Page 73 of Defiant
I got out of her car, giving her a smile and wave as I watched her back up and leave. Behind me, the gate was already open, and I heaved a sigh, slung my new purchase over my shoulder, and started up towards the house. The dress was in a black bag to protect it from any sudden weather changes, the thin plastic scrunching against my hoodie with each step I took.
When I entered the house, I heard laughter. Feminine laughter that I instantly recognized, because I’d grown up hearing it. My mom apparently found something absolutely hilarious…and it was coming from the living room?
Huh. Was she watching a funny cat video on her phone? Those things usually got her either doubled-over or cooing at the cuteness.
I walked into the living room, finding my mom sitting on one of the couches, wiping a tear from her eye. She wore her normal clothes, her I’m not working clothes—baggy jeans, a t-shirt with some band from twenty years ago that she still claimed was cooler than any artist today.
That wouldn’t be such a strange thing if that was all. But it wasn’t all.
My mom sat beside Ollie, who, for once, wasn’t nose-deep in paperwork. He still wore his usual clothes: freshly-pressed pants coupled with a thick leather belt, along with a dark blue button-up shirt.
A shirt whose top two buttons were undone. Huh. Couldn’t say I’d ever seen him let loose like that.
Two glasses of what looked like wine sat on the small coffee table before them, and then it hit me, what should’ve hit me the moment I walked into the room.
Mom and Ollie were talking. Laughing. Hanging out. Whatever it was old people did.
Was I really gone with Bobbi for that long? I supposed it was in the afternoon, so it wasn’t like they were drinking that dark red wine too early in the day. Still, though. Since when did my mom like wine? She was always a beer kind of woman.
Neither Mom nor Ollie got up when I walked in, though they did turn their faces toward me. Mom was grinning, while Ollie looked…content. Not miserable for once. He didn’t look as tired or as haggard as he usually did, though I supposed that could also be contributed to the wine. Neither looked drunk or anything…
“Uh, hi?” I ended up sounding stupid, quite stupid.
“Ooh, honey,” Mom spoke, slow to get up. “You found something? Show me.” She practically clapped her hands together, as if me going to this school’s dance was something she always dreamed of seeing.
Hmm. I couldn’t ever remember her being so thrilled to see a dress.
Ollie grabbed his wine glass and got up, stepping a few inches too close to Mom as he squeezed by, saying, “I’ll leave you two to it.” He gave me a smile before he headed into the hall, and I heard his footsteps disappear upstairs.
I made no moves to immediately show my mom the dress I had slung over my shoulder. Instead, I stared at her, checking her out, wondering if, maybe, in some weird way, Mom had been bonding with Ollie or something.
“Oh,” Mom gently pushed my arm, saying, “don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” I asked. “I’m not giving you any look.”
“You are.”
Okay, yeah, I might have been.
Mom folded her arms across her chest. “Oliver said he needed to relax a bit, and since he claims he never sees me take time off, he insisted I share a drink with him. He’s actually pretty funny—”
I could not see Oliver Fitzpatrick as a funny guy; not now, not ever.
My mom must’ve realized that I wasn’t having it, for she changed the subject, “Let’s see the dress.” As far as she was concerned, I had some money saved up from my last birthday, which I used to purchase the dress. She didn’t know about the envelope full of cash I’d gotten in my locker, nor that I’d tried to give it to her before taking it back.
I had the feeling that things were not over where she and Ollie were concerned, but I knew now wasn’t the time to nitpick about it. I swung the dress over my shoulder, letting my mom lift up the bag around it.
“Oh, wow,” my mom whispered, her blonde eyebrows coming together. “You sure this is a high school dance dress? Looks more like a cocktail dress than anything—”
I wanted to ask her if she’d ever been to a cocktail party, if she knew what cocktail dresses looked like—and, no, watching The Bachelor didn’t count—but I didn’t. I only shrugged and said, “Trust me, it looks a lot better on me than on the hanger. Even Bobbi said if I didn’t get this dress, she’d buy it for me.”
Instead of nitpicking like I knew she wanted to, Mom gave me a smile. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure it looks beautiful on you.”
That it did, but I knew Mom was probably thinking I was crazy. That, or I was going to attract the wrong sort of attention in a dress like that. To which I say: whatever. What I wear shouldn’t matter.
In fact, I might just pair the dress with my faux leather jacket. Nothing said queen of the dance like a bedazzled jacket labeled with slut.
Or maybe that was just me being petty, since that was my favorite jacket.
