My brothers will never understand hownotnormal we are. Hell, I probably don’t fully comprehend it. But I’d give up all my money if I could be someone Molly wanted and needed. The problem is, wishes like that don’t come true in the real world.
And that’s the most depressing fact in the universe.
Chapter Six
Molly
On Friday, when the UPS man shows up at Get Jacked, I sign for the package. It’s my favorite author’s latest release in a limited-edition hardback, special-ordered from her site. A treat to celebrate my birthday.
Anticipation zinging through my veins, I return to my tiny office, rip open the package and pull out the gorgeous tome. It even has a dust jacket. So pretty!
I flip the pages and almost squeal—sheautographedit! Almost like she knew it was my birthday!
Swaying left and right to the happy beat in my head, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of the paper.Aaaaah. I love my Kindle, don’t get me wrong. But there’s just something so…tactilely pleasing about holding an actualbookin my hands. The weight, the whisper of paper as I flip the pages. The smell. The whole combination.
I wrap the book in a brown paper bag so I can smuggle it into the townhouse. Owen’s bound to point out that I “wasted” money on it, and I don’t want an argument, especially not today, when he’s taking me out to celebrate my birthday. Still, part of me is sad and slightly resentful that he judges my hobby. It’s not like it hurts anybody. And I’m fine with his watching porn on his laptop when he thinks I’m not looking.
Like clockwork, a text from Nicholas arrives with a gift card.
–Nicholas: Happy birthday, Molly!
Does Nicholas care what I buy with the book money he gives me every year? Would he cut me off if he knew I was buying romance novels?
I’d be disappointed if he was biased against my hobby, even if all men harbor negative views of women reading “those silly things.”
On the other hand, I can’t picture him judging me. He’s never said a single unkind thing to me. Then again, Owen didn’t say anything nasty about my reading until I moved in with him, so…
I sigh. I’d be so disappointed if Nicholas turned out to be prejudiced against my favorite genre.
My phone pings again. I glance at the screen and grimace as acid surges in my gut. It’s Dad, wishing me happy birthday as well. But his congratulations are the kind you have to brace yourself for.
–Dad: Happy birthday! What are you up to today? Any celebration plans? A party?
If I tell him I don’t have any plans, he’s going to insist on having dinner together. Eating with him always causes indigestion and heartburn for at least three days. Thankfully, my evening’s spoken for, although sharing that puts a sick feeling in my belly.
–Me: Thanks, Dad. Owen’s taking me out to Dolce.
After he turned in his article to his editor on Wednesday, Owen said he needed to eat there before the week was over and write up a review forLA Food Digest. He said he’d love to take me with him, so we could also celebrate my birthday on the magazine’s dime. I said fine, since going out twice is too much, given the timing.
–Dad: That’s a great restaurant, but is it wise to eat there? The food is rich, and their desserts are irresistible.
Naturally.
–Me: Thanks, but I think it’ll be fine.
–Dad: Drink two glasses of water before you go. And have three sips before each bite. You aren’t even thirty, and you’re going to grow out of all the nice stuff I bought you.
My queasy feeling turns into outright nausea. Dad is constantly worried about how I look. He wants me to be as athletic and fit as he is, which is impossible. He was a football jock in high school and runs 10k races for charitable causes all the time. Meanwhile, I’m lucky to manage 1k.
He occasionally splurges on expensive dresses for me that never fit right and make me feel like an overstuffed sausage. He says I need to wear them anyway to make myself “presentable” when he shows me to his girlfriends. He has a certain reputation he needs to maintain, and a frumpy, boring daughter “doesn’t contribute.”
To him, image is everything. He bought a Lamborghini with Mom’s life insurance money. Says it’s critical that he projectsuccess, especially as a widowed real estate agent. I don’t understand the connection between his marital status and how successful he looks, but I don’t ask too many questions. They’re upsetting for both of us, and I feel like I owe Dad for my role in Mom’s death.
–Dad: You should wear that dress I bought you to meet Renée last month. That one probably still fits okay. It makes you look good. I saw how people admired you.
By “look good,” he meansappear more like Mom…which is somewhat possible so long as I stay still and keep my mouth shut. She passed away in a car accident when I was six, on the way back from a grocery store. She went to buy me blueberries because I begged and cajoled her for them. Dad never told me outright that it was my fault, but he’s said things.
If you’d been just more patient…
