Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
As I step out of my car and walk into my house, I wave hello to my mother, who watches me from behind tattered curtains. Her skin looks extra clammy today, but her eyes are bright and filled with hope, and her sheeny lips hide a painful night of coughing.
My mother isn’t well. She hasn’t been for some time. That’s why I attended the will reading today. Even if Andrik Sr.’s generosity is minute, it will still be better than the nothing I am currently working with.
“Hey. I’m home.” I greet my family with a cheerful tone, hiding the heartache threatening to consume me.
Everyone is here. My mother, my aunt, and the gardener, whom my mother had to let go of when she became too sick to work. Even my little sister has made an appearance, which is odd, considering it’s a weekday. She should be at school.
My mother defied the odds when she gave birth to a healthy baby girl in her early forties.
I’m sure she will do the same to beat her latest diagnosis.
I pull Wynne in for a hug, her groan replacing my fake smile with a genuine one. “Aren’t you meant to be at school?”
Begrudgingly, she returns my greeting before peering up at me with big blue eyes. They’re familiar yet so opposite to mine. She threw out my family’s beloved red-haired, green-eyed combination, opting for inky locks and blue eyes.
She is the black sheep of our family, and it couldn’t be more noticeable when numerous pairs of eyes stray our way, awaiting what they hope is good news.
“It was a mistake.” I breathe slowly, each word consciously planned to ensure they’ll pass my family’s inbuilt lie detector machines with flying colors. “It was Emerson the company, not Emerson the person.”
My aunt is the first to jump in. “Oh… that’s a shame.” I smile like my heart isn’t in pieces when she joins me near the living room entryway to farewell me with a cheek kiss. “All that wasted time for nothing.” She side-eyes me like she knows I’m a big fat liar before she noogies Wynne’s head and exits our home. “I’ll be back in time for supper.”
I watch her cross the patch of grass between our homes before shifting on my feet to face my mother. She is the one who deserves my true apologies. I ran today like some of our family’s financial obligations aren’t my fault. It isn’t fair, but if she could go back ten years and change the outcome of the decision I made for her, she wouldn’t.
She knows I made the right choice when I convinced her to keep Wynne, just like she knows I’m lying.
Mercifully, she doesn’t call me out on it.
“How was the drive?”
I grimace before following her slow shuffle to the kitchen. “It was fine. I guess.”
My throat works hard to swallow when she interrogates me while pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. “And Mikhail? How was he?”
My fake smile is back, more tarnished than ever. “He seemed good.” I repeatedly tell myself that I’m strong enough to do this while guiding my mother away from the kitchen and onto a stool. “He’s married, and his wife is expecting a child.”
Tears blur my eyes, but no amount of distortion will have me missing my mother’s shocked expression. “He is?” When I nod, she blurts out, “Since when?” I don’t have time to reply. “He was named a finalist in Russia’s bachelor of the year contest only last week.” She pulls out the magazine responsible for rating men on their sexiness and wealth before opening it to a two-page spread on the man of the hour. “See?”
I do see. I don’t want to, but a nun would struggle not to look.
Mikhail has aged like fine wine. He’s gotten better with age. His six-pack is more defined than it was during the years he took to grow into his lanky legs, and since his hair is no longer clipped close to the scalp, my fingers grow envious with the urge to rake them through his unkempt locks.
The photographer captured almost all his good points. I would have said all of them if the two-page spread had been in a limited print run Penthouse does once a year for its female readers.
As I cut the fat off a cheap chunk of meat, I say, “How many times do I have to tell you that most articles about celebrities are made-up stories? Lies sell magazines—”
My eyes snap up from the cutting board when my mother interrupts. “And destroy lives. You know that better than anyone, Emmy.” Since I can’t recant her honesty, since it’s true, I remain quiet. “Em—”
“He’s married and about to have a child, so can we please not?” I hate snapping at her. She’s so sick that we’re not even guaranteed years anymore. But this isn’t a conversation I can have right now. My heart is too fragile. It may not survive another knock.