“You want me to read you a bedtime story?” His brows manage to get even lower on his head making his brow line even more prominent. He has that whole caveman-lumberjack look going on. His facial features are so primal, nothing soft about him. But I notice his beard is cut with precision and shaped with accuracy. He’s wearing a blue flannel and jeans now that he’s inside, however, I saw that he was wearing snow pants earlier before dinner. Dylan said he was just working in the shop but he must have bundled up for the trek between the house and the shop.
It’s an odd thing to consider, but I wonder if he’ll cut his hair in the winter or if he has someone in town he sees after the snow melts. He’d look good with longer hair. Really lean into the mountain man-Viking aesthetic.
I start at the first paragraph on the page the book opened to but Jason taps me with his wooly foot again. Then he leans over to flip the pages back to chapter one and sits back to enjoy the performance.
“You’ve already read this part. You want to start over?” He nods, a straight answer for once.
I decide to indulge him and his demands, starting from the beginning of a story I’m sure he knows by heart.
Two hours slip by without my notice before I look from the book to the clock and realize it’s past eleven. Then I gaze at Jason who is still staring with rapt attention waiting for me to continue.
“It’s late,” I point out. “I think I’m going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.I don’t think I’ve exhausted myself like that since I was on the volleyball team.” Jason snorts a laugh at my expense. “Hey, I’m not as active as I used to be. The body needs consistency to maintain that kind of endurance.” Jason raises a brow as well as the left corner of his mouth, and I know he’s thinking of a dirty joke. “Watch it.” I point a deliberate finger. Then I lay the book down on the couch and head toward the stairs, ready to crash on the comfortable bed and dream. And to my surprise, I do. I’m not thinking about home. I’m not thinking about when all this is over. I don’t want to be here but…I’m also not as angry as I was this morning.
I’m indifferent.
Chapter Six
Mara-senior year of high school
Slipping Through My Fingers-ABBA
The prom is finally here. And with prom comes the promise of graduation around the corner. And after that, California. I’ve already been accepted to the University of Southern California with a focus on literature and a minor in communications. I want to be an English teacher, I want to read and share the best of the written word with others. What’s better than reading and talking about books for a living?
It took me two hours to get ready, but most of that was spent listening to music and enjoying the solitary peace. I listened to Florence + The Machine, Hozier, and ABBA while doing my hair and makeup. The smokey eye with a nude lip paired with my smooth, loose curls is just what I envisioned. It felt all too perfect that “Slipping Through My Fingers” began to play while I was zipping up my dress.
Although Bryce isn’t here yet, I head down the stairs expecting what I see in all the eighties movies, I expect my mom to have a camera out snapping photos of my Cinderella moment in the indigo blue A-line dress that perfectly flares to make me look like I have curves, and a lace off the shoulder detail to really drive the princess theme home. I expect my dad to be waiting to embrace his little girl and vet the prom date, even though he’s met Bryce before.
But I should have known better. My mom isn’t the sentimental type, andmy dad doesn’t really care for emotional exchanges. I don’t even think he’s home from the office yet. Probably helping someone else get a divorce when he should be focusing on his own marriage.
My mom is in the kitchen, though, seated on one of the leather bar stools at the kitchen island scrolling through details about some function she’s organizing on her tablet. She doesn’t even notice when I walk into the room in my flowing, poofy prom dress. She knows what day it is.
“Mom?” I grab her attention, she turns her head toward me before her eyes leave the bright screen.
“Oh, honey, you look so nice.” There’s a lack of sincerity to her voice, it’s the same way she told Mrs. Thatcher she loved the new drapes, and how she answers my father when he confirms dinner plans with various associates. But I guess I should just be happy she isn’t critiquing something about my appearance. “Though, those earrings seem a little gaudy for the occasion.” There it is.
“It’s prom,” I try to muster up some enthusiasm, “what better occasion for full glam than that?” She doesn’t agree or disagree, she nods subtly.
I pull my phone from my clutch purse and hand it to her before she can go back to her work. “Can you take a picture for me?”
“Yeah, I guess,” she replies reluctantly, taking the phone from me.
“The lighting is better outside, do you mind if we go to the garden?”
“Mara, I really need to get back to work. Let’s just do it here. You look fine.”Youlook fine, not thelightingis fine. I don’t know why I expected more from her. She’s never been much of a mother past the point of playing the part in public. I’m convinced they had a child because they felt obligated. Because everyone else was having one. I’m no better than a Birkin bag.
I pose with one hand on my hip and the other clutching the purse at my side with a fake-ass smile plastered on my face. I move to another pose with both hands clasped in front with a slight tilt to my head in a very romantic pose, but my mom has already closed the phone screen and extends her arm to hand it back to me.
One photo, that’s all I get.
I’m sure I could get Bryce to take some of me later but then he’ll want tobe in them, and I don’t really want any photos with him, I don’t want to remember prom as a night with him, just as a magical last hurrah before college. I know it’s not going anywhere with him, I know that we’ll break up this summer and I’ll never think of him again, so I don’t want him tainting these memories.
A horn honks outside just before the telltale sound of tires on the gravel half-circle driveway. My dad always parks his car in the garage so I know it’s Bryce with the limo and the gang. I peep through the window to verify and see a long black limo stretched on the drive, no Bryce in sight. Apparently, it’s too much to come to the door and escort me like a proper date.
“I’ll be home around one, Mom,” I say in farewell.
“Sounds good, honey.” I’m honestly surprised she calls me honey. It’s too much of a term of endearment. But she’s called me that since I can remember.
Halfway to the limo, Bryce steps out of the back seat and I know before I even smell the vodka that he’s drunk. The dopey smile on his face and the glazed look to his eyes gives it away before I spot the flask in his hand.
