Seemed like a good idea at the time.
I know I don’t want to be some TikTok or Instagram star, but I wouldn’t mind helping people troubleshoot stuff they can do themselves, like fixing a toilet flapper valve or replacing a cartridge in a faucet to make a sink quit dripping. And if I can bring some attention to Tickled Pink to help my hometown get a little more interest once the Lightlys have moved on, so we don’t have to depend quite so much on miracles to do things like getting roads fixed and the elementary and middle schools improved, all the better.
But—“Don’t you get tired of pretending everything’s happy and all about fame all the time?”
Her face freezes.
I mentally kick myself. Not my business.
She lives in a world I can’t understand and honestly don’t want to. I shouldn’t judge. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just—sorry.”
She leans across the table, her voice quiet. “There are trophies in my mother’s study for beauty pageants that I won before I was old enough to remember even competing in them. The first truly strong memory I have as a child was my father telling me not to tell my mother that he was having a private meeting with my nanny in his study during a holiday party. I remember the ribbons and the mistletoe and wearing a dress that my mom was freaking out about because it didn’t fit as well as it had the week before when we bought it. I remember itching and feeling like I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t allowed to say that, because appearances are everything.”
I want to interrupt her, but that look in her eyes—it’s like she’s been waiting to tell everyone everything that’s wrong.
So I keep my mouth shut.
And she keeps sharing. “I grew up being told that Phoebe was brilliant and could do everything, and I better watch my weight, because my looks were all I had going for me, and even then, I needed a lot of makeup. Even as a kid. So yes, I get tired. I getverytired. But it doesn’t matter when I really haven’t made anything more of myself, does it? I need the Lightly money. I need to look like I have my shit together. And I really, really need to stay off my grandmother’s radar for anything other than doing what she’s ordering me to do while I figure out what I want my future to be, or honestly? I might not have much of a future.”
I take another bite of my hamburger.
Not to torture her.
But more because I don’t like the thoughts swirling in my head, and I don’t want to say them out loud. And I don’t know if that’s for her benefit or mine.
Your family are dicks.
Nope. Not gonna use that one.
You’re fucking gorgeous.
Probably not the best line at the moment either. Have enough experience with women to know they don’t believe it, even when it’s true, and it can complicate even the simplest relationship, which isn’t what Tavi and I currently have.
We’re both messed upis probably accurate.You’re better than you think you are, and you can do any damn thing you decide you want to do.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I didn’t say that.”
“My dad walked out when I was three, and my mom’s upgraded husbands every few years since. No family’s perfect.”
“Sometimes I wish my mom would’ve left,” she whispers.
That hits hard.
For all that my mom drives me crazy, she’s never made me feel like she doesn’t love me.
And I get the feeling Tavi Lightly doesn’t have the first clue whatlovemeans.
Or maybe she knows very, very well what it means.
Maybe she knows exactly what she’s missing.
“I used to plan how I would run away from home after having a fight with one of my stepfathers,” I tell her. I could tell her more—and worse—but I want to make her smile again. “Or my mom. Or my brother or sister.”
“You still could.”
“Nah. I like it here. Good job. Good friends.Reallygood friends. And someone’s gotta stick around and keep an eye on Mom.”
“Octavia, I thought you were cleaning the library shelves,” Estelle Lightly says beside us.
