WAKE UP AND FACE THE TRUTH
You know that nightmare where you’re back in high school and standing by your locker? You look down, horrified, to realize that you don’t have a stitch of clothing on and everyone is staring? All you can think is, Why did I eat that double-decker brownie piled with two scoops of ice cream last night? It went straight to my hips, and I have no way to hide it!
Or the one where you’re supposed to take a test in five minutes, but you haven’t studied a lick for it? In fact, you didn’t even remember that you were taking the class. Or how about the one where you’re crossing the street and you can see a car coming from far away in the distance? You try to move, but your legs are heavier than a pregnant hippo, and you have concrete blocks welded to your feet.
Well, that’s how I feel. The sad part is that it’s not a dream, but my life. Five years ago, when I struck out for New York all starry-eyed and ready to take on the fashion world, I never imagined that I’d be back home in Comfort, Alabama, living with my parents. I’m single, jobless, and have the social life of a hermit. Pretty sad when the only thing I have to look forward to this weekend is binge-watching The Bachelor. I know. It’s pathetic that I somehow find it entertaining to watch a gaggle of women trying to peck their way into one man’s heart.
In my defense, I couldn’t help it that the store I poured my heart and soul into for the past three years closed when investors decided to go a different direction. I had worked with my staff to increase the numbers, and we did—through much blood, sweat, tears, and a multitude of sidewalk sales. In the end, all our hard work went down the drain because some suits sitting around a polished boardroom table decided to put their resources into another box-store and go with the stack-it-high-and-sell-it-cheap mentality. Maybe I shouldn’t have caved and let Mom talk me into coming home. She caught me at a low moment when my landlord was busting my chops about being late on my portion of the rent. Also, I had just gone into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich and was grossed out by the mountain of dirty dishes piled in the sink. My former roommate Mitzi would rather have a root canal than wash a dish. Normally, it wasn’t too much of a problem because Mitzi was a runway model who never ate more than the few morsels required to keep her alive. However, Mitzi had just gotten passed over for an audition and chose to drown her sorrow by making pasta primavera … three days prior! The dried sauce was so crusty that it looked like the dishes were covered in scabs.
Mom happened to call, and I broke down, bawling like a baby, telling her that my life was in ruins.
“Come home,” Mom soothed. “You can regroup and make a plan.”
What can I say? I’m a wimp. I caved.
Now, I realize the gravity of my error. I should’ve stuck it out in New York. I could’ve gotten a job at another clothing store working retail. Sure, it would’ve been tough to start at the bottom of the totem pole again, but at least I would’ve been in control of my life. Eventually, I could’ve found another management position. Why did I let my rotten circumstances get the best of me?
“Because the bed in my old apartment wasn’t nearly as comfortable as this one,” I murmur as I sink deeper into the covers and channel my mind into a pleasant dream that I float into like a bird taking refuge in a soft cloud—I’m walking on a beach in Hawaii. The sun, shining like a bright copper penny, feels so deliciously good on my face. The hunk striding toward me is shirtless, his bronze muscles shimmering almost as much as the silvery ocean. His eye catches mine as he smiles.
The next thing I know, the covers are being ripped from my body. “What’s going on?” I shriek.
“Good morning,” Mom chimes as she traipses over to the window and pulls back the drapes to let in a blinding splash of morning sun. “Time to get up.”
Always one to come out swinging, indignant words fly from my mouth like razor-tipped arrows. “It’s not time to get up! It’s only …” I contort my body around to the nightstand and fumble for my phone. “Eight-thirty,” I mumble as my eyes bulge. Holy cow! Is it really eight-thirty? I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept this long. I’m normally out of bed by seven at the latest. A merciless headache throbs across the bridge of my nose with the force of a prize boxer going for the winning knockout. I want to just close my eyes and block out the world. Instead, I sit up and rake the hair from my face. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to gorge my blues with two fudge walnut brownies and a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream. No wonder I was having nightmares about being stark naked with thunder thighs. I must’ve gone into a sugar coma. Stringy bangs crowd my eyes, reminding me that I’m overdue for a haircut, a fact that my mom has been reminding me of since I got back into town.
