Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Grit scrapes my eyes as I rub them. I just want to crawl under my duvet with a new book and forget the world exists.
“Hattie, stay strong.” Margot clicks her fingers in front of my face.
Mom chooses that precise moment to knock. As Margot dances over to let her in, I take several deep breaths, mentally fortifying myself for the visit.
It’s not that I don’t love my mom.
I do.
It’s been us against the world for as long as I can remember, and I know she loves me back. It’s just the fact that we have very different definitions of success.
And sometimes I wonder if she’d prefer having Margot as her daughter instead of me.
“Hattie!” Mom gushes, stepping inside in her red designer shoes. Margot helped me pick them out for her two years ago for her birthday, and to her credit, she’s worn them ever since.
Unfortunately, the heels are lethal. I fear for my old wooden floors every time she comes over.
The idea of my apartment, my rules doesn’t really apply to her.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Hi, Julia. How you been?” Margot waves.
Mom’s face brightens the moment she sees her.
“Margot, honey, you look amazing. Have you been working out?”
“Nothing special. Just the usual jog here and there,” Margot says modestly, which really means a two-mile run in New York City or a few laps in the pool at the fanciest gym big money can buy.
“And your hair!” Mom gives me a pointed look. Margot’s sleek gold curls have always been a source of Mom’s personal anguish—because they aren’t mine.
Inwardly, I’m cringing.
I’ve tried to explain genetics a few times, but there’s no point.
“Credit to my stylist. I went to the salon last week,” Margot explains.
“Well, she does fabulous work.” Mom finally looks away from Margot and frowns at my apartment.
I’ll be the first to admit it’s not at its best with my throw rug slumped on the floor and some laundry still hanging on racks.
Oh, and books everywhere.
My standard environment, but Margot went above and beyond by ferreting out all my newest reads, piling them up on my coffee table with curiosity.
Usually, I tidy up before Mom comes around to avoid her pulling that lemon-sucking look of disapproval. But today I didn’t get the chance, and I know when there’s a good old-fashioned lecture coming.
“Really, Hattie, this place gets smaller every time,” she says as she clops to the kitchen. “Have you thought about looking for something bigger?”
I smile without actually smiling.
Margot gives me a sympathetic look as I force myself to stand and follow her, even though I already know what she’s brought.
“They’re just books, Mom. Pretty sure I can fit a few hundred more in before we need to worry about doubling my rent.”
She shakes her head.
“Maybe it’s time you moved on from that silly little bookstore. Do they pay you in books too?” She sniffs. “This is a bit much, dear. Once you’ve read a book, give it away or sell it back to them. You don’t need to keep them around cluttering up your space.”
There it is.
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t get me.
She doesn’t even know I read more books on my phone, on my Kindle, from the library. But there are times when nothing beats having real paper you can hold in your hands.
Especially my favorites, the special editions, the ones I’ll adore forever. If I still have a beating pulse, I’ll never regret ‘clutter’ from my one true love.
“I like books,” I say feebly.
“Yes, we know. But that doesn’t mean you need to have them everywhere. I only have a handful myself.” She says it like it’s something to be proud of.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen her read anything longer than a magazine in her life.
I almost roll my eyes, picturing the heavy art books she might’ve paged through twice before making them purely decorative.
Holding in a sigh, I perch on the kitchen counter as she pulls several noxious green smoothies from her bag in giant glass jars.
Homemade, of course.
Nothing but the best for her little girl and her ‘weight struggles.’
“Kale juice,” she says like Christmas just came early.
If it has, I’ve just found coal at the bottom of my stocking.
“Goodie,” I mutter.
“You could be grateful, Hattie. I just made it this morning so you could have a healthy lunch instead of those sandwiches you eat.”
I happen to like my sandwiches, and I usually pair them with an apple or banana. Sometimes, when I’m feeling extra chubby, I’ll save half and skip the fruit.
This mockery of a juice will just make me feel hangry and gross.
“This should last you a couple days,” she says, putting it in my fridge like it lives there. Then she narrows her eyes. “That’s not great for your posture, sitting up there like that.”
I straighten my back until I hear something crack.