Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I grit my teeth, jump into the shower, and get myself together as quickly as possible, which I’ve found is a lot faster than I ever would have thought now that every minute is one I can no longer waste.
Smoothing my hair back, I take the front pieces and twist them slightly to allow a small center part before tying it up into a high ponytail. I swiftly braid the thick, wet strands, the long blond length still reaching to midback. Using some wax, I smooth my baby hairs down to my skull, opting for a quick bronzer, blush, mascara, and, at the last minute, a touch of lip gloss.
Nearly nothing I own fits, not that my mother sent all my belongings, but the things she did box up are three sizes too small, even eight months after birth. When I was emancipated last year, I was able to drain my bank account before my mom got ahold of it, but she ignored the court’s order to allow me to take my things. In the end, I found material items didn’t mean enough anymore if it meant having to look her in the eye and ask for it. She wasn’t worth the fight, and that is all she was after. A reaction. So I stopped giving her the chance to get one.
The money I had saved from winning pageants she forced me to enter and secret photography contests she knew nothing about was enough to get the things I needed, but only because my brother refuses to accept a penny for rent. Because of that, it should hold me over for another six months or so, longer if Lolli and Parker keep going out of their way to buy things for Deaton and me before I get the chance to do it myself. Not that I want them to, but chances are they won’t.
My lack of clothing mixed with the added weight my body seems to want to keep means I’ve basically been living in stretchy bottoms, loner T-shirts, and lightweight hoodies for the better part of a year. Glancing at myself in the long mirror beside my closet, I sigh at my reflection.
It’s a far cry from the girl I was when I first showed up on my brother’s doorstep in two-hundred-dollar jeans and a purse that cost more than the down payment on his new truck. I was a certified rich girl, shiny and perfect on the outside, suffocating and starving on the inside—literally, thanks to my mother’s need for her version of a trophy daughter. She would let me eat so long as she saw me throw it up after. The only thing I was allowed to keep down was whatever she handed me with the “vitamins” she gave me each morning.
Nothing like an appetite suppressant and a handful of whole natural almonds for breakfast, right, Mom?
Shaking off the thoughts that will do nothing but sour my mood further, I look over my outfit—a sage-green skort and a loose-fitting vanilla, neckless style sweater that hangs off the left shoulder, a matching tank underneath to hide the giant straps of my nursing bra. The built-in shorts suffocate my thighs, but the hem of the skirt mostly hides it, and the waist comes up high enough to smash some of the curves into a hint of a shape.
I couldn’t fit into my old clothes if I starved myself for a year.
My hips are wider, my legs thicker, and every other part of me is right there with it. My ass, breasts, and belly. Even my feet are larger, unable to fit in several of the shoes gathering dust in my closet, or maybe they’re just swollen from carrying around not only a twenty-three-pound baby boy but the extra forty or so I was left with after delivery.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and force myself from the room before I lose my nerve and ask Parker to bring Deaton back over with the excuse of nap time. They’re catching on to that, though, if the playpen that Lolli bought for her place, knowing the gang was planning to hang out over there for most of the week, is any indication.
My lips tip up at the thought.
There’s one thing I can say about all the new people in my life—they make me feel like they want to be there, not because they’re friends of my brother’s or family to his girlfriend, and not because I’m always around but because they truly, genuinely care.
They like me, and more importantly, they love my son.
With my head held high and a practiced smile in place, I walk out the back door, waving as everyone on the deck next door shouts their excitement at seeing me.
The fake smile on my face shifts instantly, and a real one takes its place, growing more eager to join the party with each step toward it.