“I’ll set you up an appointment with Shelia or one of the other girls at the beauty salon,” Mom has offered a dozen times.
Yeah right! Like I’m gonna go to the Curl Up or Dye Beauty Salon to get my hair done. No thanks. I’ll come out looking like a Pomeranian poodle. I rub my eyes which are scratchier than sandpaper, trying to erase the cobwebs of sleep from my brain. The sight of Mom so cheerful and put-together makes my stomach churn. Mom is one of those people who’s so perpetually happy that she’s annoying.
While some women get their eyebrows tattooed on, I swear that Mom must’ve gotten her smile tattooed on because it hardly ever wavers. With her chestnut hair, almond-colored eyes, and petite build, people say that the two of us are dead-ringers. However, I’ve got a good five to seven extra pounds on me due to stress and, well … life. Mom has managed to whittle away the extra pounds from her figure due to her regimented routine of yoga, the occasional visit to a plastic surgeon, oh, and the fact that she hasn’t eaten a French fry since she was twelve.
If only I had a kernel of Mom’s self-control, I’d probably be the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company instead of an out-of-work retail store manager. When Mom turned fifty-seven, she chopped off her shoulder-length hair so it wouldn’t drag down her features but left it longer and fluffy on top. Her highlights are as fresh and perfect as her makeup. She’s one of those quintessential Southern Belles who gets dressed up to go to the grocery store or even outside to check the mail.
A few months ago, right after Christmas, when a friend of Mom’s passed away in a car accident, I happened to be home visiting for the holidays at the time and overheard Mom chatting with one of her friends who’s a mutual member of the Lake Pines Women’s Club. They were talking about how impressed they were with the funeral home that did Judy’s makeup and decided that when they eventually kick the bucket, they would make sure that their loved ones enlist the services of said funeral home. Pretty typical of women in the South to put on a show to the very end.
Sadly for my mom, her only child, yours truly, did not fall in her footsteps of thinking that everything has to be perfect all of the time. Yes, I love fashion and design, but I’m not gonna flip my gourd if I have to go out of the house without makeup on occasion. I like to eat what I want and go casual in jeans and a t-shirt when the situation warrants. When I’m in a rut, I wanna sit around in my grubby clothes eating ice cream and watching Netflix. Is that such a crime? Sure, my hair needs trimming, but I’ll get around to it … eventually.
Mom’s eyes are brimming with an excitement that makes me nervous. There is no telling what hare-brained scheme Mom has cooked up in her restless mind. Whenever I come home—even for a short visit—I become Mom’s pet project. Now that I’m home for an interminable amount of time, things are bound to get hairy. Mom brings her hands together and launches in with, “So, are you ready to start your new life?” Her juicy voice reeks of over-ripeness.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully as I moisten my lips.
“Do you remember how we talked about you doing alterations until you could find something more permanent?”
“Yeah.” I study her through skeptical eyes. The alterations gig was Mom’s idea. I went along with it because I didn’t want to start off my stay at home by disagreeing with everything that she says. However, I’m not sure if I’m Kosher with the idea of doing alterations for the rest of my life. On the other hand, I could use the money. Even though I’m living at home, I want to feel like I’m making my own way. It would be humiliating to have to ask my parents to borrow a few bucks just so I can grab something to eat at a restaurant or purchase Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
“I’ve got your first client,” Mom squeals.
I scrunch my nose. “Who?”
Hesitancy fills her expression. “Don’t get upset.”
It’s amazing how fast those three little words get the blood pumping through my body. They are a red flag waving in front of a sleep-deprived, sugar-overloaded bull. “What did you do?”
