Page 52 of Make Me Swoon

I drove straight through to Chicago, even though it took me all day and I showed up at my mom’s house looking rumpled and exhausted. I cried on and off for the whole trip, so I’m sure that I looked like a mess. I probably could have stopped for the night at a hotel, but that would have meant using the money that I tried to pay Hudson, and that just didn’t feel right to me.

My mom and stepfamily live in a huge palace of a house in a small gated community just outside of the city. It’s got marble floors, a gleaming stainless steel kitchen, a huge in-ground pool, and a pool house, which is where I’ve stayed for the past week.

Being with my mom and stepfamily is exactly like I thought it would be, but I’ve welcomed their demands. Every second that I spend running errands and helping with the wedding is one less second that I spend missing Hudson.

It doesn’t stop me from dreaming about him at night though. I wake every morning with tears on my cheeks, more heartbroken than I was when I went to bed the night before. After seven days, you wouldn’t think that was possible anymore.

I kick my feet over the edge of the bed, staring out across the pool at the main house. I really don’t want to get up today. Luckily for me, I’ve got some time since if I show up at breakfast with even one hair out of place, I’ll be nagged until I come back here and fix it.

I head for the shower, standing under the hot water until I feel human again. I scrub every inch of myself, making sure that I’m shaved and buffed to perfection before I turn off the water and step out.

My mom took me shopping the first day that I got here. She said that it was us bonding, but I know that she just really didn’t approve of my wardrobe of ripped jeans and T-shirts. She took me to a salon that first day too and had them dye my hair back to my natural platinum blonde.

I tug on a pastel purple dress that matches my old hair and find the silver flats that my mom bought me to match. Some mascara, lip gloss, and a quick brush of my hair and I’m ready to go.

I hate this.

I look like a Stepford wife. Like one of them.

I miss my purple hair. I miss my ripped jeans and comfy shirts.

I miss Sutton, Madelyn, Iris, and Flynn.

I even miss Stan and the Mystery Cabin.

Most of all though, I miss Hudson.

This place isn’t home. I might share blood with my mom, but she’s not my family. None of them accept or love me for who I am. None of them care what I want.

Sutton, Madelyn, and Iris have all sent me messages since I got here. Most of them are asking me when I’m coming back, but I still don’t know. They sent me pictures of girl’s night, all of them with their masks partially slipping out of place as they grinned at the camera. Looking at that picture, I almost felt homesick.

My phone goes off and I look at the screen as I get ready to go to the main house. I expect it to be Sutton or Madelyn, but it’s not. It’s Hudson.

I know without reading the message that it’s my dailywould you ratherquestion. He’s been sending me one every day since I left and it reminds me of the notes on my car. The notes that I still have in a box stored in one of my suitcases.

Hudson:Would you ratherwatch nothing but Hallmark Christmas movies or nothing but horror movies?

I bite my lip,debating if I should respond or not. I haven’t answered any of them yet but the temptation is getting stronger with every passing day. Seeing his name on the screen, it makes me miss him even more, so I shove my phone into the pocket of my dress and head over to the kitchen.

The chef has laid out the usual buffet for breakfast and I grab a plate, filling it up with bacon and pastries before I take a seat at the table big enough to fit twenty.

I’m the only one down here and I’m guessing that everyone else is still asleep or getting ready for the big rehearsal dinner tonight.

“Good morning,” my stepdad Fred says as he sits down at the head of the table, at least five seats away from me.

He has his newspaper, and he doesn’t even look up at me, so I don’t bother responding to what he said.

“There you are. I thought that you were going to sleep all day,” my mom says as she comes in to join us.

I don’t bother pointing out that I was down here before her.

She grabs a cup of coffee and the chef slides an egg white omelet in front of her. She eats the same thing every day. Egg white omelet with spinach, tomatoes, and mushrooms, one half of an English muffin with exactly one tablespoon of raspberry jam, and a small cup of seasonal fruit.

I know how she takes her coffee, the way that she looks when she’s disappointed in something that I said or did, the tone of voice she takes with her fake friends.

I wonder what she knows about me.

“I just can’t!” Heidi half screams, half sobs as she slumps into a chair across the table from me.

---