Part One
Then
Prologue
HAZEL/LEGS
Age 14
I walk across the room without tripping, turn, and walk back to my mother in these stupid high heels.
She watches me, a wrinkle forming between her brows. I’ve disappointed her... again.
“You need to put more sway in your hips,” she says. “God gave you my hips and ass for a reason. Use it.”
As if God cares about my hips and ass. But then what do I know? Every guy I’ve ever met was worse than the one before him. If God made man in His image, maybe He’s more of a creep than a creator.
Then again, I’m not even sure thereisa god. If there is, He sure hasn’t done me any favors. People like to say He has a plan, but that sounds like an excuse––something they tell themselves so they don’t have to admit they messed up their own lives. How convenient
I grin as I think about my English teacher, who’s also in charge of the debate team. She keeps trying to get me to join,saying my ideas and arguments are insightful for someone my age and that, given the right opportunities, I could go far in life.
As my mom yanks up the waistband of my already-too-short skirt, I sigh. The farthest I’m going is to a trailer a couple doors down from this one.
“Now, do it again, Hazel. Like I showed you.”
Taking a breath, I turn and walk back across the room, this time putting extra sway in my hips. I feel totally ridiculous but do it anyway.
“Remember, if anyone asks, you’re eighteen. It’s important you don’t fuck this up. Most people won’t give a damn about how old you are, but there’s always some holier-than-thou asshole who does.”
I nod, and she continues as I turn and head back to her.
“All men are assholes, but rich ones are the worst. They act like they’re better than everyone—driving around in their Ferraris, judging women just trying to feed their kids after their scumbag of a husband runs off with the babysitter. They won’t spare a buck for a hungry kid or a pack of diapers, but the second their perfect little wives stop putting out, they’re throwing cash at girls like us,” she spits.
I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. I’ve heard it all like a million times. My mom’s got this way of mixing just enough truth into her stories that you believe the lies. But honestly, I doubt my mom’s ever even seen a Ferrari, let alone met someone who drives one.
“Rich assholes like that only want one thing. Pussy.”
I stop in front of her, and she reaches up and taps my temple with her finger.
“This means nothing without money. Even rich bitches get sold into marriages to protect family assets.” She snorts and waves her hand down my body. “People like us have differentassets. There’s no shame in using what God gave you, Hazel. You hear me? None.”
I nod, and she motions for me to do it again.
After a moment, she sighs. “I might’ve been in high school when I met your father, but I had plans. You’re not the only one with brains, you know? But he messed that all up, telling me lies and treating me like gold. Then two pink lines showed up, and he was outta here like his ass was on fire, leaving me with nothing and threatening me if I ever contacted him again.”
I pause when she swallows and looks away. I’ve heard this story so many times, but even after all these years, I can still hear the heartbreak in her voice.
“You know who stayed, though? Me. I didn’t get an abortion. I didn’t give you up. I fed you. I kept you warm and clothed. I made sure you got to school and took you to the doctor when you got sick. I did that.”
She sucks in a breath, but it catches in her chest. She leans forward, one hand gripping the arm of the chair as she starts coughing like crazy. I clench my fists, fighting the urge to go to her. She doesn’t like it when I fuss.
I watch as she pulls a tissue from her pocket and coughs into it before wiping her mouth. She crumples it in her hand, but I see a flash of red and freeze as she struggles to catch her breath.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
We wait in our bubble of denial—her acting like I didn’t see the blood on the tissue, me pretending everything will be fine.
The silence is heavy, pressing down on my shoulders. Looking at my mother’s frail body practically folding in on itself, I know she feels it, too.
