“I’m not a child,” I grit out.
“Well, when you act like one, running away from us like you did, then you get treated like one. Phones, Winsome. Now. And both of them. I know you must have a second one somewhere.”
I close the door in her face and lock it, and try not to listen to her shrieks of anger. I dig the phones out of my purse and quickly sign out and delete my banking applications from both phones. I do the same for my social media accounts and then quickly power them both off. She’ll need my password to get into my burner phone, but hopefully I can avoid giving it to her for a bit longer. I don’t want her to go through it and see my private communication, especially not my messages to Jonah. She’ll find a way to use anything against me.
I open the door and hold them out to her.
“Finally,” she huffs. “Be ready tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., sharp. We have a lot to get done. We’re relaunching your social media accounts by the end of the week.”
And then she’s gone, stalking down the hallway with the last remnants of my freedom in her hand. I didn’t consider that she might take my phones—my one way of communicating with the outside world, of getting out. I left Star Mountain in a daze,too upset and worried to think straight. At least I deleted my banking apps before she could get her hands on them.
I fling open my drawers, digging through them until I find the old tablet I stashed in there. But it’s dead. And so old that none of the chargers I have work for it.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
How will I contact Candice? Or Carly? I need to let her know I’m back in town. And what about Jonah? He probably doesn’t want anything to do with me by now—he’s probably read the letter and signed the divorce papers and washed his hands of me. But what if he needs to get in touch for some reason?
And how will I plan my next escape? I won’t stay here forever. Ican’t.
I take a deep breath and let it out. And another. Another.
But it doesn’t work. I don’t feel any calmer or more relaxed. I pace around my room, breathing in and out, waiting for my anxiety to subside.
It doesn’t.
The next day,my mom turns her full attention towards getting me back to my former Miss Alabama self. She slathers me in fake tan, and I wince at how orange I look in the mirror. Then she plucks my eyebrows and forces me to wax my legsandarms while she watches.
After, she looks at the hair on my head and frowns.
“I called that hairdresser of yours, Carly, but she’s all booked up for this week. I won’t trust anyone but the best to bring you back to blonde.”
I’m sure my mom only cares about how good my hair looks because I’m an asset to her, but I’m still pleased to learn that Iwon’t be bleaching my hair today. I guess she never figured out how close Carly and I were, and I’m also guessing that Carly lied and said she was too busy this week in order to buy me some time. And at least now she knows I’m back.
“We’ll try a wig,” she says, fingering a lock of my brown hair and then flicking it away in disgust. “A good one.”
“Um, okay,” I say, though I don’t think my mom has any idea how to make a wig look good. And neither do I. If only the drag queens from the Neon Horseshoe were here. I hold back a giggle.
“It will just have to work. There’s not much we can do about your figure though.” My mom reaches out to grab my upper arm, but I lean away from her, and grab the tweezers again. While she talks, I pretend to tweeze my brows some more. “You gained weight in Montana. Diet starts today, Winsome.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that.” I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.You can do this, I tell myself.You can stand up to her. “I think modern audiences appreciate a fuller figure. Not too much, obviously, but it’s not the nineties anymore.” I wince at my own words, but I know my mom will only go for this if I put it in language she understands. “Plenty of other influencers make money even with a bit of a butt.”
“You’re notjust any influencer. You’re a former Miss Alabama and if I had my way, you’d be Miss United States as well. Though you are getting a tad old.” I see her frown at me again in the mirror. “The point is, you have to be better than the rest of them. And youarebetter than the rest of them. You’re the very best.” Her gaze turns proud for a fleeting moment.
I used to live for looks like that. I used to work my ass off all week, doing whatever she said, eating whatever she told me to, just for one of those looks, and maybe a back-handed compliment. The crumbs of love and affection she gave me kept me hungry for more—willing to do anything just for another taste.
The day I snapped and decided I wanted out was the day I realized she was doing this intentionally. It was a few years ago, after I won a pageant. She gave me a big hug and said she was so proud of me, but it felt fake. Before the show, she’d made me cry as she nitpicked every single thing wrong with me—my hair, my shoes, my dress, my weight, even my voice. I didn’t believe her when she told me she was proud. Not when she’d acted like that mere hours beforehand.
Unlike I used to, I don’t smile or say thank you to her small compliment. I just keep on studying my brows in the mirror, pretending to perfect them. Sometimes, being exactly what people expect me to be—vain, shallow, ditzy—is the best defense.
“I’m so happy to have you back, Winsome,” she says softly, almost to herself.
A shiver runs down my spine.
At dinner that night,my dad wastes no time bringing up the issue of my trust fund. In between mouthfuls of pasta he says, “So, when do we get to see our cut of the grandparents’ coin?”
My mom shoots him a nasty look, letting me know that he doesn’t have her permission to bring this up. “We discussed that, Richard. It’s going to be Winnie’s little nest egg. She deserves it after all of her hard work.”
“Does she? She left us high and dry.” My dad chews loudly, and then knocks back a swig of beer.
