“Dwayne wasn’t a good guy,” I finally admit.
“I know.” When I give her a questioning look, she shrugs. “I’m an observer. I watch things, and I know you. You might not think I do, but you’re older, of course I’ve been in your business. When you got that job in Austin, you changed.”
Austin. Tulsa. Denver. I moved wherever Dwayne had the urge to go. “I knew I was in too deep and didn’t want to drag any of you down.”
“What happened?”
Her concern is genuine, and her curiosity has to be eating her alive. Still, I can’t bring myself to list my litany of bad deeds. Not only did I nearly cut her off for years after I finished chef school, but I did it for a good-for-nothing man. And that guy is still trying to cause problems I can’t solve. “Lots of things. Now help me with my hair.”
Disappointment flits across her face. “One day, you’re going to realize that you don’t have to coddle me. Or Mom and Dad.”
“It’s not that.”
She gives me a flat look.
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I’m ashamed and embarrassed. I walked right into an oven, past a hundred signs that said ‘hot.’ You remember how Mom was after our accident? I was driving and she blamed herself. I can’t put her through that. Or put Dad through Mom going through all that.”
“She would’ve duct-taped you in bubble wrap until graduation if she could’ve.”
“She would blame herself for being too strict after that and claim it’s why I got reckless.” I flip the end of my hair. “I’m not proud of any of it. Don’t take it personally.”
She chews the inside of her cheek and nods. “Fine. I’ll give you a pass. But I’m here when you’re ready.”
Forty-five minutes later, I vow to chop six inches off as soon as I can carve out a window of time and brush up on some how-to videos.
Clem gives me an air kiss. Her hair is now styled like mine—shiny with huge curls and pulled back into a clip. We could pass for twins if someone didn’t look too closely. Her eyes are a deep emerald green and her mouth forms a cute little bow while mine stretches wider.
“Going with the glasses?” she asks.
“Yes.” I might be done up, but it’s a tasteful version of how I used to dress. I’m not showing a ton of skin, my hair is down, but my glasses stay on. It’s a happy medium. I can be a good-looking Clark Kent and not a sexpot Superman.
“Good. They’re cute.” She punches me in the shoulder. “This was fun. We need to do it again. You need to take more time off so we can.”
“Ow.” I rub my arm, but it doesn’t hurt. “Says the one working, like, three jobs.”
“Writing’s for fun. I can write my dream man that’s never going to step foot in Huckleberry Springs.”
“And then kill him off?”
“Oh no.” She fans herself with her fresh bubble-gum-pink nails she painted while I got dressed. “The thrillers are because I listen to too many murder podcasts and get too many ideas. The smut is for the lady who wants the perfectly imperfect man who can give her endless orgasms. It’s me. I’m the lady.”
“What’s this perfectly imperfect man like?” Does he have stylishly long dark hair, dancing blue eyes, a lopsided grin, and a tongue that can make me forget my name?
She smiles dreamily. “He’s got to have a rough voice to go with his rough hands. He’ll be grumpy but so soft, yet hard everywhere that it matters.”
“Where’s that?” I tease.
“I dunno. Where’s Cruz hard?”
I swat at her, but she dances away, laughing. “Like I said, we need to do this more.” She looks me up and down. “The town is going to collectively lose its shit when they see you.”
I’m only interested in one man’s reaction. She gives me a fierce hug before she leaves.
When she’s gone, I inspect myself one last time in the mirror. I kept it modest, but my midnight-blue shirt clings to my torso, and the flirty wrap skirt falls past midthigh. Behind my lenses, my eyes are luminous, almost innocent looking. Without glasses, they used to be a siren for lonely men hoping to get laid.
I almost reach up and muss up my hair. The long strands cascade over my shoulders, and the whole ensemble, paired with my platform espadrilles, propels me back in time. Different faces leering at me, hoping to get under my skirt for nothing but a burger. My practiced flirting and the guilt afterward for milking mostly decent guys for easy money. The pressure to do it again and again.
I should change.
