Say When by Tara West Read Free Book Online Page A

funds saved up, a small inheritance from a great aunt who died last year. She bought herself a new car, took on more hours at work, and has been supporting herself ever since.
    I wonder if my mom will be as irate when I tell her I’ve called off the engagement. I shudder when I think how far my mom will go to try and get me back together with Jackson. I know she’ll stop at nothing to make sure I marry into one of the richest families in Texas.
    “It’s my goddam life, Christina,” Grace says as she pounds her fist on the table. “And I’m tired of doing what everyone else wants me to do. It’s time I live my life the way I want to, and you know what? One day you’re going to have to do the same. If you like this guy, then go for it.” She leans over and stabs her finger in my chest. “This is your life. Not Jackson’s, not your mom’s. Yours .”
    Much to my relief, the waitress shows up with our food. Grace and I don’t talk during the meal. She’s very serious about me living my life the way I want. Message received. Luckily, she’s also serious when it comes to chocolate chip pancakes. She digs in, occasionally stopping to shoot me a pointed look.
    Despite the knot of tension which has coiled around my neck and shoulders and the lead ball which has settled in my gut, I devour my food, stopping only to reflect on our conversation.
    I think back to the Christina who asserted herself with Jackson and broke off the engagement. The Christina who asked Andrés to take her home. I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I can tell my mom to back off and let me live my life. I remember the piece of paper Andrés slipped into my hand this morning and smile.

Chapter Seven

    We’ve lived in this house for nearly ten years, four-thousand square feet of wall-to-wall white. White furniture, white carpets, white tile floors. I should be used to mom’s obvious derision for color, but every time I walk through the door, I feel blinded. Something about my home just doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it’s because I know I can’t touch anything, for fear I might break it. I’m even afraid to leave a butt dent on her white sectional sofa. My bedroom is the only room in the house which I decorated. Up until I turned fifteen, it was my sanctuary, but the room has too many bad memories in there now.
    Most days I tiptoe through my house like I live in a museum. I feel the need to tiptoe around my mom’s moods as well. She’s like one of her crystal vases, pretty to look at, but don’t dare touch her or she may break. And once she breaks, picking up all the pieces is a bitch, which is why I cringe when I see her. I wonder if Jackson has called and told her of our breakup.
    “There you are!” Mom waves her skinny arms wildly at me when I walk through the front door. She’s wearing a peach rayon skirt and a black rayon top, cut low enough to reveal abnormally large and perky breasts, compliments of her favorite surgeon, the same guy who shrunk her nose and engorged her lips. The same guy who tucked that loose skin beneath her chin all the way behind her ears. “Take a shower and get dressed. Hurry up.” She shoos me with the tips of her manicured fingernails like she’s trying to get rid of a stray dog.
    “Mom,” I groan as I slump against the mahogany door. “I’ve got a hangover.”
    I guess I should be happy she doesn’t seem to know about the breakup, but I’m in no mood to go anywhere with my mother.
    She turns up her chin while sweeping a hand over her auburn coiffure, as if she’s checking to see if a single strand has fallen out of place. Not likely with the heavy duty can of hair sealant she sprays on her head each morning.
    “Do you know what day it is?” she asks me pointedly.
    I heave a frustrated breath. Of course I know what day it is, but I refuse to acknowledge her question, because then I’ll have to acknowledge him when all I want to do is climb into bed and sleep. She’s still glaring at me, so I