Page 70 of If You Claim Me
I come to his defense. “I think he’s just trying to find a place to fit.”
She laughs. “He’s never tried to fit into this family.”
“Maybe he did, but it didn’t work, so he stopped trying,” I suggest.
“Connor has always done his own thing,” she assures me.
“It can’t be easy.”
Her expression shifts to confusion. “Connor has never liked to make things easy for himself or anyone else.”
“I imagine it must have been lonely for him, always feeling like he was on the outside, never feeling understood.”
Isabelle comes down the stairs and squeals when she sees me, effectively ending that tense conversation. I’m grateful for Isabelle and her sweetness, and even more thankful when the rest of my friends show up. They’re a huge ball of happy energy, insulating me from the haughty stuffiness of Connor’s mother’s friends. Everyone is so proper and stiff.
I’m not huge on being the center of attention, but I’m thrust into the middle of the room so I can open the endless gifts. Three-thousand thread count sheets imported from Egypt, a collection of wildly expensive wines, designer embossed sweaters with Mr. and Mrs. Grace on the front. Every gift is grander than the last, like it’s a competition to see who can give the best one.
So when the Babe Brigade—bless their wonderful, sweet hearts—present me with a spa day that they’ll all be joining me for, I almost burst into tears of gratitude. I could really use a girls’ day.
“You’re included as well, obviously,” Lexi says to Connor’s mom and sisters.
“I have someone who comes to the house monthly,” Courtney replies.
“I’d love to go,” Isabelle says at the same time.
Portia looks like she might explode from the sudden tension in the room.
Lexi just ignores it. “Great! It’ll be a fun day! Roman sends me there all the time, and they’re wonderful.” She turns to Courtney. “Maybe you could just join us for lunch. Your aesthetician is sort of like your stylist, right? Going to someone else feels a lot like cheating.”
Portia laughs shrilly, then sinks into her chair. I have so many questions about her.
I diffuse some of the discomfort by offering an embarrassing, pointless story. “Once I trimmed my own bangs. I was between stylists because I’d moved.” And I couldn’t really afford regular trips to the salon, but everyone is listening, and Portia is no longer receiving looks from her mother for her outburst of laughter, so I continue. “But my ability to cut a straight line was not the best, so I had to keep trimming.”
“Oh no…” Isabelle covers my hand with hers.
“You see where this is going, right?”
“How short were they?”
“Soshort. It was around Halloween, so I really leaned into it. I dyed my hair black and went as the girl fromKill Bill.”
“What’sKill Bill?” Courtney asks.
“A movie from the early two thousands,” I explain.
“That’s a real commitment to a bang cut gone awry,” Lexi says.
“I like to own my mistakes.” And apparently tell stupid stories because I didn’t put up a fight when my future in-laws said they were throwing a bridal shower. I am so lucky to have the friends I do.
“My mom used to cut mine and Flip’s hair, because of money,” Rix chimes in, obviously not wanting me to be alone in the land of embarrassing stories.
At Isabelle and Portia’s confused expressions, Rix offers more of an explanation. “We were poor.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Isabelle looks genuinely sad that this was the case.
Rix shrugs. “It’s all I knew, and we have great parents and a house full of love.”
I love how she unintentionally humbles these women, and how easily she talks about what her life was like growing up. “Except once Flip asked me to cut his hair, and it did not go well.”
