Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Even if she’s feigning confidence, she doesn’t let my mother see that she’s unruffled. She passes me my favorite pottery mug, the black one with the iridescent bottom. Her expression is purely for me. Given the fact that she thinks I hung the stars, there are whole galaxies in her eyes, but there’s also the soft assurance that if I didn’t, it’s okay. It’s okay to be exactly who I am.
My mother lifts her right brow dangerously high. She gets them waxed so they’re arched to already extreme levels, and any facial lift is strictly villainous. She does it to cover her wide eyes but also as a way to intimidate. She’d never, ever flip someone off, but I count that brow as an unspoken how dare you defy me.
Amalphia takes a sip of her coffee and sighs in pure pleasure. Even with my mother standing right in front of us, it hits me right in the nut sack.
She’s not afraid to face my mother, but her words nearly knock me over. “I’ve heard a few things about you that would lead me to gather that you’re not a very nice person, but holy, there’s nothing like confirming it in a minute. Congrats. You’ve just broken the record for rudeness.”
Before things trend any further in the direction of a flaming hot trash pile, I clear my throat. “Amalphia isn’t the help. She’s my girlfriend.”
My mother’s other eyebrow joins in on the arched terror. It’s exceptionally rare that my mother gives the screaming eyebrows, but when she does, you know you’re in for it.
“I mean, yes, she also cleans for me,” I clarify, though I feel like I shouldn’t have to. It’s the eyebrows. They’re making me talk.
I’m still paying Amalphia because she wanted to keep doing everything the way she was before. It’s important to her that she has meaningful work. I straight-up offered to cover the cost of her college tuition, urging her to apply. She did, but she also insisted that I would do no such thing. If she were going to accept anything from me, it would only be in the form of a paycheck that she worked hard for.
She got her acceptance email last week. I’ve never seen anyone so ecstatic or so frightened. I told her that I had no doubt she’d get in. She responded to that with a, “Well, yes, but that’s only because it’s the arts, and they’ll take anyone.” Since she doesn’t know what she wants to do yet, she’s taking a variety of introductory classes that can be used as electives later for pretty much any degree.
It’s immediately apparent to both of us that my mother really hates that idea. It’s not Amalphia’s fault. Even if my mother picked out a wife for me herself, a wife who was utterly perfect in every way and got the Cora May stamp of approval, my mother would no doubt still be able to find endless faults with her soon enough.
My mother’s hand trails up, smoothing over the already immaculate slicked back ash blonde bun at the nape of her neck. The only variation between her daily outfits are slacks or skirts and what color sweater she’s going to pair or wear over a white blouse. She always wears black pumps, and she sports enough diamonds to make her a rather outstanding target to be mugged. Not that anyone would ever have the chance. She doesn’t go anywhere without her driver, a big beefcake named JOHN, because that’s exactly the way he pronounces it in his deep, booming baritone voice, with more emphasis on the H than the N.
Today, I got the more professional take no prisoners, no bullshit, and none of your progeny’s excuses black pencil skirt, black hose, black pumps, crisp white blouse, and cream sweater slung over her shoulders combination.
“Darling,” she sighs testily, changing tactics like playing nice might actually work.
I brace for it, which makes Amalphia stiffen. I can see her pulse throbbing in her wrist in the hand extended to hold her mug. Nothing good ever comes from my mother starting a sentence with that word. The way she says it, it might as well be: Listen up, you little fucker.
“Do you really want to screw up your life again?”
Told you.
Amalphia snorts, letting the obviously rhetorical question bounce right off of her. “Record number two for rudeness. I’m starting to think you’re not a morning person, Mrs. Beanbottom. Could I get you a coffee? They’re excellent.”
My blood is at the point of boiling straight over, but I’m going to keep my composure long enough to see my mother out of my house. And change the combination for all the doors so she can’t come back in.
“You might think I’m making bad decisions.” I punctuate that with a grind of my molars that I just can’t help. “You might see it as screwing up. Truth is, though, you never really cared what I felt one way or the other. All you cared about was the family name.”