Page 3 of The Way We Collide

“What would your mother say?”

Oh, he didnotgo there.

“Mom would say the camera adds fifteen pounds.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my tone.

“She’d say you don’t know what you want and you need guidance. Your mother was an important woman. She never wanted you to have to rise above the way she did. She wanted you to have stability.”

“The root word of which isstable, like in a barn,” Amelia teases.

“Don’t encourage her, Amelia.” Dad’s tone is clipped.

My little sister doesn’t make waves, but I have a feeling there’s a rebel lurking beneath her submissive front.

I don’t resent my dad. He’s actually a pretty decent human being—with occasional spoiled-billionaire-tyrant tendencies. He’s nothing like myvery importantmotherwas.

Miss Georgia World was done with me when I refused to go to fat camp and dropped out of the pageant circuit. To her I was choosing to be a nobody, an overweight failure, which in her mind was the worst kind.

Amelia was lucky she never had to experience that life. Our VIM was gone before my little sister was old enough topause, look left, right, smile for the judges…

The memory sends a shiver down my back, and I snatch the handle of my rolling suitcase. It took me a lot of therapy and a lot of retraining my thoughts to get away from that childhood, but I did it.

Now I hold my head high, and I do whatever the fuck I want.

“I’ve got to go. I’m due in south Alabama for Dylan’s wedding.” I kiss his cheek, and turn, bending down to hug my sister’s shoulders.

“Who’s Dylan?” Dad grumbles. “Is that a boy?”

“Dylan Bradford is a girl, Dad. I met her on the cruise when Amelia graduated high school? I told you this. She was a chaperone for a group of kids from Newhope, Alabama.”

“Have a nice time.” His tone is stern. “When you get back, you’re going to settle down and get serious.”

I’m tired of arguing, so I don’t even bother to reply.

“I’ll follow you out!” My little sister hops out of her chair, catching my hand.

She laces her fingers in mine as we walk out to my car, and I think about how close we’ve always been. She’s nine years younger than me, but it was the perfect time to get a new baby in the house. Her feet never touched the ground, and as the years passed, our bond grew stronger.

“I wish I was going with you.” She shoves a clump of dark brown curls behind her ear.

“You have to study for your finals.”

Amelia is a student at Emory, and in the fall, she’s moving into an on-campus apartment with her friends, which means I’ll be home alone with Dad.

It’s enough to make me want my own place. If only entry-level meteorologists were paid more. As it is, I’m pretty dependent until I get a promotion, which could take years.

I graduated from The University of Georgia at Athens with a degree in general studies and a desire to do something important, something that would make a difference in people’s lives. I just didn’t know what.

I tried being a mortician. It sounded interesting, and I thought I could be a kind, loving presence at a difficult time in people’s lives. Then I threw up on my first cadaver.

For a whole two weeks, I tried accounting—until my dad busted me sleeping at my desk, and I threw in the towel. It’s so freaking boring!

That’s when I discovered meteorology. I landed a six-month, unpaid internship at the television station in Athens, and I realizedthiswas what I loved. It was fast paced and exciting, and it was news that actually impacted people’s daily lives.

I saw first-hand how important weather and hurricanecoverage could be. I saw the destructive power of wind and hail and flooding.

It’s possible I was influenced by repeat viewings of the movieTwisterwith Helen Hunt. I look nothing like Helen Hunt. I’m short with thick brown hair that I dress up with gold highlights in the front. I have thick thighs, a big butt, and a narrow waist. I’m more like Helen Hunt-Kardashian, which makes me snort. That’s a weird combo.

“Does Larry know about your plans?”

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