The Right Guy - Liz Lovelock Page 0,3

and letters that might be lying around. Get rid of all the plates, pots and pans—all of it. I don’t need it. I would like everything from my bedroom shipped here. The bed, bedding, desk—you name it. Anything in that room, I want to be brought to me.”

There’s silence for a brief second before Marcus says, “All right. I have that all written down. I’ll get things happening, and I’ll be in touch if there’s anything I need from you. Please email me your new address.”

I scribble down his email address and end the call.

A knock on the door pulls me from the anger that I’m dwelling on. “Yeah?” I call.

“Is everything alright? You sounded angry.” Mom steps into my room.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Yeah, everything is okay. It was Dad’s lawyers. They’re taking care of everything for me, shipping me all the smaller stuff and anything else I want. I’m selling all the furniture and the house and the car. I’ve got them bringing all of my bedroom furniture, though. I hope that’s okay.”

Mom reaches out and takes my hand. The warmth surprises me. I’ve never known this compassion. “Charity, I’m happy to take you back to sort everything out if that’s what you want, and if you want anything brought here, that’s fine. This is your home as well.” She squeezes my fingers.

I shake my head. “No, I’m done with that place.” If she knew all the details, I’m not sure she’d want me to go back either.

“Okay. I’m here if you ever want to talk. Get ready and come down for breakfast. You’ve got a big day today.” She gives my hand one more squeeze, and I feel it right in my heart.

I want to open up to her, to tell her everything. It’s hard to do that; I have no idea where to begin. Being here with all of them has been some of the best days of my life over the last ten years. Why the hell did I stay where I was? I should have packed my bags and left. Oh, that’s right. Dad liked to tell me no one would ever want me.

Standing in front of the mirror, I overthink what I’m wearing. I shouldn’t care. My father always told me if something wasn’t appropriate. “Skirts are for ladies,” he would say on numerous occasions. I’d then go and get out of my comfy jeans and pull on an ankle-length skirt or dress. I’m wearing dark-blue jeans that I’ve never been able to wear. I’d had them tucked away in the back of my cupboard so he wouldn’t find them and throw them out.

“Wow, you look pretty.” Grace stands at my doorway. She moves like a ninja, this girl.

Running my hands over my simple white tee, I say, “It’s nothing crazy. Just casual.”

She shrugs. “Still looks good.”

Turning around, I take in her outfit. She’s dressed in bright-pink tights with a light-pink tutu. “You’re the one who looks good. Do you have a dance class before school?”

“Nope, this is what I’m wearing to school.” She sways her tutu from side to side.

A smile tugs at my lips. “Well, you look beautiful. I might need to take some styling tips from you.”

She giggles and runs out of the room.

I turn back to the unfamiliar girl in the mirror. This is the new me. New Charity. Look out, world; there’s no holding me back now.

After tying my hair up in a simple messy bun and applying some foundation, eyeliner, and mascara, I make my way downstairs. The smell of bacon makes my mouth water and stomach growl at the same time.

Voices talk in hushed tones as I step around the corner into the dining room, which is across from the kitchen. Paul, my mother’s husband, and Mom stand close together. I take her in as she turns some frying bacon. Her long locks are tied up in a similar messy bun to mine. Fitted white jeans hug her curves, and she also wears a light-pink top. A floral apron hangs over her neck and is tied around her waist. She’s definitely not a Stepford wife, but she is beautiful.

“Good morning,” I greet them both, even though I’ve already spoken to Mom this morning. I’m choosing to ignore their private conversation, which suddenly stopped the moment I came into the room.

“Good morning,” they say in sync.

Mom rushes over and puts some plates on the table, along with some orange juice and milk. A squeal behind me