Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
“That place is a wreck.” I climbed off the bed, slipping into a pair of black vans to match my t-shirt.
“I know. I only made it to the kitchen. I’m too afraid to look by the pool or the backyard.”
“I didn’t even check, but I’m sure it’s just as bad.”
She laughed, then groaned, and then laughed again. “Oh my goodness, Jen. Bring some of that aspirin too, please? The door will be open when you get here.”
“Will do.” I hung up, hearing footsteps trotting towards my bedroom.
Mom appeared between the frames of my door, arms folded, still dressed in her nude Louboutins and knee-length navy blue dress.
“How long have you been out of the shower?” she questioned, tone assertive.
“Just got out,” I muttered, picking up my keys.
She looked at the keys in my hand, and then at me. “Where are you going?”
“To Kylie’s.”
“Didn’t you spend enough time there last night?” I ignored her question. She knew I wouldn’t respond so she went on to an even more annoying topic. “Jennifer, your behavior today was reckless and rude. You should really be ashamed of yourself. You are letting your father and me down more and more each day. You know, your father won’t always be around to protect you. You are becoming an adult but still acting like a toddler. How is that even remotely possible? And why do you look so bad right now? What was with you this morning, coming in late? Dressed in that boring dress? Did you even bathe?”
I was looking at her, watching her ramble on and on, wishing I could just pop her right on the mouth like some moms did when their kid was acting out. Because that’s what she was acting like right now. A child.
And she had the nerve to say I was acting like a toddler.
I didn’t react. That was what she wanted—a reaction from me, just to start another mother-daughter war.
I pulled myself together, finding my glasses on the vanity. I wasn’t in the mood for putting in contacts today. Today I needed to bum it out, eat lots of ice cream and watch a bunch of rom-com movies. None of that was going to be accomplished here.
“Can I go now?” I asked, but I wasn’t waiting for a reply. I walked around her. Luckily, she moved out of the way, otherwise I’d have shoved her a bit.
“Jennifer,” Mom said, almost stoic. Barely. “I just… I just don’t understand. I wrote that book for you. I thought you would be happy that it had your name on the cover.”
“You didn’t write it,” I snapped, turning back around to look at her.
Her face went pale.
“That’s what ticks me off the worst about it. You, claiming you wrote something that you paid a college student to do. I saw her coming here late at night, helping you in the study. We all knew—Me, Sue, and Dad—so don’t act like this is something special. All you did was tell her your little stories about me and made her twist my reactions.”
“You have no respect for me,” she said, walking towards me.
“Why should I? You had none for Mitchell. I’m just doing myself a favor and learning to survive while I’m still in this house…that is, unless you want to lose two children. Then who would you write about?” I stared at her, my hand curled around the metal of my keychain.
Mom was speechless, but she wasn’t devastated.
God, she had no heart whatsoever.
Shaking my head, I twisted around and stormed down the staircase, rushing out of the house and not stopping until I threw myself into the drivers’ seat of my car. Heaving a sigh, I looked towards my home.
From the front I could see my bedroom window, a big room with French doors that led to a spacious balcony, bay windows, and an excess amount of sunlight that bathed me warm every morning.
The room could have been considered my own personal loft. It was my safe haven…but only when she wasn’t around.
Our home, it was nice and elegant, the one material thing I actually loved other than my shoes. Built with creamy stones, gray slate tiles that lead to the front door, and large windows that made the view in any room breathtaking, it was simply amazing.
It was the only good thing that came out of Dad taking over Roscoe’s Waffles.
But inside that house was a lot of ugly. A mother who seemed to care more for herself than anyone else. And my father, always so oblivious. Always working to maintain her happiness at the expense of everyone else’s.
Why did he fall for mom? Surely there had to have been a sweeter side to her? One that hooked him—made him fall headfirst.
My memory is hazy sometimes, but I do remember when Mom was different. I remember certain things, like when I was five and helped her make blueberry pancakes.