Page 1 of Perfectly Imperfect Us
1
Ryder
“Oh, you’re not going to put that there, are you?”
My mother’s voice, in its passive-aggressive ways, already grated on my nerves and I’d officially been moved back to Nickel Bay for all of thirty-seven minutes. I really should have arranged for alternative housing before moving back home, but that job in Milan got cancelled at the last minute—which I tried not to take personally—and I found myself without a lease in Los Angeles and no home lined up in Nickel Bay. Hence my parents’ house for the time being.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to center myself. She was probably just as off center as I was with me being back home and invading her space. The place was small, but furnished within an inch of its life. Mom did things her way and you either got on board or got out of the way. Which applied even to me, her only son. The tiny little fact that I’d paid for this house and their current lifestyle of leisure didn’t factor.
“Where would you like me to put my suitcase, Mom?” If Jesus gave out gold stars, I should definitely receive two when I passed the pearly gates for my respectful tone of voice.
She sashayed into the guest bedroom, her grace something I’d inherited, so I shouldn’t be annoyed by it, but combined with her other snooty behaviors, it was a bit overdramatic.
“In the closet, please, where it won’t get anything dirty.” She waved a hand over at the floor-to-ceiling mirrored doors.
Glancing around the white-and-beige-toned room, I could see her point. One misstep with a leaf on the bottom of your shoe and you could really change the whole dynamic of the magazine-worthy room. It would be highly inconvenient to have my suitcase in the closet and not out on the floor where I could actually get to it, but hey, that would just be more motivation to move out as quickly as possible.
“So, um, that truck outside, dear.” Mom still had a brittle smile pasted to her face. Or maybe that was just due to a new type of Botox they made these days. “Are you planning to park that here? How much stuff is in there exactly? How long do you plan to stay?”
Had I been super close to my parents, I would have been offended by those questions, but as it was, Mom did the best she could. And those were valid questions for someone who wasn’t used to having a kid—in truth, I was all man being thirty years old—around again. She probably worried my presence would interfere with her plans at the country club.
I walked toward her, my hands gentle on her arms as I gave her the closest thing to a hug we’d had in years.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be out of your hair before you even blink. And all that stuff in the truck is going to storage. You just do your normal thing and I won’t interfere, okay?”
She fluttered her spider-leg lashes, the kind girls get when they use too many layers of clumpy mascara. My makeup artist would be appalled, but then again, she wasn’t used to working on former beauty queens from a small town like dear old Mom.
More was always better.
Mom’s painted smile got brighter and she patted my chest, her perfume wafting with each tap. “Okay, sounds good, kiddo. Call my cell if you need me, but I usually have it on silent. The club hates it when cell phones are ringing all over, you know.”
“Thanks, but I think—”
“Jimmy!” Mom bellowed at the top of her lungs, cutting me off. “We’re going to be late for lunch.” She rolled her eyes affectionately at my dad’s antics and walked off, her heels sinking into the plush carpet with each step.
“I’m coming, my dear. No need to yell.” My father’s patient voice floated up from downstairs.
Once I heard the front door click closed, I spun around and took in my new room for the next week or so. Not a fake plant was out of place, each book tilted just so on the bookshelf and even an hourglass in case I wanted to tell time by the falling of sand. No less than ten of Mom’s pageant pictures hung suspended in frames, sprinkled throughout the room. A sophisticated shrine to her accomplishment thirty-two years ago.
Ah yes, the Poppy Queen. Mom’s one claim to fame.
You’d think having an internationally recognized model for a son would be one of her claims to fame, but you’d be wrong. Apparently, being the center spread in a fashion magazine sporting nothing but my good looks, hard work, and Calvin Kleins wasn’t enough for her.
I’d long since given up waiting for her approval or for that moment when your parent tells you they’re proud of you. It wasn’t coming, so I moved on. I made myself proud and that was good enough. Helped that I had millions of dollars in the bank to make up for anything my family lacked in warmth.
I flopped back on the surprisingly comfortable oatmeal-colored bedspread and pulled my phone out to text the Nickel Heads.
Ryder:Yo, bros. Back in Nickel Bay. Get your butts to the storage facility. I need help unpacking all my stuff.
Max:Welcome home! Be there right after school gets out.
I shook my head, chuckling at the thought of Max Duke, a World Series–winning baseball player now the PE teacher and baseball coach at our old high school. I guessed if it made him happy—and that dude never stopped smiling—I was happy for him too. More than likely a certain auburn-haired woman had something to do with the perma-smile.
Heath:Burns!! Another one makes the move, huh? I’m in New York on a last-minute trip, so I can’t help with the boxes of all your pretty pictures, but I’ll have beer delivered. Next best thing.
Ryder:Wow, the lengths you’ll go to get out of a little manual labor, Aston. Glad Max is here for me. And quit it with the Burns crap. I may be retiring my tighty-whities, but I’m keeping the Steele last name.
Imagine growing up with the name Ryder Burns. And then add on the pretty boy looks I was born with. It was either move away from home and change names, or go be a cliché cowboy dancer in a sleazy bar somewhere.