She starts talking fast. “Did you know that Kitty Williams serves on the board with me at the Lake Pines Women’s Club?”
No, I wasn’t aware of that tidbit because I don’t make a habit of keeping up with Mom’s charitable organizations. She heads up several of them. It’s her hobby, something to keep herself occupied while Dad runs his law firm. “Yes,” I answer, figuring it’s easier to just go along with it.
“Well, I happened to mention that you were coming back home, and Kitty said that Collette was looking for someone to alter her wedding dress.” Mom’s voice is high-pitched, and she’s talking a mile a minute.
I don’t have to be a genius to know where this was going. It’s written all over Mom’s face. My jaw hits the bed and ricochets back to my teeth as the air flies out of my lungs faster than the lead car at the Daytona 500. “Collette’s getting married?” The world begins to spin, and I wanna throw up. “To who?” I only thought I’d hit rock bottom when I left New York. From the sound of this, things are about to get a whole lot worse.
Mom’s expression is both surprised and concerned. “I thought you said you were over Gavin.”
“I am,” I growl. “I was over him years ago.” Traitorous tears threaten to pool in my eyes, but I win the battle and swallow them back down.
“That’s right,” Mom affirms. “You were head over heels with the doctor.” She speaks the words with fervor, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. I suspect that’s because she feels the need to ease her conscience over getting me in such a pickle with Collette Williams. She pauses as if collecting her thoughts. “What was his name?”
“Who?” I squeak. It’s hard to breathe, and my mind is swimming in a stagnant pool of unrealized expectations.
Mom looks at me funny. “The doctor.” Her brows crease as she studies me with those perceptive eyes that have the power to unleash more of my secrets than the most sophisticated lie detector test ever could. “Are you okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
“I’m fine,” I assert, shooting her a death glare. “His name’s Marshall,” I thrust out through gritted teeth.
There was a brief period of time when I was enamored with Marshall Davis. I had thought that maybe the two of us might have a future together, until Marshall announced that he’d signed up as a volunteer physician in Ghana. The slot was initially supposed to be for six weeks. While I was disappointed that Marshall was leaving, I put on a brave face and told myself that it was only for a few weeks. Then, six weeks turned into several months until finally, I got an email—not a phone call, mind you—but a measly email from Marshall, telling me that he’d fallen in love with one of the nurses on his team. Oh, who cares about Marshal! His hair was always parted a little too straight for me anyway. He’s one of those guys who’s so busy saving the world that he’s forgotten how to actually live. The sad truth is that Marshall was a placeholder for the only guy who’s ever really claimed my heart. “So Gavin’s marrying Collette.” I have to say the words to make myself believe them. Please let this be a bad dream.
“Yes,” Mom utters quietly before taking in a long breath. “I’m sorry, but I really did think you were over Gavin, or I wouldn’t have volunteered you for the job.” With the snap of imaginary fingers, her expression changes. “What’s done is done, I suppose,” Mom says pleasantly as she smoothes a hand over her cream-colored slacks. “I know you and Collette didn’t get along all that well in high school, but it’s time for you to start fresh.”
Blood is rushing so profusely to my head that I wonder if it will pop off my neck and launch clear up to space. “No!” I nearly shout. “I’d rather be tarred and feathered before I work on a dress for Collette Williams.” Collette and I were on the cheerleading squad in high school. While we’d never been close friends, we got along okay until I beat out Collette or the head cheerleader position. From that moment on, Collette hated my guts. I wouldn’t put it past her to marry Gavin just to spite me. I had heard through the grapevine a few months ago that Collette and Gavin had gone on a date or two, but I didn’t think it would go anywhere. I figured Gavin was too smart to get mixed up with a high-maintenance diva. Evidently, I was wrong.
Mom sits down beside me on the bed and places a hand over mine. Her voice is practical, determined as she squeezes. “Look, this is a good opportunity. It’ll get your foot in the door. People listen to Kitty. A recommendation from her is as good as gold.” Mom gives me a pleading look which only she can perfect. “Please? It would mean a great deal to me if you’d do this one, teensy thing.”
