my ears. He’s a good guy. This reaction is about a chick I
don’t even like. The rage continues to simmer at the thought of him touching
her until I grab the paper work, tell Allie I have to get to work, and get the
hell out of there.
Before I lose it and let my fists loose.
Chapter 9
~April~
I nearly trip over the
long box in front of my door, coming home from work on Thursday. A quick glance
at the return address confirms my suspicion that it’s from my mother. The woman
needs to go to shoppers anonymous, if such a thing exists. Her ‘sale’ purchases
each week could probably feed a family of four. My stepfather could have
already retired as a real estate broker if it wasn’t for my mother’s spending
habits, but then he doesn’t do much to control her. And really, I suppose it’s
none of my business.
After unlocking the door, I shove the box inside
with my foot.
Though I’ve lived in the one bedroom apartment for
over three years, it is sparsely furnished with a loveseat, a coffee table, and
a small dining table. And the walls are completely bare. I’ve always taken at
least eighteen credits and always stayed tremendously busy with tons of
homework. With only three classes left to take this final semester, I have a
meager ten credits right now. The new extra down time I have isn’t welcome. It
leaves me with too much time to think.
I set my bag on the desk and commence opening the
package. It contains two polo shirts—I have a collection of polo tops in every
brand and color that would rival a tennis champion—a pair of gray dress slacks,
a black sleeveless blouse with silver beads around the neck, a silver purse,
and low-heeled silver sling backed shoes.
The sight of the matching outfit with purse and
shoes has me rolling my eyes. Between the endless polo tops and the ‘grownup’
outfits she sends, I’m aware that my mother dresses me like a country club
debutant. When I was a teenager, we’d argue nonstop because I refused to wear
her selections or get my nails or hair done. As an adult who doesn’t care what
she wears, and an aspiring counselor, I understand that my mother’s vision
works. I just don’t need fifty million polo shirts or outfits. Nor can all the
crap she sends me fit in my closets. And that’s with donating clothing on a
regular basis.
I snatch my phone from my backpack on the table, hit
my mother’s number, and start pushing the box toward the bedroom.
My mother answers with, “Aren’t those shoes
adorable? I found them first and matched everything else to those shoes.” Her
tone is gushing.
“Yeah, their great, Mom.” I fish for empty hangers
in the closet. “But I thought we agreed that I have enough clothes.” Other than
the car, my mother and stepfather’s only donation to my college career is
clothes. My real father pays for my rent and tuition along with depositing
money in my account every month. Though my parents were never married, my
father is the furthest thing from a deadbeat dad. And I’m very, very
appreciative of him.
“I just sent one outfit and a few shirts.”
This is true. The box did contain a lot less than
usual. I start hanging up the new clothes.
She lets out a wistful sigh. “I didn’t get to look
at gowns for homecoming this year.”
I wince. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that
I’ve never gone to homecoming in college. Freshman year I even put on the
dress—some ridiculous pink thing—she sent, did my hair, and sent her selfies of
myself, before donating the dress. She’d been so excited about her purchase I
didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t going.
My mother is a true Southern Belle. Born and raised
in Kentucky, she came in second for Miss Kentucky when she was nineteen. And
though we lived in Ohio while I grew up, she had me, from age six to eleven, in
every pageant possible until I refused to do any more. She’s still a stunning
beauty, and while people say I’m her spitting image,
don’t even like. The rage continues to simmer at the thought of him touching
her until I grab the paper work, tell Allie I have to get to work, and get the
hell out of there.
Before I lose it and let my fists loose.
Chapter 9
~April~
I nearly trip over the
long box in front of my door, coming home from work on Thursday. A quick glance
at the return address confirms my suspicion that it’s from my mother. The woman
needs to go to shoppers anonymous, if such a thing exists. Her ‘sale’ purchases
each week could probably feed a family of four. My stepfather could have
already retired as a real estate broker if it wasn’t for my mother’s spending
habits, but then he doesn’t do much to control her. And really, I suppose it’s
none of my business.
After unlocking the door, I shove the box inside
with my foot.
Though I’ve lived in the one bedroom apartment for
over three years, it is sparsely furnished with a loveseat, a coffee table, and
a small dining table. And the walls are completely bare. I’ve always taken at
least eighteen credits and always stayed tremendously busy with tons of
homework. With only three classes left to take this final semester, I have a
meager ten credits right now. The new extra down time I have isn’t welcome. It
leaves me with too much time to think.
I set my bag on the desk and commence opening the
package. It contains two polo shirts—I have a collection of polo tops in every
brand and color that would rival a tennis champion—a pair of gray dress slacks,
a black sleeveless blouse with silver beads around the neck, a silver purse,
and low-heeled silver sling backed shoes.
The sight of the matching outfit with purse and
shoes has me rolling my eyes. Between the endless polo tops and the ‘grownup’
outfits she sends, I’m aware that my mother dresses me like a country club
debutant. When I was a teenager, we’d argue nonstop because I refused to wear
her selections or get my nails or hair done. As an adult who doesn’t care what
she wears, and an aspiring counselor, I understand that my mother’s vision
works. I just don’t need fifty million polo shirts or outfits. Nor can all the
crap she sends me fit in my closets. And that’s with donating clothing on a
regular basis.
I snatch my phone from my backpack on the table, hit
my mother’s number, and start pushing the box toward the bedroom.
My mother answers with, “Aren’t those shoes
adorable? I found them first and matched everything else to those shoes.” Her
tone is gushing.
“Yeah, their great, Mom.” I fish for empty hangers
in the closet. “But I thought we agreed that I have enough clothes.” Other than
the car, my mother and stepfather’s only donation to my college career is
clothes. My real father pays for my rent and tuition along with depositing
money in my account every month. Though my parents were never married, my
father is the furthest thing from a deadbeat dad. And I’m very, very
appreciative of him.
“I just sent one outfit and a few shirts.”
This is true. The box did contain a lot less than
usual. I start hanging up the new clothes.
She lets out a wistful sigh. “I didn’t get to look
at gowns for homecoming this year.”
I wince. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that
I’ve never gone to homecoming in college. Freshman year I even put on the
dress—some ridiculous pink thing—she sent, did my hair, and sent her selfies of
myself, before donating the dress. She’d been so excited about her purchase I
didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t going.
My mother is a true Southern Belle. Born and raised
in Kentucky, she came in second for Miss Kentucky when she was nineteen. And
though we lived in Ohio while I grew up, she had me, from age six to eleven, in
every pageant possible until I refused to do any more. She’s still a stunning
beauty, and while people say I’m her spitting image,
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