Page 137 of Exposed

And with that, my jerk-face, fake fiancé presses his lips to my forehead and disappears to our cold, creepy basement, like some kind of hero.

Ugh!

29

LOVE YOUR SOUL

Goldie

Idid not wet my pants.

Yay me.

It’s the only good thing that’s happened since I got home.

Though, no one would agree with that but me.

After I went to the bathroom, I decided I didn’t want to see King, my alternate fiancé, or Mom, who’s become Miss Chipper Pants. So I locked myself in the only bathroom we have and took a shower until I drained the hot water heater.

Maybe I saved myself from acne breakouts.

In a rush to skip town to lament my poor life choices before the man in the other room could find me, I packed the rattiest clothes that usually bring me mental and physical comfort. I needed clarity and to ease my soul.

Ratty, comfort clothes are saved for alone time, not engagement celebrations featuring cauliflower.

I’m not happy with our house guest or my outfit at the moment.

When I finally came out of the bathroom, King was outside manning the grill flipping cauliflower steaks, and Mom was plating up her famous Mediterranean sauce that’s perfectly salty with capers, tangy from fresh lemon, and seasoned with Mom’s go-to—a pound of garlic. King hating olives must not extend to capers, because he’s still here.

Newsflash: my childhood friends never stayed for dinner.

Mom is a hippie.

She loves to live off the land and refuses to eat God’s creatures. She’s four inches shorter than me, her hair is as wild and carefree as she is, and her clothes match her personality. Her ears are pierced approximately two gazillion times, and the only jewelry she wears are beads she strings herself.

How she hooked up with my father, I’ll never know.

I do, however, know why my father was attracted to her. Mom loves life, finds the good in most everyone—except my father because he didn’t deserve it and my childhood bullies—and she sprinkles goodness wherever her Birks take her.

Mom might be eccentric, but she’s perfect.

I wish I were more like her, but I’m not. And it’s not for a lack of trying. It just felt weird. When I tried to be more like her, I didn’t feel comfortable walking around in my own skin.

Actually, I take that back. I used to be like her in some ways. Happy and sunny and carefree.

Then I moved to Miami. The rest is history.

Well, the rest is my current reality. I can’t wait for it all to be past tense.

“I can’t lie, Goldielocks, when the love of your life knocked on my door, I thought I was in trouble. He introduced himself as the DEA, and you know I’ve got a little bit of Mary Jane drying in the basement.”

I groan internally. “Mom. You don’t have to talk about it.”

King chuckles from where he sits next to me at our small table. His arm is draped across the back of my chair, and he’s playing with the ends of my frizzy hair.

“What?” she exclaims. “I’m within the legal limit … I mean, give or take. Whatever the law is, it’s just a suggestion. Right, King?”

“We go after the big guys, Alina. You’re safe with me,” King says with a smile.

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