Page 47 of The Do-Over

“Yeah. Can I get the PowerPoint emailed to me? I feel like I missed stuff.”

A strange, breathy laugh fell out of my mouth. “Oh, sure. I can do that.” I rummaged through my purse and found a paper and pen. “Write down your email address.”

Her upper lip lifted as she snatched it from my hand and began to write. “Where do you work?”

I smoothed a hand over the spot of green paint on the hem of my t-shirt—finger-painting day. “At a daycare. But I used to work at a mortgage company.”

Her expression disbelieving, she handed the paper back. “You left an office job to work with a bunch of snotty kids? Man, that’s stupid.”

Maybe my mom planted her.

“I like it.”

Her chin jerked up. “I want an office job with good pay. And dental.” She flashed a smile, revealing a gap between her front teeth. “I need me an orthodontist.”

“What do you do now?” I asked and took a step toward the door. She followed.

“Fast food,” she muttered. “Not too many people want to hire someone who just got out.”

My steps slowed. “Got out of where?”

“The slammer. Lockup. Prison. Why you think we’re all at Hope House?”

Now my feet came to a complete halt. “Prison?”

“Hope House helps us with stuff—jobs and stuff, so we can be”—she raised her hands and made air quotes—“‘productive’ members of society. No one wants to give us the time of day.” She shrugged. One of her bra straps slid down, and she hoisted it back up. “Besides, I got goals.”

I wondered what she’d done to land her in prison. Was I allowed to work that into the conversation? Something like, Hey, nice to meet you. By the way, did you murder someone?

“Goals are good.”

“So,” Bria said, lip ring winking in the light. “You coming back next week?”

Nope. “I’m not sure.”

Her shoulders slumped before she straightened, a hard, unreadable expression in her eyes. “Yeah, I understand.”

Then she walked away.

NINETEEN

“Never ask a woman how old she is,

how much she weighs,

or if she’s pregnant.”

—MIMI

February 19 was my twenty-eighth birthday, a day I dreaded for one reason: Family Birthday Dinner. It would be the first family meal since New Year’s Day, and I wanted to be anywhere else.

I rushed home after work and shuffled through my closet. After some consideration and trying on four different options, I settled on a pair of high-waisted black pants, a dark green blouse, and black heels. I suited up in my armor of Spanx—thank you, Mom—and gave myself a cursory look in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me looked fine.

Just fine. Not good or great. Just fine.

“You, Perci Mayfield, are twenty-eight years old today. Is this as good as it gets?” I smoothed a hand over the blouse. “Green looks terrible on me.”