Page 8 of Heartfelt Pain
He doesn’t deny it. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Then maybe it’s time you learn some boundaries.” Dima can tell his brother to shut the fuck up whenever he wants.
Dima smirks. “Even when you hate him, you sound like your father.”
I rear back like I’ve been slapped.
“I love you, kid.” Uncle Dima raises his hands in surrender. “This sad ghostly thing you’re becoming. You’re better than that.”
“Shitting on a depressed guy,” I reply grimly. “Not exactly supportive.”
“I’ll fucking drive you to therapy if that’s what you want.”
The shop creaks and I shake my head after a second. “No, it’s fine.”
I move toward my car, taking comfort in one of the few things I’ve got going for me. For two years it’s been my pride and joy despite its need for a lot of pampering.
“I’m real proud of you, Roma.”
I can’t help wrapping a dirty rag around my fingers as I study my car.
“Your mom’s calling again,” he says, nodding at my lit-up phone.
“I’ll call her back.”
“I love you kid, you know that?”
“I hate this mopey shit,” I sigh. It’s creeping me the fuck out how Uncle Dima is acting.
But my uncle is also a practical man. I’m not surprised he’s the one leading this conversation.
He squeezes my shoulder before heading out the open bay. Without looking back, he lifts the shopping bag. “I’ll send you a photo of Sailor and me in our matching outfits.”
CHAPTER 3
Ren
The alarm goes off at five like it does every morning. I don’t hit snooze or else I won’t get out of bed. And if I don’t get out of bed, I don’t earn money. Work is a vicious cycle.
Hair sticks to my face as I stand directly under the stream of hot water. Bottles of fancy shampoo, conditioner, and body wash line the tiny shelf. I shave my legs and afterward wrap a fluffy towel tight around me.
The ensuite bathroom is the one spot not as messy as anywhere else. Bottles and tubes still clutter the countertop, but that’s normal, right? Girls have lots of stuff.
Serum, moisturizer, and SPF go on. I let the skincare soak in, combing back my brown hair. It’ll crimp into awful waves if I let it air dry.
The TV plays in the background. Morning news because I am an educated woman who listens to such worldly affairs. And okay, I like their accents when I listen to the BBC.
I spray leave-in conditioner and focus on makeup. I use a generous amount of concealer. Contour, bronzer, blush, and a tiny bit of highlighter to finish it off. A thin line ofeyeliner on the top lashes. A shit ton of mascara. My morning coffee will eventually ruin the neutral gloss I coat my lips with.
Rough drying my brunette locks, I run the straightener through my hair. I top it off with an oil, making my hair shiny and smooth.
Everything is finished with a setting spray.
Then I move on to clothes.
My phone remains on the charger on my nightstand, but I hear it buzzing. It’s surrounded by a ring of empty soda cans. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to already pop open a crisp new one. I make myself wait until at least lunchtime, though.
There’s a collection of pressed trousers in my closet. The best decision I’ve made in a long time is sending off my dry cleaning. A total game changer considering I’m more of theI accidentally forgot to do any laundrytype.
