a curse.
Mom and Harlow are in the dining room, their backs to me, the glitter miraculously contained to the tiny bowls of its origin.
Standing in the doorway, I wait for them to notice me. And when they do, it’s everything I’d hoped for.
Harlow catches me in the corner of her eye and turns with a smile that goes slack as her eyes drop south to the sweatpants so snug they’ve got to be two sizes too small and… make everything under them look two sizes too big.
