Displeased, I slide my arms through the armholes and make an honest effort to tie the belt.
Walking into the bedroom, I pull my hair up into a messy bun. Frankly, I’m in such a bad mood that I might not show up at my birthday party at all.
Nona quietly knocks on the door before I swing it open.
Her eyes glint with panic.
“Miss Leilani?”
Her disappointment is thick as she rakes her eyes over my face and hair.
“You thought I was ready?” I toss at her as I swiftly turn and head back where I came from.
She follows me into the bathroom, her pacing frantic behind me.
“Please don’t do that,” I say, holding my hand up in warning, not looking at her.
She freezes next to me.
“You need to brush your hair and put on your makeup,” she says evenly.
I turn on the lamp on the vanity and the small lights outlining the mirror.
“I’m good. Thank you,” I retort.
You could hear a pin drop.
I doubt she’s still breathing.
“What did you do?” she murmurs, looking around the room.
She starts organizing the towels on the shelf to cope with her own panic, I suppose, and her behavior rubs me the wrong way.
Holding a cotton ball between my fingers, I wait for her to bring her eyes to me.
Nona is forty-nine, ten years older than my mother would have been had she been alive. Her dark hair is cut short.
It has volume and curls at the tips.
She usually runs a brush through it in the morning, and she’s ready to go.
I can’t say the same thing about my hair.
My mane falls down in a cascade of rings that fuck with the style whenever they want.
She wears the same dress size she did when I was little, but the older she gets, the more boring her clothes become.
There is no uniform requirement in the house, so it’s up to the staff to wear something nice.
This will be my house, so I can run it any way I want.
She’s opted more and more for washed-out colors as if her soul has faded with her dresses.
Her colorful dresses, skirts, and blouses were the highlight of my existence when I was a kid.My mother liked to dress up, too, but I spent more time with Nona than I did with her.
Nona’s new clothing choices might’ve been influenced by my mother's passing.
A twelve-month mourning period is expected in Italy, and although we’re a family with mixed blood and not that great at observing the traditions, she did grieve after my mother died.
