Page 25 of Wild Flower

It makes me feel likeI’mthe jungle.

“What the hell are you wearing?” my mother gripes as she walks out of the main house with a frown marring her face.

Okay, maybe the dress shows offa lotof leg.

“I’m headed out to meet Chad,” I deflect, walking to the driver’s side of the Birds of Paradise delivery van. The dress I’m wearing screams sex pot, but the delivery van reveals my practicality. I’ll park several blocks from the restaurant, so I don’t shatter the illusion.

“His name is Carl,” My mother corrects.

“Right.” I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to insult my future husband with the wrong name.”

“There’s not going to be a future husband if you wear that!” Mom scolds, marching up to me with tyrannical vigor, making me think she’s about to grab my ear and yank me back into the house.

“This is who I am!” I declare, opening the van door and using it to shield my mother’s advance. “Plus, men love the velvet fabric. They can’t keep their hands off it!”

“Sweet, kind, feminine! That’s what you’re supposed to be,” my mother spits. “Not this—”

“Tattooed whore?” I offer, meeting her anger.

Mom purses her lips, flexing her fingers like she needs to warm them up before she snaps.

“Chad is a very nice—”

“Carl,” I correct, the interruption making her eyes flare with her mistake.

“I sang your praises to Carl,” she continues, a vein pulsing in her neck. “Your actions are a reflection of me on this date. I expect you to act like a lady.”

“I will,” I reply, thinking about my less-than-lady-like behavior at Flambé. My mother would have an aneurism if she knew what I did with Archer and Finn. That’s a secret that will stay a secret—forever! And boy, does Carl have the odds against him. Archer and Finn have been running through my mind all week, and are mighty distracting. “But thislady,” I continue to address my mother, “isn’t going to hide the fact that she’s tattooed, or owns a flower farm, or can look hot in a dress. I’m not changing who I am for Carl. Got it?”

My mother tilts up her chin, her nostrils flaring as her lips pinch into an epic frown.

“I’m not Helena!” I say, before she can release whatever venom she’s holding back. “You want to set me up with the perfect man, stop thinking I’m my sister and picking men that want sweet, kind, and feminine. Find someone who’s going to wantme.”

“And how exactly should I describe you?” she says through gritted teeth, and I know the words crawling through her mind aren’t flattering. It stings to know she thinks so little of me, and that she wishes she had another Helena instead.

“Tell them the truth, mom,” I say, biting back the prick behind my eyes that threatens to ruin my smokey make-up. “Or stop setting me up. I’ll go on this date, but don’t hold your breath. If Carl can’t handle me, I’m not going to settle for him.”

“Give him a chance first,” she hisses. “He’s very influential at the club.”

“I’m sure he is,” I snap, looking away to avoid her ire. I stare at the palm trees that line the edge of my farm, taking a deep breath and smoothing out the sides of my dress. The sun hangs low and the pink sky silhouettes the trees like looming giants. “It’d be nice if you’d give me a little more grace,” I say softly. “It’d be great if you had even an ounce of confidence in me.”

“I love you,” my mother says tersely, as if that should fix the hollowness in my gut. “I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”

I shake my head. That phrase is loaded in so many ways. She thinks I can’t take care of myself. Or she wants to be rid of me.

“Don’t wait up,” I say, nodding to the window she likes to look out of to keep tabs on me. “Maybe this date will go incredibly well, and you won’t see me until the morning.”

That’s a stab. Only her loose, tattooed, whore-of-a-daughter would say something like that. God, if she only knew howunsatisfyingone-night stands have been in my life, how littleanyonelights me up.

“I’m going to be late,” I say, taking the driver’s seat and turning the ignition. The van’s headlights flood my mother with brightness, and she stands like a statue with her lips pursed and her arms crossed the whole time I back out of the driveway. She has a way of making me feel three inches tall, a way of making me wish I was someone else around her … someone normal.

16

BECCA

The Silver Fin is a classy, upscale restaurant full of beige chairs and cream-colored walls. A single candle sits at the center of my table, flanked by white plates and napkins. Carl is just as drab, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing when he walked in in a taupe suit like this was a game of fade into the background.

As my mother so acutely fears, I stick out like a sore thumb. I’m a neon sign of flower tattoos and velvet emerald. Even my lips are dark as plumbs, making me the Wicked Witch in this khaki dungeon.

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