Georgie stares back at me, squirming on her feet, a girl fighting to become a woman, a woman too old to be a little girl.
I find my couch and perch on the edge, waiting for my daughter to speak. “Crowell has two tickets to the Phoenix Rising concert.” She raises her chin and I cringe inside at her battle stance. Her look of defiance. She’s my daughter. I know what I did to my mother when I was her age. Although my mother keeps control of everyone around her, Georgie is my karma for the sins of my youth. I’m being repaid. “I’d like to go,” she adds.
I eye her. Crowell is my son’s—Georgie’s older brother’s—best friend. He’ll take care of her, even though he’s also a man-whore and would overlook Georgie’s age for anything she wants to do. I heave in a breath and wave my hand, not having the time to concern myself with a concert, Crowell, or my daughter. I say what any good mother would, although my statement is a stalling tactic. “Let me talk to your father.”
“The concert’s tomorrow night.”
I grit my teeth in frustration and irritation at her determination to push the issue. The impatience of youth! We both know if I agree to something like this, then her father will capitulate. He cut the apron strings months ago. Before or after I left Georgie to her own devices? She’s sixteen. The thought of directing her decisions for another two years is an unbearable burden.
Georgie will never learn to fight her own battles if we always step in for her. It’s now that she needs to learn the difference between wise and stupid choices. By the time she’s twenty, she will have honed her instincts and decision-making skills. She doesn’t need me micro-managing her life, although, sometimes I wish to be like Mother.
Pausing, I scoff. Sometimes. Despite her preference for Georgie, Mother will never abandon me. To a default, Helen Sanderson backs me up, protects me, and defends me.
I lack that maternal gene. With my son, it’s so easy to care. Rubbing my temples, I decide I lack the gene to mother a girl.
Honestly, my attitude towards my daughter mirrored Mother’s with me. I would’ve done anything for Georgie. Now, I’m trying to save my marriage. Parnell’s obsessed with spicing up our sex life, by inviting others into our bed. Mostly, younger women. His attitude has me fixated on youth. As the days pass, I’m increasingly paranoid and desperate. So, no. I have no time to raise Georgie. Besides, she needs confidence in herself. To do that, she needs self-reliance.
She sniffs in agitation. “Well?”
The time glares at me from the wall clock. Parnell will soon arrive with our new bed partner. Monday will be his turn to have a female lover with us. The women he chooses are younger and younger each time. It’s getting harder for me to participate.
“Mom!” Georgie snaps.
My husband’s demands are my main concern and my age my greatest distraction. A treat for Georgie will sidetrack her need of my attention.
“Fine,” I say, promising myself I will set aside Mom time with Georgie. I cock my head to the side, wondering if she’s as lonely as I am. If she’s searching for happiness while trapped behind our gorgeous, gilded walls. “Go. But—“
My voice trails for better impact. She knows this and rolls her eyes.
I make a snap decision to not even run this by Parnell. What he doesn’t know, won’t aggravate him. He doesn’t like Crowell. Although he’s capitulated to my demand to let Georgie spend her time with Crowell, Parnell doesn’t trust the young man. “Do. Not. Tell. Your. Dad.”
She smiles, a spark of humor in her eyes, and comes to me. Raising her fist, she bumps it against mine when I do the same. “Girl power,” she chants.
I nod with pride. I taught her that. “Girl power.”
Georgiana
My body slams onto the floor in Dad’s study and I grab onto my shoulder, grunting at the sharp pain. My fingers hurt really bad, though I can’t remember why. Kicking off my stilettos, I crawl to my knees and sway. Closing the window should be a priority but it seems too far away. Hot, humid, Houston weather blows into the room. Midnight and it has to be eighty degrees.
“George?” Crowell calls from outside. “You in? I need to leave before Josh comes and sees my car.”
“Go,” I urge in a loud whisper.
The very last thing I need is my big brother discovering his friend and I are quasi-lovers, sometimes druggies, and all around alcoholics. Joshua would kill Crowell. Plain and simple. Beneath the designer suits and million-dollar looks is a dirty fighter. I don’t know how Josh became so adept with his fists, but he fights like he’s from the streets.
“George, you okay?” Crowell says in a low tone, instead of taking my advice and getting the hell out.
Off-balance, I stumble to the window and lean out, a silly grin on my face. The coolness of the wood floor soothes my overheated feet. I curl my toes in bliss.