Page 11 of Give My Everything
So that’s what I do.
I choose who I want to be today.
The strong version of me.
The one who is in control of herself and her life.
I wash my hair, a long billowing wave of thick brunette locks I’ve allowed to grow and grow and grow.
Like a weed.
I love when it’s dry and big and full, love how it hangs and swings and wraps around me.
I glance through the glass at the small clock that rests on my counter, cursing when I realize I’ve wasted too much time in the shower.
Finishing up quickly, I turn off the water, towel-dry my body, and step out, rushing over to my phone to check and make sure…
Perfect. Klinton and Marcus are finishing up with my mother and will be over to do my hair in a few minutes.
I put on a pair of shorts and a loose shirt I can change out of once I’m ready to go, and then I go back to the bathroom, taking a seat at my vanity while I rub lotion on my legs.
Having someone else handle my hair is probably one of my favorite things in the world. Having it brushed, cared for with products, dried and styled…it makes me feel like a princess even on the shittiest of days.
My makeup, though, is another story. I don’t like having someone else put it on. I like doing it myself, because every time I put on my makeup, I feel like I’m putting on my war paint, like I’m preparing myself for whatever shit is going to come my way that day. And if someone else does it, I just don’t feel as strong or capable, even if they do itexactlylike I would.
I sigh, grabbing my phone and looking at the text I got earlier this morning.
Ben: Have you thought any more about my proposal?
I snort. From anyone else, it would sound like he’s talking about some sort of deal or agreement for business. Which, I guess, he kind ofis.
But he’s referencing a literal proposal, a proposal ofmarriage, and I’m still having a hard time getting my mind around it.
There is a part of me that thinks I can manage everything on my own, that thinks I don’t need him—or any man—to help me through whatever is coming next.
But there is another part of me…a part that is truly scared about the next chapter of my life. I can’t help but think about how much easier it would be to have someone else by my side, taking care of things, making sure I don’t crumble and fall like I did when I went to college.
Sure, it makes me sound weak as shit. Like I’m useless. Can’t handle things on my own.
As much as I want to be strong, though, the part of me that doesn’t want to be alone feels bigger.
So I let my fingers fly across the screen, punching out a message just as Klinton and Marcus come barging into my bedroom.
Me: Let’s talk
CHAPTER3
REMMY
The dinner my parents host every year for the board members of Wallace Media is always a spectacle.
They rent out the main hall at the Hermosa Beach Country Club, a large space with three-story ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows along one side, and an entire wall that can be moved to create an indoor-outdoor event that looks out onto a large courtyard with the golfing green in the background.
Every year there’s a live band, dinner catered by a celebrity chef—a regular occurrence the wealthy residents of Hermosa Beach like to repeat—a presentation about the state of the company, fancy desserts, and a fireworks show to end the night.
It’s been a few years since I’ve attended, but my dad still knows how to make the board members happy.
It really is spectacular.
