“Then you reevaluate your priorities, including your fears. You be better and braver. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
“So what do I do?”
My brother studied me for a long moment, his brow pulled together as he stewed in my situation.
Finally, he sighed and suggested, “How about you lay it all out? Tell her everything.”
I blinked once, slowly, then glared at my brother. “I don’t like that advice. That’s seriously shitty advice.”
He lifted an eyebrow at me. “It’s your advice. It’s what you’ve been telling me to do with,” his eyes dropped and he took a breath before continuing, “with Scarlet.”
Billy stared unseeingly at his half-eaten hamburger. He hardly ever said her name: Scarlet. She’d been born Scarlet, and when they were together she was Scarlet. But when she’d returned to town at nineteen, engaged to Ben McClure, she had changed her name to Claire.
“It’s still shitty advice. I have no idea of knowing what’s in her head. What if she rejects me?” My words pulled a small smile from him. Even so, I added, “I hope you didn’t take it.”
He shook his head. “She’d have to agree to talk to me first.”
I examined my brother. “You and I might be sharing a boat.”
“Yeah, but your boat is newer.”
“This is true.” Frowning, I grabbed a cold French fry and made it bloody with ketchup. “The question is, how do I get out of this boat?”
CHAPTER 20
“. . .[N]o varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Jennifer
“I know you’re going through this silly phase of rebellion, and I understand wanting to try out the fashion fads, but could you please dress for work tomorrow? We have that photographer coming by the bakery and a Skype call with Jacqueline about the meeting in New York.”
My mother, looking harassed, threw herself into the chair across from me, slapping her notebook down on the counter and opening it to an earmarked page.
It was Friday, eleven days after my first kiss. My life would now be measured in days since my first kiss, because that’s how dually amazing and devastating it had been.
I hadn’t yet picked up my bananas from the store, and I had a long evening of special orders ahead of me. I was tired because I hadn’t been sleeping much.
I missed Cletus and I didn’t know how to stop missing him. Kissing him had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. Even before the kiss my feelings for him had grown tangled. I’d wanted to be with him all the time, talk to him about nonsense, listen to his ideas, likes, and troubles, and share mine.
Not helping matters: his body, and face, and voice, and eyes.
Crap.
Throwing myself into work only helped marginally, but I didn’t really have a choice. Fall was a busy time of the year for weddings in the Valley. Everyone wanted their photographs staged against the canvas of autumn colors.
“Jennifer? Did you hear me?”
Shaking myself from my musings, I nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll make sure I’m in costume tomorrow.” I made a mental note to set my alarm for thirty minutes earlier.
I’d been wearing comfortable clothes on a more regular basis since my date with Billy, both around town and to work. At present I was in a new pair of jeans and a T-shirt one of my pen pals from Germany had sent some years ago. I’d used it as a sleep shirt until just last week. This was the second time I’d worn it during the day or in public.
A fact that irked my mother to no end.
“Costume?” she asked, the sharpness of the word snagging my attention.
I glanced up from the wedding cake I was decorating—white fondant with yellow, purple, and red leaf accents—and met my mother’s glare.
“Yes. Costume.”
She made a sound similar to a huff, but it also had elements of a snort. “What are you talking about?”
“I just meant I’ll wear one of the yellow dresses, and I’ll do my hair and such.”
Her mouth fell open. “Are you telling me you think of your everyday clothes as a costume?”
I set down the tiny rolling pin I’d been using for the fondant on the counter and stared at my mother. We were alone and I was tired. And I was agitated. Therefore, I didn’t think twice about my response.
“Of course it’s a costume, Momma.”
“I thought you liked looking pretty?”
I paused, studying her, the stunned hurt in her eyes. I had two options, and neither struck me as very appealing. I could continue pretending like I enjoyed playing dress up every day. Or I could tell her the truth.
The last several weeks, fighting against her constant objections to my hair and clothing choices, had strained our relationship. But then, did we really have much of a relationship? My pen pals knew more about me—about my hopes and dreams—than my own mother.