Page 46 of Getting Over You

I explain as I scour EJ’s kitchen for something to put coffee in, to no avail.

“I think it’s saying something that he wanted to tell you,” Rory says about the shop. “If he was just fighting a war with his dick to avoid sleeping with you, he wouldn’t care about you being part of his accomplishments.”

I’ve considered that idea. Over and over and over. And I’ve convinced myself there’s no way. Girls like me don’t have that kind of power with guys like Cade.

“I think I have no choice but to do dishes,” I realize. “If we want coffee mugs.”

“Forget about the coffee,” Rory says. “You don’t want to touch the kitchen sink.”

I grimace. “Really?”

She nods once. “I swear. Come on, I’ll buy you one at Beach Brew on the way to your place.”

I don’t bother discarding the pot of coffee I made. Cade will drink it—and reach into the sink to clean a mug—willingly.

“I decided to make a few changes,” my mother says over dinner.

I tear my eyes away from my phone. Cade hasn’t tried to talk all day, and it’s starting to make me nervous. I doubt he remembers everything he said, but I know that he feels like an ass right now. “Oh?”

“I’m not getting any younger, Gigi.” Oh, no. There’s a multitude of possibilities for what comes next: boob job, a new butt, maybe some fake lips. Hopefully not all three. “And seeing you be so youthful during your time here has sparked something in me.”

It’s got to be a boob job. She’s jealous of my boobs. Belinda Elliott: the only woman in the world jealous over her daughter having a better figure than her.

“I think I want to put myself out there, try dating.”

“Really?”

She nods, taking a sip from her wineglass. “Your father moved on so easily. I think it’s about time I get my turn. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He moved on because you gave him no choice but to. And thank God he did.

“You’d benefit from socializing,” I tell her. The only environments I’ve seen my mother in during my time here is the diner or at home, glass of white wine in hand. I’d imagine she’d like having a group of friends to talk about herself with so they can fawn over her.

Then again, she likely thinks the women in this town are beneath her, that she deserves people of a better caliber as friends.

“I have plenty of friends as it is,” she tells me. “But maybe you’re right. I should put myself out there.”

“You should.”

“I’ve dated,” she tells me. “But nothing ever works out. I’m just too busy. I’m a lot of woman to handle.”

You’re a lot of something.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “You’re a catch. Any man is lucky to have you.”

She smiles with the usual levity that exists after she gets a compliment, as I knew she would.

“You’re such a sweet girl, sugar.” Her smile could illuminate the entire city.

It makes me nauseous.

A few days later, Belinda has a date. The house smells like Patchouli. She’s walking around humming Michael Buble to herself as she gets ready, and she’s acting… happy. Genuinely, bounce-in-her-step, light-as-a-feather happy.

It’s weird.

“Gigi,” she sing-songs from the kitchen. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here all by yourself?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m here alone while you’re at the diner. Constantly.”

---