Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Her expression eases into a smile as if that was something she needed to hear. “I’ve thought about you so much, sweetie.” It’s been so long since I’ve heard that nickname. I don’t know if it’s wise, but hope fills my chest. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I reply, tightening my arms under the dresses. “You?”
“You know me.” I do know her, but I’m not sure what she means. She’s good at obscuring her real feelings behind a smile. “You look happy, Sosie.”
I close some of the space when a guy walks between us. “I am happy, Mom.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Glancing at the bags, she adds, “Things are moving quickly.”
“We’re making up for the years we lost by not wasting anymore time.”
She nods, but her expression doesn’t match the sentiment that she understands. The response has me wondering whether she really was in on it, as my father claimed that day when he forced me to walk away from Keats. Maybe he lied. It’s not a far-fetched idea. “Young love is always rushing like there’s some kind of guarantee if it gets there faster.”
“It’s not a big wedding,” I blurt as if she’s made an accusation and I need an alibi.
“I’m sure it will be beautiful, just like you.”
Healing takes time, but how long does a grudge take to get over? I’ve punished her enough, and now I’m thinking it was all in vain. What would Keats do? I glance over my shoulder at Lori, who’s giving us space as if she knows who this is to me. Lori’s only here because he gave her a second chance. Can I forgive my mom to give us the same?
A black car pulls up nearby, stealing the time I thought we had. We both look at it, knowing who it is, and then at each other, as if a timer has been started. I say, “You should come to the wedding, Mom.”
Water glistens in her eyes. “Really?”
“Yes.” I glance once more at the vehicle waiting at the curb. “He’s not welcome and can’t know anything about it. We want to celebrate our love and union, not battle it out with him.”
She’s a pro at controlling her expression. I suspect years of practice have honed her skills. But studied carefully, one might catch a streak of rebellion in the lifted corner on the right side. Maybe that’s where I got it. “I’m incredibly good at keeping secrets.” I’m starting to believe her.
I look back at my friends waiting for me, then turn back to Mom. “I’ll text you the details.”
As if cued, the window rolls down at a snail’s pace. I already know the anticipation is easily bigger than what’s behind it. My father’s eyes go back and forth between my mom and me several times before he asks her, “You ready, dear?” No further acknowledgment of me standing here, still existing, thriving, in spite of his best efforts to destroy my independence.
But I feel nothing for him, so I smile in return because he can no longer hurt me.
She touches the back of her French twist, checking for loose strands. One last glance at her husband leads her to say, “Maybe one day I’ll be brave like you.”
There’s no hugging her with him around, though the urge is strong. It will only cause her more strife, and I think she’s had enough in her life. “You’re already brave enough, Mom. You’ve just forgotten.”
Giving my arm a little squeeze, she whispers, “It was great to see you.” She starts for the car, but turns back to say, “I love you.”
I want to say the words, but our time has run out when my father steps out. Giving me one last look of indifference as if I’m a stranger on the street, he slips into the car after my mom and slams the door shut.
Not lingering, I return to Marcy and Lori, where they hook an arm on either side of me. Carrying on like we just left the store, Lori says, “I still think the purple would be unexpected.”
“Hear me out,” Marcy interjects, lifting her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Purple is a lot, but adding something blue fits the occasion.”
I cackle, needing levity. Though, admittedly, seeing my mom filled a little of that void today. When the three of us start in the opposite direction from where the car was headed, I ask, “What do you think about classic chocolate for the wedding cake?”
“Keats loves chocolate.”
Grinning, I reply, “I know.”
CHAPTER 35
SOSIE
Igot the high heels—sparkling like diamonds.
The dress that hits just above the knees reminds me of classic photos from the fifties and sixties in New York City. I topped it off with a simple tennis necklace I stole from the tree just for the night. It will be returned to its proper place by morning.