Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
I enter and shut the door behind me before looking over at Snow. “Go to your room.”
Snow swallows, already stepping away from Mom, but she still asks, “Are you sure?”
“Now,” I tell her.
She swallows again but her relieved breath is unmistakable as she nods and practically flees. As sassy as my sister is, she’s a nervous wreck when it comes to the rest of the world, including Mom. Other than using Snow as a pawn in her twisted games against me, my mom also has a tendency of going off at the slightest of provocations, especially when I’m involved, so Snow tries to keep the peace.
Back when I was trying to get Snow to live with me and Mom wouldn’t let her go, Snow would try to appease Mom by promising visitation. Like we were in some sort of a custody battle. We did not have the money for that, and I don’t think a judge would grant a twenty-year-old with a high school degree and a strip club job custody of her little sister. In any case, Mom put up as many roadblocks as she could, if only to screw with me, and Snow retreated even more into her shell. All of this turned out to be moot though when her heart condition was revealed, and Mom let her go like she never wanted her in the first place.
Snow knows to call me if or when Mom shows up on our doorstep, and I’m sure she must’ve tried to but Mom probably didn’t give her a chance.
“You know, you like to pretend,” my mother says, still smoking, cocking her hip to the side, “but you’re not her mother.”
It’s been a few months since I last saw my mother. She looks the same as she always does, all made up and pretty with red hair and green eyes. Like me, she has freckles but hers don’t overpower her face like mine do, and they almost make a pattern on her nose and cheekbones, unlike mine that look like they exploded into a million pieces.
Anyway, my mother is very fond of her make-up and dresses. Looking pretty is important to her, and no matter what, she puts a lot into her appearance. Even during the days when she’d laze around the house after my biological dad was gone, she’d make sure to do her hair and put on lipstick at least, on the off chance she might run into someone while getting the mail.
She likes when people notice her, especially men. She specifically likes men noticing her when they shouldn’t. Like when she’s out and about with the man she’s supposed to be with at the time. I guess that’s how she met Jeremy, while being out and about with Dad, looking pretty. I overheard her saying that when they fought about him.
In any case, I refuse to rise to the bait and instead say, “What are you thinking? You can’t smoke in here. You can’t smoke around Snow. You know that.”
Yes, she does. Not because she was there when the doctor laid out all the rules, but because I told her when she came around the first time after Snow’s surgery. She was smoking then too, and I had her put it out. She didn’t like it but fuck that. We’d just almost lost Snow, she could go without her cigarette for a little bit.
My mother, however, takes her time with this one too. She studies me some more, this time with irritation that I can clearly see on her face, before bending down and stubbing the half-smoked cigarette out on the glass table. Great. Just freaking great.
Shaking my head, I toe off my sneakers and go to clean up after her. Pick up her cigarette and the empty glass of juice that I’m sure Snow must have gotten for her. This isn’t the first time I’m doing the same. I spent my entire childhood and teen years picking up after her in the hollow pursuit that if she saw me taking care of her, maybe she’ll take care of me back. Maybe she’ll even come to love me back but of course that never happened. While I have very little hope of it ever happening, I’m glad this gives me something to do while I wait for her to reveal why she’s here. I’m sure it has to do with her constant phone calls I still haven’t taken.
I walk to the kitchen just off the hallway, and she follows me. “It’s been months since her surgery. One cigarette wouldn’t kill her.”
I dump her glass in the sink and take a deep breath before turning around to face her. “It actually could. And please don’t use Snow and kill or anything remotely similar in the same sentence, thank you.”
She’s standing with her shoulder propped up against the fridge, looking all kinds of careless and pretty. “You don’t need to coddle her like she’s a child. She was sick, she’s fine now. She needs to live her life, not be afraid of it.”