I mean, I won’t, but I definitely could.
They both look at each other awkwardly before giving me a weak smile. Clearly in agreement aboutsomething.“We just worry about you, Jen. You overdo it, sometimes.” Tahnee reaches for my forearm, and I pat her hand with mine.
“I know my limits,” I tell them with confidence, raising my hands in defense.
It’s true.
I know when to slow down and when to stop all together. I just have too much going on at the moment, and I can’t afford to do either of those things.
Margot raises her brow at me in the mirror as Mark shifts uncomfortably in his seat, no doubt wishing his hair was done. “I do.” I stand firm. There’s a time and a place to put my feet up, but right before I’m about to abandon ship to take on a job I’m not really qualified for isn’t one of them. “After tonight, I promise, I’ll lay low until I leave for Grangewood Creek to be on set,” I say, and Margot’s eyes narrow before breaking eye contact with me.
I understand their concerns, but I fear that if I slow down, I’ll turn into a person I don’t want to be.
Broke.
Unemployed.
Alcohol dependent.
Becky Rogers.
I talk about my childhood openly if somebody asks, but I don’t parade around with a sign that says ‘My mom treated me like shit as a kid, and I don’t want to be like her.’
I also know that she and I are very different people, thankfully.
She never knew her limits, and I’ve always known mine.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’d come home from school to find her passed out on the couch or walking men out the door whom she claimed to be a repair guy.
When my dad was alive and my parents were happy and together, I knew I was loved fiercely by both of them.
But then he died, and she just…forgot that I existed.
I like to joke that I became an orphan at the age of five, because the night my dad died, I lost her, too.
And I was left with a party girl, a man-eater, the ‘too young to be a mom’, Becky Rogers—a judgey ‘friend’, and not a ‘mother’ at all.
The server brings over our food, and we all nod in thanks before Tahnee speaks.
“So, you don’t know who this Mr. GQ man is?” She gawks at me, her fry mid dip in ketchup. Margot swirls spaghetti around on her fork. Both girls have been incessantly asking questions about the award show. I came clean about my night and they were both surprised I let a guy whose name I didn’t even know take me back to his hotel room without telling anyone my whereabouts.
After scolding me about how dangerous it could’ve ended, and how idiotic I was, they’ve now changed their tune, wanting to know all the little details.
I shake my head. “No idea. I kind of like it. Now I can fantasize about my dream man—all broody and mysterious—without his identity potentially ruining everything for me.” I scrunch up my nose with a weak shrug. “What if he’s like…a rival stylist that I don’t know about? Or like, a cop?” I shudder sarcastically.
I don’tdoanything more than a one-night stand, and even those are few and far between.
I put myself first because I have to.
Cassandra calls me a ‘runner’, but I call myself realistic.
The Rogers women are tainted. Doomed, if you will. Cursed with some sort of dark, whack magic, deeming us alone and unhappy for life.
Would I like to not be afraid of commitment? Maybe sometimes.
Do I like my life the way that it is? Yeah, I do. And I don’t think I have it in me or my calendar to make room for somebody else. Someone who could just leave me high and dry, brokenhearted while moving on to the next girl who catches their attention.
I’d rather not set myself up for heartbreak at the hands of someone else. I’ve had enough of that to last me two lifetimes over.
