With all of the Lucks now in the know, I realize I can’t put off the inevitable, so I bite the bullet and call my mom on Monday morning. By now, pictures of me sitting next to MonicafreakingReyes while cheering for August have circulated. Mom’s bound to be twitching with irate curiosity. I can’t exactly blame her there.
We’ve opted to tell our parents the truth; the risk of our family members exposing us is nil. Even so, the call with my mom goes about as expected with her lecturing me on being inconsiderate, implying that I didn’t tell her because I was still salty about her not helping me with the house—I didn’t inform her that I was getting help from August—and then her insistence that she somehow knew our engagement couldn’t have been real.
Given that itisn’treal, I can’t object to her conclusions. It’s her reasoning as to why that irks. In her words,You and August live in such different worlds. The idea that they would suddenly collide, much less mesh, is fantastical.
I’d hung up as soon as I could without hanging up on her. But my mood remains low andsquicky. There’s a wriggling nest of disgruntlement in my belly that I can’t evict. Thanks for that, Mom. But I’m not going to let her get to me. She didn’t mean it to be insulting, even though it was.
My self-imposed lecture goes in circles as I make my waydown the sunlit hall from the bedroom to the kitchen. Doesn’t matter my mood, being here never fails to fill me with a sense of awe and thankfulness. Living in a place of grace and beauty will do that. Everyone should have the pleasure. The irony being that architects like Cliff May designed houses like this with that thought in mind. Beautifully functional homes for the average American. And now it’s so freaking expensive, only the wealthy can live in them.
“What’s that scowl for?” May asks from her seat at the wide marble island counter. Sunlight streams down from the skylights set on either side of the center barn beam and gleams in her inky hair like stars.
“The state of the world. My mother. The fact that I haven’t yet had my morning coffee.” I shrug and grab a mug from the cabinet. “Take your pick.”
“Your mom give you a lot of shit?” she asks in sympathy.
“Not so much as implying that the idea of me being with someone like August was laughable.” Fragrant coffee fills my mug and clears my head. I reach into the fridge for some half-and-half. “Which left me with the very mature urge to yell back, ‘I could so be with him!’ When, obviously, I’m not so...”
I end my tirade by making a face and fixing my coffee how I like it: tan and creamy.
May lifts a foot onto the rung of her stool and stabs what looks like a bowl of yogurt and blueberries with her fork. “Well, you absolutely could be with him. If you so chose.”
When I give her a “get real” look, she raises a perfectly arched brow. “Don’t tell me you agree with your mom? Because we’re going to have words if you do.”
“May Day, I have a healthy relationship with my appearance in that I know what I look like and am mostly fine with it. That also means I’m not delusional. In no way do I remotely resemble the type of women August usually goes out with.”
“Studied his sex life, have you?”
Walked right into that one. With a huff, I lean against thecounter and clutch my warm mug. “It’s not like I go looking for information. August, March, and Jan are in the news, as are the people they date.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“So look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong about the type of women he usually favors.”
Her shoulders slump. “Okay, you’re not wrong. But! That doesn’t mean the idea of him datingyouis laughable.”
I bite my bottom lip and stare at my feet. I really need to have my toes painted. Something cheerful like pale yellow or hot pink. “It just pricks, you know? Because there’s a hint of truth in it, and here I am having to pretend that he’s so in love with me that he proposed marriage.” The taste of coffee on my tongue turns extra bitter. “It’s awkward.”
“Hey,” May soothes. “I get it. I’m only in the press a little, a comment here or there when they talk about our family. And I hate it. I can’t imagine being picked apart by lookie-loos who think they’re entitled to know everything about August, not to mention your own mother.”
“The mother thing...” My heart pinches, and I bat the pain away with a wave of my hand. “As for the rest, it’s what I agreed to. And I’m not sorry about that. I’ll shrug it off after breakfast.”
“Yes, you will. And, hey, it’s not as bad as you assume. I was looking at those pics of you and Augie eating on the Pier—”
“Ugh. That.” I shake my head. “We knew they’d taken pictures, but it was still the first shot. Freaked me out a little.”
“You two look adorable!” Her phone rests on the counter by her bowl, and she flips it over to scroll. “Here. I mean, I totally bought the love thing.”
With great reluctance, I drag myself over to her and peer at the pictures. At first, I only see August. He’s beautiful. Just perfectly formed. A Michelangelo with those sweeping brows, strong nose, and sculpted jaw. And he’s smiling. It lifts the sharp, clear angles of his face, fills him with light, and creates a little dimple at the corner of his firm lips.Sigh.
Seriously, I’m in real trouble here because he just does it for me.
Then I see myself. It’s not terrible. But if August sees this picture and doesn’t notice my moony expression, it will be a miracle. My cheeks are plump with the smile, all my “nice” teeth on display. The shot was taken at a side angle, and well, that’s not great.
Groaning, I rub my temple. “Ah, man, I loved that shirt.”
“What’s wrong with theMurder She Wroteshirt?” May’s gaze wings from me to the phone and back again. “I love that show. So cozy. Although you just know Jessica is doing those murders and blaming it on everyone else. You justknow.”
“Serial killer or not, I’d run for my life whenever she rolled in to town— Argh. I’m talking about the fit.” I point to the photo. “I look like a marshmallow skewered by toothpicks.”