I hate it when Mom goes all soft and contrite on me. While she prides herself on being an outstanding president of charitable organizations, she missed her calling. She should’ve been a hostage negotiator. Given enough time and persuasion, Mom has always been able to mold me, and every other person she has a mind to influence, like putty. I feel myself getting pinned into a corner with no hope of an escape. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll do the stupid alteration.” I raise an eyebrow. “But it had better not be too involved.”
“Fantastic!” Mom exults as she stands. “You’d better hurry. Collette and Kitty will be here at nine.”
A hard laugh scratches my throat. “Of course they will be,” I grumble. I had known from the minute Mom waltzed into my room that she had something up her sleeve. “I’m gonna get in the shower.” And I’m taking all the time I need, I add mentally. “If Collette and Kitty get here before I’m done getting ready, they can just wait.” I level a glare, daring Mom to disagree.
She frowns. “It’s never a good idea to keep clients waiting.”
Fighting the urge to scream, I point toward the door. “Just go.”
“See you downstairs,” Mom chimes as she hurriedly leaves the room.
My headache is now a thousand times worse. With every throb it feels like someone is taking a chisel to my brain. My stomach growls and I roll my eyes. Seriously? How can I possibly be hungry after last night’s gorge session? My stomach had better get a grip because I certainly can’t keep caving to its demands, or I’ll need a new wardrobe before the month’s end.
I can’t believe that Gavin is getting married to Collette! The world has gone mad. A feeling of deep sadness washes over me, but I immediately tamp it down. Maybe this is a good thing. Gavin’s moving on with his life. If he wants to marry Collette and be one of those Instagram husbands whose only ambition in life is to capture the perfect snapshot of his demanding wife, then so be it. Collette has deemed herself an influencer and has a smattering of a following. She’s constantly doing hair and makeup tutorials. Not that I’ve paid much attention, mind you. I just happened to see a few of her posts.
Gavin, however, is a different story. I’m not proud to admit this, but in my weaker moments, I have resorted to stalking him on social media. Interesting that he hasn’t put up any pictures of him and Collette, and his profile status is still listed as single. Trust me, I know because I checked it two days ago. It’s not hard to see why Collette Williams is itching to get her claws into Gavin, but why is he settling for her? Gavin could have anyone he wants. Too bad he doesn’t want me, my brain shouts.
Gavin has always been a chick magnet, even back in high school. As if his looks and charming personality weren’t enough to seal the deal, he had the accolade of being a star athlete to boot. Now that he owns the local hardware store and a healthy share of rental property—both commercial and residential—his appeal is bound to shoot to the moon. An image of Gavin flashes through my mind. I’ve always loved the reckless vibe that Gavin’s dark-brown, messy hair gives him. Add to that his arresting honey-green eyes, rugged features, and quick smile, and it’s not hard to figure out why I’ve had a hard time getting over him. Gavin could always make me laugh. He taught me not to take myself too seriously. In short, I liked the person I was when I was with him.
This is ridiculous! I can’t keep wallowing in self-pity. What did I expect? That I’d waltz back home and find Gavin waiting for me with open arms? That only happens in cheesy romance novels. This is no romance novel, and I’m certainly no heroine. I’m a washed-up fashionista wannabe with an over-zealous mother who couldn’t stay out of my business if her life depended on it.
And now, like it or not, I’m about to alter the wedding dress of my high school archenemy who’s engaged to my former boyfriend, my biggest regret—the itch I never could scratch, the one man who shattered my heart into a thousand pieces and then walked out of my life without so much as a parting glance.
“A fine morning this is turning out to be,” I growl as I stalk toward the shower.
It’s time for this girl to wake up and face the truth. Gavin has officially moved on. Now I need to do the same. The question is … how?
