Tye grunts, but doesn't say anything.
I shrug Marco off, stumbling away.
Christ, I shouldn't have hit Tye. Hattie will be devastated when those photos hit the news, especially when she's plastered all over the news right beside them.
I fucked up.
I fucked up so goddamn badly.
Chapter Seven
Hattie
I'm neck deep—literally—in a stack of books when my mother calls. I consider sending her to voicemail, but I'm a little worried she might actually set foot inside a library for once in her life if I ignore her.
I scramble for my phone, grabbing it from my purse at the last second.
"Hello?" I pant, out of breath. Sorting and restocking books is hard work. It's even harder when you have to take breaks every so often to skim through the pages. Look, I didn't choose the reader life. The reader life chose me.
"It took you long enough to answer."
"I'm at work, Mom," I remind her…not that she ever remembers that I have a job. Her idea of work and mine are drastically different. She's been pampered and spoiled her entire life, and I think she takes it as a personal failure that I refuse to live the same way.
"Well, you weren't at work when you decided not to inform me that you'd be going out with Sidney Hawkes last night," she sniffs. "I mean, honestly. Henrietta. You don't tell your own mother, who is breaking her neck trying to find you a wedding date, that you already have a date? Shameful."
"It slipped my mind," I lie. "Besides, I told you that I didn't need a date."
"Yes, well, you could have told me that you didn't need one because you already had one. I can't have you showing up to your brother's wedding alone. What would people think?"
"Gee, I don't know. Maybe that I'm single?"
"You don't have to be snippy."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking a deep breath. "I'm not trying to be snippy. I just don't understand the problem."
"Of course you don't," she sighs. "You never do, Henrietta. Well, it doesn't matter now. I've already had to call Cory and inform him that you aren't available after all. He was devastated, the poor boy."
"The poor boy?" I pull the phone away from my face, gaping at it. "Mom, he's a total creep!"
"Oh, please, Henrietta. Not this again. He's just traditional. There's nothing wrong with that, you know. Some women want to be taken care of by a good, strong man. Honestly, it wouldn'thurt for you to try a little harder. I can make an appointment with my surgeon, I'm sure Sidney would appreciate an upgrade."
An upgrade? Seriously? Am I a damn computer?
"Sidney appreciates me just fine like I am. And Cory is neither of those things," I mutter, my tone dark. "And women are allowed to do whatever they want to do." I don't care if a woman wants to stay home and live a traditional life or stay home and be a trophy like my mom. I don't care if she wants to climb mountains, rescue blind goats, or fight crime, either. It's her life, not mine. But it should beherchoice, not something someone decided for her or forced her into or gave her no way out of.
Everyone has an opinion about how women should be women, like there's a right or wrong way to do it. From where I'm standing, it seems impossible, regardless of how you do it. So…why not just let us decide what works best for us as individuals and back off? We aren't a collective. We don't share a brain, desires, dreams, or needs. So why do so many people treat us like we are?
My mother is one of them. She has her own ideas of what it means to be a woman, and every other woman on the planet is a failure if they don't do it her way. Since she's decided I'm not beautiful enough to be a trophy, she's convinced I need a man like Cory, as if forcing me to stay home and cater to a creep like him will somehow magically transform me into someone more palatable.
No, thanks. I would, literally, rather die alone.
"I'm not you, Mom. I'm Hattie. Why can't that be enough?" I ask, tired all the way to my bones.
"I don't want to have this ridiculous argument again, Henrietta," she says, right on cue. "You're too naïve to even know who you are or how the world works. I just called to confirm if you and Sidney are attending your brother's wedding together."
"Yes," I sigh into the phone. "He's my date."
"You should bring him over for dinner before then," she says.
