Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Perfect. Breakfast will be served in the limo on the way.”
“Perfect.”
Pauline narrows her eyes. “What’s up with you today?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re … cheery.”
“There’s a wedding today. It’s a joyous occasion. Why wouldn’t I be cheery?”
Studying me for a few more seconds, she nods. “Five minutes.”
On the way to the stylist, I gaze out the limo window and wonder where I’ll be in a year. Five years. Ten years.
Will my heart have mended? I can’t imagine ever loving someone the way I love Milo, but maybe there’s someone who can make me smile again. Maybe Milo will grow to love Jolene if they have a family together. And one day we can see each other, and things won’t hurt so much.
Maybe.
“Indie, I think you’d look cute with bangs,” Jolene says while a short black-haired lady curls Jolene’s long brown hair.
“Respectfully, I disagree.” I smile while caped in black, and my stylist combs my damp hair.
“What do you think?” Jolene asks my stylist.
“You have the face for bangs.” The stylist shrugs.
Jolene has the face for punching, but I’m not going to plant my fist into her nose. Well … hopefully not.
“I don’t need a haircut. Just style it.”
“What do you think of a tight bun with bangs?” Jolene eyes my stylist like I’m not here.
“It would be quite sophisticated.”
“Then let’s do that,” Jolene replies, directing her attention to her phone.
“I don’t want—”
“Who’s the bride?” Pauline’s whiplike tone silences everyone.
The bridesmaids scowl at me like I’m some inconsiderate bitch for not wanting my fucking hair cut.
I hate her.
Milo will never love her, no matter how many children they make together. He will love his children, and he might respect her in front of them, but he will never love her.
I shift my attention to the stylist’s reflection in the mirror while the whole room waits for my response.
I can’t remember the last time I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. And I don’t ever remember having bangs. I like my long hair. I liked the way Ruthie used to brush it.
Don’t ever cut your beautiful hair, Indiana. It’s angelic.
When Ruthie died, I think all of her dreams for me died too.
“It’s your call,” the stylist says.
“Whatever the bride wants,” I murmur, closing my eyes and letting the hum of dryers lull me into an alternate universe where Jolene doesn’t exist.
I don’t look at my reflection, not even when it’s done. And I don’t complain when they pluck the fuck out of my eyebrows only to fill them in with a pencil.
Not a word when they cake on foundation and powder.
Fake eyelashes.
Thick lipstick.
And then it happens … on the way out of the salon, I catch a glimpse of myself. And I don’t recognize the reflection. I look old. And ugly. Not myself at all. Jolene doesn’t look this way, and neither do the bridesmaids. They look young. I’m the only one with my hair up. I’m the only one with bangs. I’m the only one with green eye shadow. Their makeup is far more natural looking.
“Coming, Indie?” Jolene says when everyone else is out the door.
Dragging my gaze away from the mirror, I tip my chin up. “Yes.”
“Green is your color. What do they say? Green with envy?” She winks before letting the door close in my face.
This is a game. A game of revenge. She doesn’t need my help today for anything but getting back at me for … Milo? Something else? I don’t even know.
Over the next few hours, I fetch coffee, champagne, and a vaping stick for one of the bridesmaids, and I wipe Jolene’s ass when she takes a nervous, runny shit. Her fake nails are too long to do it herself.
“Are you going to ask Milo to wipe your ass on your honeymoon?” I wrinkle my nose and retch while flicking the toilet paper in the toilet.
She stands, waiting for me to pull up her satin underwear. “I’ll have different nails for the honeymoon. Uh … wash your hands before you touch my underwear.”
Drawing in a long, slow breath, I stand straight and plaster on the smile. “Of course. Your squirts were pretty nasty. You’d hate to smell like shit when you walk down the aisle,” I mumble on my way to the sink.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Nothing.” I keep my head down while scrubbing my hands.
She waddles toward me.
I turn and pull up her underwear.
“I know you have a crush on my husband. It’s a little pathetic that you can’t find someone your age.”
“He’s not your husband.”
“He will be in less than an hour.” She stares at her reflection in the mirror and dabs her glossy lips together. “So feel free to fantasize about my husband, but keep your distance. You make him look bad.” Her gaze slides a fraction to me.
Don’t say it. Don’t do it. Take the high road …