26. Lottie
twenty-six
Lottie
I stand in the middle of my mother’s closet, which is the size of an average person’s apartment, and I wring my hands together as I work up the courage to say three words.
Okay, maybe not a full-sized apartment, but definitely closer to the size of an average bedroom.
But that’s neither here nor there. The real issue at hand is I kissed Ty!
Between the kiss and the conversation we had, I seriously need to tell her I’m done with Bodan and that whole charade.
But how do I say such a thing?
Mom, don’t freak out, but Tyson and I are .
.. well, what are we? I mean, we aren’t really dating since we haven’t gone anywhere together yet.
We kissed. Well, just one amazing, knee-shaking kiss, but that still counts.
I’m sure there will be more. Or at least I hope there will be more.
We are mostly talking at this point, but we’re being honest.
Oh, how do I say Ty and I are being honest? What even is that?
It doesn’t matter how many words I attempt, everything clumps in my throat as my mom glides past me in a long black dress that probably cost more than my car.
She pauses in front of the mirrored wall and flashes duck lips at herself.
“What do you think, Lottie? Is this too elegant for a day funeral?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” I say automatically. Then, before I lose my nerve, I add, “Mom, I need to tell you something.”
She lifts a pair of silver hoop earrings from a velvet tray and holds them up to her ears.
“Maybe if I avoid diamonds, I will look more casual. You know, you should start thinking about what you’re wearing to the funeral.
It’s two days away, and the press will be watching every move.
It’s events like these that can really shape the public’s opinion of you. ”
“Mom, do you seriously think you are going to that poor man’s funeral? It seems pretty shallow to attend for PR.”
She glances over her shoulder. “We’d be foolish not to be strategic.”
My stomach twists. “You never even knew him.”
“I knew him in spirit,” she says, turning back to the mirror.
My brows draw together as I process what is possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s not a thing.” A sound escapes me somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “You don’t attend someone’s funeral for a photo op.”
She plucks a pearl necklace from a hook on the wall, extending it toward me without looking at me. I don’t take it. Instead, I give her the crazy eyes she deserves. Undeterred, she presses the necklace closer. “Try this on. It might help make your neck look longer.”
Great, now I’m wondering what’s wrong with my neck. I grab my throat and mutter, “No.”
Her reflection stiffens as her gaze locks on mine. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not doing this.” I push the necklace back toward her. “I’m not dressing up to pretend I care about someone I’ve never met so you can look compassionate to a bunch of strangers. Maybe you can take Ham or Dad. I’m not going.”
“This isn’t about me.” She turns fully toward me now. “This is about Bodan. He’s your boyfriend. Everyone expects you to be there for him.”
I inhale sharply. She’s delusional! She knows he’s not my real boyfriend.
It’s all a farce. It’s completely disrespectful to Bodan in his time of grief to even think I’d be invited.
He needs that time with his family. I will not turn his tragedy into a mockery.
“Actually, Bodan needs time to grieve, and it’s best we just call off this whole thing—”
“Why would you do that?” Her brows shoot to the ceiling. “It’s just getting good!”
A rush of nerves hits me. If I’m going to say anything, I need to rush all my words before she interrupts me again. “Mom, I need to end the arrangement with Bodan, because there’s someone else—an actual, real man—who I, uh, want to date—”
“Oh, honey, you can’t cheat on Bodan,” she interrupts briskly.
“It’s not cheating!” I blurt out, my face growing warm. “This is the perfect time to respectfully stop working with Bodan. Then I can move forward with a real relationship.”
Her expression stays neutral. Without even acknowledging my news, she hands me a padded hanger with a black dress on it. “This dress always photographs well. You’re a little hippier than I am, but if you add a belt, you should look nice in it.”
“I said no .” I push the hanger away without looking at the dress.
Her lips press into a thin line and her head tilts into a disapproving angle. “Boy, Lottie. This is so unlike you. Why are you being so difficult?”
“I’m not being difficult. I’m being honest,” I snap.
Real anger I’ve never allowed myself to feel toward her starts to simmer in my gut.
Why can’t she see me for me? It’s like I’m a phantom she can look right through.
Before I lose my cool and start screaming, I try one last time to speak calmly.
“I’m seeing someone, and I need to respectfully end the Bodan arrangement now, which actually works out perfectly, because he needs to grieve instead of playing these stupid games. ”
Without waiting for a reply, she turns back to the mirror, holding the dress up to herself and admiring every angle. “Or maybe I should wear this dress?” she mumbles, lost in her reflection.
My mom is completely ignoring me. Not surprising though. She’s never seen me. Clenching my fists, I inhale deeply. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to that funeral.” I try to end the conversation with a civil statement, but Ty’s voice echoes in my head.
You say sorry too much.
I straighten and glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see Ty standing there. When I don’t see him, I turn back to my mom and swallow.
He’s right.
He’s been pointing it out for years, and I’m only now seeing it for myself. There is no reason to apologize to my mom for doing what I want with my life. “Actually, I take that back. I’m not sorry.”
She freezes, giving me a bewildered look in the mirror.
“I’m not sorry,” I continue as my heart pounds. “It’s time to break up with Bodan. He’ll understand, and he can move on with his life and properly grieve his grandpa. You can put your dresses and jewelry away, because we aren’t going to that funeral.”
Her eyes flash. “Oh, come on, Lottie. Snap out of it. You can’t break up with him now.”
“I will. And I’m done pretending.” Spinning on my heel, I do something I know she’ll consider rude, but I don’t care. I storm off before she’s done speaking.
Behind me, she scoffs, “You’re making a mistake!”
For a brief second, doubt creeps in. A public breakup is never easy.
I’ll likely be painted in a bad light, but it needs to happen.
I can’t lie anymore—not to the public and not to myself.
“Maybe I am making a mistake,” I whisper, careful she won’t hear my reply.
She’d just come back with some rebuttal I don’t need. “But at least it’ll be mine.”
With that, I leave her standing in front of her mirror, continuing to admire a version of herself and a life that I’m finally done trying to fit into.
It’s time for me to be honest with what I want.
It’s time for me to make my own decisions.
And I’ve never felt better.