“Mom!”
I would go to hell for the satisfaction I received at her look of mortification. Her face a tighter mask than usual, she dismissed the waiter with a flick of her hand.
I’ll pay for that one.
Within seconds, she’d pulled herself back together. “You must take care of yourself, Eliana. The years will pass by you like a wink, and you’ll wonder where the wrinkles came from.”
She touched the corner of her eye, a place where no wrinkle dared dwell, and I knew she expected me to comment on how young she looked. I didn’t, and her nostrils delicately flared.
“Shall I have my car pick you up or can you find your own way to the gala?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m not going.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in an overly dramatic soap opera movement. “You must. You—”
“You won’t even miss me, Alize. You’ll be on the prowl for husband number six, no doubt. I’d just get in the way.”
Someone laughed, a deep chuckle that broke off quickly, and I glanced in the direction the sound came from and only saw two men sitting at the nearby bar. One an older gentleman with a glorious mane of white hair. The other a… wow.
He was sitting with his back to us, but what a back it was. A tight athletic shirt barely concealed bulging muscles, a vee of a sweat stain trailed to a point at his spine. He also wore athletic shorts and running shoes, his calves bulging over his short-cut socks. A baseball cap sat on the stool beside him.
Running my eyes back up his body, taking in the muscles of his triceps this time, I wondered how it would feel to run my hands through his thick head of dark hair.
“Are you even listening to me?”
I whipped my head back in my mother’s direction and met her icy gaze. “Yes.”
She brightened, showing me the pearly whiteness of her teeth in one of her supermodel smiles. “Terrific. I knew you’d come to your senses. I’ll call Carlos right now and set up an appointment for you.”
I stared at her. I’d clearly said yes to the wrong thing. “What?”
But she was busy tapping buttons on her phone, ignoring me completely.
“Carlos, darling, it’s Alize Montgomery, and I need a favor. Could you work a very special friend in before the gala? Her color is dreadful, so maybe a bit lighter so she won’t look so washed out. And schedule her for a facial. Her skin looks bone dry. And her brows…” She clicked her tongue. “Yes, yes. Mani, pedi. The works. Can’t have my little baby’s picture in the society pages with ragged cuticles, now can we?” She glanced at me. “When was the last time you waxed?”
My mouth fell open.
“Schedule her for a full wax. Yes, Brazilian, of course.” She batted her eyes at me. “Winston will be there, so you need to be prepared.”
I waved my hands in front of her face, mouthing no, no, no. It seemed everyone was looking at me but her. I gave up. I just wouldn’t go. I wouldn’t show up at these appointments, and I wouldn’t be going to the gala. My stomach churned. Especially if he was there.
She narrowed her eyes at me, examining every inch of my face while she listened to something Carlos was saying. She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “How old are you, darling?”
I wasn’t even surprised that she didn’t remember. “I’ll be twenty-two in December.”
She frowned. Well, as frowny as multiple injections will allow. “Are you sure?”
“I can show you my driver’s license if you wish.”
Her eyes widened, but her eyebrows didn’t even move a millimeter. “When did you begin driving?”
I didn’t even answer, just took another drink of my sweet tea.
“Carlos, my love, she’s nearly twenty-two now. I agree. Botox can’t be started too early these days. She does seem to be sagging around the eyes. She doesn’t have my genes, you know. Takes her hair and complexion from her father, God rest his soul…”
Breathe in love.
Breathe out hate.
I repeated the mantra in my head, tuning out my mother’s voice as she continued to toss tiny needles of hurt in my direction.
Alize Renee Jones Anderson Wright Morris Adams Montgomery was a former supermodel, soap opera star, and B-movie starlet, with hopes and dreams of someday being the next Julia Roberts, before she got knocked up by my sixty-two-year-old father when she was only nineteen. My birth apparently ruined her life.
Of course, ruined was a relative term. If ruined meant marrying a multimillionaire who conveniently died of a heart attack a year later, leaving his young widow the bulk of his entire estate, then yeah, I ruined her life.
“Would you like your lips plumped, darling?”
“No!”
She pursed her overly plumped lips together. “We’ll pass on that for now, Carlos darling. Let’s focus on making her not look so dull. Is there anything you can do about freckles?”
I sighed and leaned back in my seat, wishing my salad would come so I’d have something to pick at. From the corner of my eye, the hottie guy shifted in his seat.
Looking in his direction again, I froze when our eyes met in the reflection of the bar’s mirror. He looked so familiar. Why was he familiar? I glanced down at the hat beside him and remembered — he was the same guy I bumped into in the alley.
How embarrassing.
Among all the other traits the gene fairy forgot to pass on to me from my mother, grace was also one of them. While Mom could walk all day in stilettos with a book on top of her head, I had to wear wedge heels or no heels. Otherwise, I’d be flat on my face.
Sinking into my seat, I sat back up straight when Alize snapped her fingers at me, giving me the look. I didn’t get the look often because I didn’t often see her anymore. I think it was a relief to us both. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was nearing middle age and I didn’t need to be reminded of my many failures.
Like now.
My senior year in high school, she bought a small apartment for me to live in from the settlement of divorce number three. The day after I turned eighteen, I moved there to be closer to school, and I hadn’t spent a single night under her roof since.
The waiter arrived, sliding our salads in place. I practically dove for my fork and speared a cherry tomato with about ten times more vengeance than the vegetable — sorry, fruit — deserved. I popped it into my mouth and bit down hard, loving that I now had something to do.
Thirty more minutes.
I could survive thirty more minutes.
With an embarrassingly loud, “Au revoir, my darling,” Alize set down the phone. Good heavens. Didn’t she realize Carlos was a Spanish name?
From across the table, she beamed at me. “Success!”
I fake-beamed back. “Yay!”
“Your appointments begin at nine next Saturday morning, and you’ll finish up at three.”
Six hours in a salon? No, thank you.
“The designer I told you about has a plethora of custom designs you can choose from. Stop by her shop tomorrow and select one. I’ll text you her address and let her know to expect you.”