Page 16 of No More Bad Boys
“Believe me, I understand. And I’m not thinking about her. It’s just bad foryouto drag around all that luggage. If you don’t find a way to forgive her, you’ll only be smuggling that crap into your future,” she warns.
I lift my chin. “I’m fine. Anyway, I’ll stop blaming Momma, as soon asshestops telling lies.”
Kenley snorts a laugh. “You might as well wait for the sun to stop coming up every day. She’s lied so often she barely even realizes the difference between her version of reality and the truth.”
Throughout our entire childhoods, Momma put on airs and invented an entirely new background for herself in an effort to cover up a childhood marked by poverty and deprivation.
I used to feel so confused when she’d give a fictitious account of events I’d been present for.
When I was old enough to figure out she was a habitual liar, the confusion shifted into embarrassment.
She only turned a corner recently after alienating me and Kenley and almost losing Daddy. I have to admit shehasimproved since then.
She seems less materialistic and doesn’t criticize us as often for failing to meet her particular expectations, but the exaggerations (lies), embellishment (lies), and wishful thinking (lies) have continued.
I can hardly stand to be around her when she gets going.
“I think she’s really trying,” Kenley continues. “Daddy says she cancelled all her magazine subscriptions so she won’t be as tempted to shop, and they’re making progress toward getting the debt paid down.”
“Well that’s good. They don’t haveroomfor any new stuff now, anyway, even if they did have the money.”
Kenley and I get into her car and drive to our parents’ condo in Roswell, north of the city. As part of their “starting over” plan they sold their oversized home in the affluent neighborhood where we grew up in Alpharetta.
Naturally, she told her country club friends the house was just “too much” to take care of, what with all their extensive “travel plans.” I’ve wondered if they noticed she sold most of her jewelry, too.
The condo is barely a quarter of the size our house was, but the atmosphere inside is a vast improvement.
Daddy no longer seems so tense and overworked, and being with the two of them is overall more pleasant.
“We’re here,” Kenley calls out as she opens the front door with her key.
“In the kitchen, girls,” Momma’s voice sings out.
We walk down the tastefully appointed hallway and into the airy, open kitchen. Momma gives us bright smiles, rushing over to greet us each with a cheek kiss.
“I watchedbothyour shows today. I liked that Mr. Rocco, Kenley. He seems like a hoot.”
“That’s one word for him,” Kenley replies with a grin.
“He looks so young. I can’t believe he’s in his sixties,” Momma says.
“That makes two of you. He can’t believe he’s in his sixties, either. He also can’t believe women in their early twenties aren’t flattered to have his hands on their backsides.”
“Oh dear. He made a pass at you?” Momma’s newly-mobile-Botox-free brows actuallymovein an expression of disapproval. “Larson wouldn’t like to hear that.”
“Hear what?” A polished male voice booms from the foyer.
Daddy has obviously let Larson in. They round the corner together, and Larson’s tall, athletic frame and handsome face come into view.
He looks like $ reminding me of a young some celebrity $ .
Daddy comes over to give me a hello and a cheek kiss, while Larson goes straight for Kenley, wrapping his arms around her in an enthusiastic embrace that pulls her to her tiptoes.
After dropping a quick kiss on her lips, he asks, “Who made a pass? Do I need to go set someone straight at WNN?”
She laughs, obviously pleased by his possessiveness and his pretend threat. “No silly. Unless you’re in the habit of roughing up elderly fashion designers. Your mom probably wouldn’t appreciate it if you beat up her competitor—might look like sour grapes.”
“I don’t care who it is—he could be Ralph Lauren—nobody lays a hand on my girl… other than me.”
