Page 82 of Own the Eights
“And then, there was the gala video,” her mother said, pressing on in true Lorraine Vanderdinkle fashion. “Those two men bidding on you! It was thrilling. And the look on Jordan’s face. Pumpkin, that man cares for you deeply.”
Georgie tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought so, too. But I was wrong.”
“Well, the whole CityBeat website is buzzing about the two of you. Neither of you have posted anything since that day. And the last video was a snippet of you saying you never wanted to see Jordan again. Everyone wants to know what happened.”
What happened? Her world came crashing down around her in the space of two minutes. That’s what happened.
She met her mother’s gaze. “I overheard a conversation where Jordan had the chance to let someone very important to him know that he cared for me, and he failed.” She shook her head. “No, not just failed. He sold me out. All the things he’d said, like how he cared for me and how he wanted to be with me, they were all lies. He only cares for himself.”
Her mother leaned in. “You didn’t see his face after you turned away from him.”
“Mom, I don’t want to know—”
“We’re not always the best version of ourselves,” her mother said, cutting her off. “I tried to make you into something you weren’t. I dragged you to pageants all over the country. And for years, you indulged me when I should have been taking you to the library or wherever book people go. At the time, I did what I thought was best for us, but I wasn’t thinking about us. I was thinking about myself, thinking about how I didn’t want to end up like my mother, scrubbing floors and cleaning houses. I wanted you to have the life of a princess, and that clouded my ability to take into account what you wanted.”
Looking at her mother, you’d never know that she’d come from nothing. And then she thought of Jordan and that drawer filled with straws.
“I’m proud of who you are, Georgiana,” her mother continued, breaking into her thoughts.
Georgie shook her head. “You don’t have to say that, Mom.”
“Why not? I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. I read all your blog posts. And while I may beg to differ on your view of minimal makeup use because a woman always needs to have her lips and eyes accentuated. I did read all the comments. You’ve helped many people, pumpkin.”
“Then you get it,” she said, holding her mother’s gaze.
Her mother nodded. “I understand that you value character.”
“I do.”
“And kindness.”
“Yes.”
“And integrity.”
“Absolutely.”
Her mother paused. “What about forgiveness? Could you forgive me for all the pageant years?”
This threw her for a loop. “Of course, Mom,” she answered.
Her mother patted her hand. “Sometimes, we make the wrong choice. That doesn’t always mean we care any less. Has he tried to contact you?”
Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I blocked his number and had my friend’s husband, who is a client at the gym Jordan works at, deliver a message that I’d sic my dog on him if he tried to call me or come by the shop.”
“That dog?” her mother asked with a skeptical bend to her words.
Mr. Tuesday had curled up on the grass. Always one for a snooze, he yawned in his sleep.
She scratched between the napping dog’s ears. “He’s normally more ferocious. But here’s the thing, Mom, I made a promise to myself when I started the Own the Eights blog. I swore I wasn’t going to fall for another good-looking jerk again.”
Her mother chuckled. “Oh, Georgiana, I don’t think you fell for Jordan because he’s handsome.”
Her mother was right. She hadn’t.
Georgie glanced at the tree where she’d met Jordan and called him a supreme asshat after he’d caught her squirrel-chasing pooch.
“Even if Jordan did apologize. Even if he swore that I meant everything to him. I’m not sure what he could do to make me believe it,” she answered, her gaze still locked on the tree.
