Page 1 of Yours To Keep
prologue
MAGNOLIA
8 YEARS AGO
“Suck it in,Magnolia Azalea! I’ve already paid to have this dress altered twice. I will not do it again, young lady!” My mom drones. It’s always her go-to attack anytime she wants to cut me down. For her, my appearance is never good enough, never perfect enough to live up to her standards. My hips are too wide, my boobs are too big, my red hair is too brash and uninhibited for her idea of what a Monroe should be.
My mother, Patricia Monroe, comes from a long line of southern belles who starve themselves for fun, and pretend they’ve never had an original thought in their minds. Because God forbid you make anyone think you’ve actually got a brain. I’ve been dreading this very moment for as long as I can remember. Growing up in this house, I’ve always known I would have to bepresented to societysome day. Like cattle at an auction. Cotillion, the 18thcentury rite of passage where young girls are presented to suitors as available, is honestly disgusting to me. I’m fifteen years old, for Christ’s sake! But according to my mother, it’s tradition. It’s almost funny how our parents seethis as a way for us to learn social etiquette, while we just see it as a torturous excuse for wearing Sunday clothes on a weekday.
My mother pulls the strings on the white corset dress tighter and tighter, my lungs already burning for oxygen. She grumbles something about me not having the figure my sister does, and embarrassment burns in my chest.
My sister, Rose, is the picture of South Carolina beauty. Her gorgeous blonde hair and stick thin figure have always made her the favorite in my mother’s eyes. She stands beside the mirror, sympathy in her eyes as she smiles weakly. She could say something, but we both know it wouldn’t make a difference to our mother. I will never be enough.
“Mom, Maggie looks beautiful. I think the dress fits perfectly.” She tries to temper my mother’s irritation with me, but I’m used to it by now. I’ve always been the ugly duckling compared to my older sisters, Rose and Ivy. To say our mother has a thing for gardening is a hell of an understatement. But that’s what we’ve always been to her. Precious flowers for her to cultivate and prune until we are award-winning perfection. Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with more of my father’s looks than anyone else.
Thomas Monroe was once one of the most handsome bachelors in Charleston. With his dark auburn hair, green eyes, and skin tanned from hours spent on a surfboard, my father could have had any woman below the Mason-Dixon Line. Even as he aged, he’s still one of the most handsome men I’ve ever known. I’ve spent my life wondering how my mother sunk her claws into him, how he didn’t see through her fake smile to the robotic woman beneath.
To my mother, the highest honor in her life was marrying rich. I can’t blame her entirely. It’s simply the way she was raised. My grandmother took Reba McEntire very seriously when she sang “Here’s your one chance, Fancy,” and she taughther daughters to use their bodies to get where they wanted to be in life.
I definitely favor my father in both looks and personality. I would rather be on the water with him, or curled up in bed with my books, than shopping at the mall, trying to catch the attention of a boy my mother deems “appropriate”.
“Are you even listening to me, Magnolia? I swear your head never leaves the clouds,” my mother croons next to me, drawing my attention back to the ruffled white torture device she has finally finished lacing up.
“Mother, I look like a cream puff,” I tell her. Rose snickers beside us and my mother snaps, shooting her a glare that silences her instantly. I remember going through this same song and dance with Rose three years ago, and again with Ivy last year. But they looked far more demure and classy in their coming out dresses than I do now. The freckles that line my cheeks and forehead are even more pronounced when I’m covered in white. I know my mother is silently picking me apart right now, and I squirm under her scrutiny.
“Well, the ball is only two days away, so it will have to do,” she says, stepping out of the dressing room and pulling my sister with her. Once I’m left alone with my reflection, all of my flaws coming roaring to the forefront. From the top of my curly red hair to the ends of my stubby legs, I am wholly imperfect.
I will never be the person my mother expects me to be. But one day, I’ll be whoever I damn well please.
one
“Areyou even listening to me, fuck stick?” Everett asks, purposely putting a little more pressure into the tattoo gun currently gliding across my collarbone.
I take a deep breath, never willing to admit how much I get off on this pain. Instead, I’m scrolling absentmindedly through the hook up app on my phone. All the random girls are starting to blend together at this point.
“Does he ever listen?” Elijah says from the room across the hall, the deep rumble of Breaker’s laugh echoing behind him.
“Not if he can help it,” Breaker replies, his eyes searching for his wife, finding her where she stands behind the front counter.
“Can’t believe I’m fucking doing this for you,” Elijah grumbles, and Breaker scoffs.
“Hey, don’t fault the man, Eli. He’s in love,” Everett replies, focusing intently on the lines he’s etching into my skin.
“It’s sad really, bro. My sister has you so pussy whipped. She says jump, you say how high,” Eli adds, laughing under his breath.
Rory stands at the front counter, a tiny baby boy held tightly to her chest in one of those wrap baby carrier things. Their son, Jasper, is sleeping soundly against her chest, his dark hair peeking out of the top of the carrier.
“Elijah, if she told me to set myself on fire, I’d beg her for the matches,” Breaker answers, staring at his family with complete reverence.
A pang of jealousy strikes through my chest. As much as I joke, I’d kill to have someone who loves me that way. Unfortunately for the female population, that’s not my priority right now.
When I heard Jack was selling his bar last year, I went straight to him and offered him ten thousand over the asking price. To my surprise, he turned me away. He told me the bar was his legacy, and I wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility yet. Who does the old man think he is? Yeah, he’s seen me leave that bar with a different woman on my arm more times than I can count. But what does that have to do with my ability to run a business?
“Earth to fucktard,” Breaker shouts, throwing a balled up paper towel at my head. Pulling me from my thoughts, I flip him off, watching the slight twitch in his eye as Elijah finishes the delicate crown design directly over his heart, an homage to his wife.
“Fuck you guys,” I sing, knowing how much they love giving me shit. Everett finally finishes the edge of the letter M on the simple wording I chose this time around.
Ón anam,the phrase my grandfather taught me to live by.
