Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 19169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
I giggle at the mental image of Jonathan in a Santa suit, sporting a salt-and-pepper beard and resting beast face. He’s a little rough around the edges, but his eyes are kind, and his voice is rich, and I like the look of his big, calloused hands. I wonder what he does for a living—I can’t believe I agreed to move into his house when I don’t even know where he works. If he bought a fixer-upper with the intent of doing most of the fixing himself, he’s probably used to working with his hands.
I can’t help wondering what else those hands might be capable of...
As the traffic light turns from red to green, I shove the inappropriate thought aside. Having lived in my dad’s house my whole life, moving in with a stranger will be strange enough without the distraction of an inconvenient crush.
Still, I can’t imagine anyone being harder to live with than my stepmom. My relationship with my dad is complicated at best. I know he loves me, but when push comes to shove, he always takes Eloise’s side over mine. That’s why I have to leave home.
Well, technically, I’m leaving because Eloise threw me out when she discovered how I’ve been paying for school...
I back into the driveway, next to my dad’s sedan, and pop the tailgate in preparation for loading up my truck. I don’t bother poking my head into the kitchen, or my father’s study, on my way to what’s about to become their spare bedroom.
Last night, I began packing most of my clothes and makeup. All that’s left tonight is my work outfits and filming equipment: the ring light, my camera, and the tripod it stands on. Once the electronics are safely bubble-wrapped and sequestered in cardboard boxes, I sit cross-legged on the floor and start in on my lingerie. I don’t bother glancing up at the thud of footsteps in the hall.
“I’m making chicken and rice for dinner,” Eloise says from the doorway. “Since it’s your last night in the house, you should join us.”
“I need to finish packing.” I’m not interested in making small talk over dry chicken breast with someone who literally referred to my line of work as disgraceful.
Eloise’s steel-gray gaze narrows on the red bra in my hand. She shakes her head disapprovingly. It's her default setting when it comes to me. Disapproval. For not being the perfect stepdaughter she always wanted. Not thin enough, proper enough, or conventionally attractive enough.
I know Eloise obsesses over her own weight. She sees it as a way to gain the upper-hand over my mom, who died when I was five due to complications following gallbladder surgery for Crohn’s. I still have some of her things, mostly clothes and jewelry, and a pair of red Mary Janes that are too small for me, but that I refuse to part with.
As far as I know, my dad never had a problem with my mom’s weight. She was big, like me. Not tall, but round and pillowy. I look a lot like her, which I’m willing to bet is why Eloise tries so hard to make me lose weight. I’m a walking reminder of my father’s first wife, the woman he would still be with if she hadn’t passed on.
After Dad remarried, Eloise took me on as her personal project. I swear, she tried everything short of sticking her own finger down my throat. I’ve spent most of my life hating my body, jumping from one fad diet to the next. Low fat, low carb, low calorie. I tried them all. Sometimes they’d even work for a while. Eloise was always nicer to me after I lost a few pounds. Likewise, she could be downright vicious when I inevitably put them back on.
Last summer, I decided enough was enough. I’d just graduated from high school. Most of my friends were on vacation with their families, which was fine by me, because a quiet social life meant more time for reading in the air-conditioned comfort of my room. I was re-reading one of my mom’s old Judy Blume paperbacks when I discovered a photograph tucked between the pages: a picture of my mom as a teenager, dressed in skinny jeans and a tank top. She was about my size, maybe ten pounds heavier, and she was beautiful.
I thought, if my mom can be both fat and beautiful, then why can’t I? I’d spent the last thirteen years trying to make myself smaller, and I was just...tired. Tired of hating myself and torturing my body. The next time Eloise served me a salad, instead of the pasta she’d prepared for my dad, I went to the kitchen and dished myself up a plate of spaghetti.
“I thought we weren’t doing carbs this month,” she said tersely.
I sat back down at the table. “I think I’m done with dieting. I just want to enjoy food.”