Page 120 of Spicy Ever After
But when I scan the empty bedroom, a smile spreads across my face. It’s bigger than my own. But even better than that are the other bedrooms.
“I could have a sewing room,” I blurt. “A whole room just for that.”
Mom hums. “Maybe that’s the answer. More room for you to spread out.”
I keep my mouth shut. More room would be great, but I don’t think it’ll suddenly make me the kind of housekeeper that would meet her standards.
My brain is my brain, after all.
But who am I to burst that bubble?
I take a deep breath and exhale. “I really like it.”
Dad beams and looks at Mom.
Mom presses her lips together before inhaling deeply. Finally, she exhales, clearly exasperated. “We’ll talk about it.”
But Dad winks at me.
I think I’m getting a townhouse.
We’re climbing into the car by the time I manage a look at my phone. Beck has responded. As soon as I see it, my heart soars.
Beck: It doesn’t sound bougie. It sounds AWESOME!!! Send pics.
The message is from fifteen minutes ago. For sure, he’s back at work by now, but I start spamming him with the pictures I took, including ones of the front I snapped on our way out. He won’t see them for hours, but I suddenly can’t wait to see what he thinks.
I can’t wait to show it to him.
“Hats? You buckled up back there?”
Dad’s looking at me through the rearview. The engine’s already running, and I realize he’s stopped reversing out of the parking spot.
I look around. Nope. I’m not buckled in.
“Sorry.” I grab the seat belt and click it in place.
Dad’s still watching me.
“You know, maybe you should invite your boyfriend to the wedding?—”
Mom gasps. “Randy?—”
“What?” Dad says with a shrug. “It’ll be a party. He can get to meet all of us when the focus of attention isn’t all on him and Harriet.”
“Dad, I don’t think?—”
Mom tries to protest. “You can’t just—it’s in two weeks—I?—”
“He’d be Hattie’s plus one,” Dad says, waving a hand. “He doesn’t need an embossed invitation.”
“H-he might not be able to make it,” I hedge.
“Well, ask him. I want to meet the boy.”
I like Dad calling Beck the boy about as much as I like him calling me baby. “His name is Beck, and he has a lot of responsibilities,” I say pointedly. “I’d be asking him to hang around for hours with people he doesn’t know while I did bridesmaid things.”
I don’t even want to do bridesmaid things. Why would anyone want to stand around with a bunch of strangers and watch me do bridesmaid things?
