Page 38 of Getting Over You

My hair has absolutely nothing to do with Belinda and everything to do with my unwillingness to dye it because I like the color. But narcissists like my mother don’t think that way. Ever.

“Have you talked to your father?” she asks. Her eyes sparkle with a devilish curiosity. “Have you told him about working at the diner and how much you’re enjoying it?”

Texting Mollie pictures of my swollen feet and wads of cash from tips counts, right?

“Yes,” I say. “He’s happy.”

“As he should be,” Belinda says. “It’s not like he and that woman could give you an opportunity like that. Shame on them for not thinking of your future.”

Shame on them? Oh, she’s got to be kidding. Like she was thinking of her daughter’s future when she abandoned ship.

“Mom and Dad do fine,” I say. “My tuition is basically covered. Mollie’s is, too. Thanks to scholarships.”

“Stop calling her that,” Belinda snaps. “I’myour mother.”

“A mom and a mother are two different things,” I tell her. “To me.”

She guffaws. She gets into the fridge and pulls out her white wine, pouring herself a hefty glass. “Care to explain?” she asks, peering at me over the goblet.

No. Not really.“Greta, my mom, didn’t give birth to me. But she does everything else a mom should. She was there for all the good stuff, and the bad, without complaint. She’s the most selfless person I’ve ever met.”

I think that was the snarkiest thing I’ve said to Belinda. And all I did was compliment somebody else, call somebody else a good person, a good mom.

Belinda blinks. “I do that and more,” she says. She pauses, taking a gulp of her wine. It’s nearly empty. “And the fact that you aren’t seeing it is terrible.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. There’s no understanding with her, only dominating the conversation, winning the fight that was never meant to be one in the first place. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I appreciate that you’re allowing me to work at the diner.”

She finishes her glass with a tip of her head, then sets it gingerly on the counter. “And thanks would be appreciated for helping your friend, too. I hired Cade.”

“I know you did.” And I have a feeling you’ll fail to put him on payroll, too. Guilty by association.

“And you don’t appreciate it,” Belinda tells me.

“I do,” I say, white flag waving pitifully once again. “I appreciate everything you do.”

Tonight will be the night that I fling Shane.

Tonight will be the night where I become the girl who guys want.

Casually.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say. “That restaurant was stunning.”

“A diamond in the rough, for sure,” he agrees. “Probably the best carbonara I’ve ever had.”

“And the bill,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. I offered to pay for my meal, knowing how expensive the restaurant was. He waved me off and had the audacity to wink after.

“If you bring it up again,” Shane says, mocking a warning, “there won’t be another dinner date.”

My stomach flutters, my heart soars. Oh, hell. “I’m starting to like you,” I say.

He smiles warmly. “Ditto.”

And I’m not kidding. Shane is more than fling material. He’s boyfriend material. Without a single doubt. He took me to the most expensive restaurant in the whole town, and now he’s giving me a tour of his art studio.

We walk up the narrow staircase, and Shane pushes the door with his shoulder, holding my hand in his own. “I have a surprise,” he says when we reach the landing, “so close your eyes.”

I grin. “Shane.”

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