Shopping for a Billionaire 2(19)
Author: Julia Kent

“Whatever’s going on, don’t blind the poor girl, Marie!” Dad shouts.

Declan is standing just close enough to Amy to make me want to claw her eyes out, and the two lean toward each other as they peer into my bedroom. Eyebrows shoot up to hairlines—one auburn, one dark—and a familiar expression crosses Declan’s face.

Yet again, I’ve embarrassed the crap out of myself and he’s amused.

This is getting old. Fast.

“Get in here, Jason!” Mom mumbles, grabbing his arm. “You have dead mouse cooties all over you.”

“I can’t change, Marie,” he says, holding his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t have a spare set of clothes anywhere.”

“Shannon must have a pair of sweatpants that fit you.”

Dad is six feet two and about 240 pounds. I’m a good six inches shorter and don’t weigh that much. His belly is right where my waist is. There is no way I own a pair of pants that will fit him, and I tell Mom this. In the language of Dog Whistle.

“Get your special sweats for your dad. You have a pair,” she says in a tough-as-nails voice.

“Special what?”

“For that time of the month.”

“We’re supposed to wear special pants when we’re bleeding? I thought that was a Jewish ritual or something.”

Mom sighs heavily. “For when you’re bloated.”

“For when I’m—oooohhhh,” I mutter. Now I get it. I hate when she’s right. I march over to my dresser and reach into the top. My XXL flannel jammy bottoms are like stretching a hot-air balloon over a blimp.

And four to five days a month, I live in them. A few pints of ice cream and a lot of salt ’n’ vinegar potato chips do, too.

Dates start out in many ways. Most begin with the first meet-up. Your place, his, the bar, the restaurant. Whatever. The specifics aren’t important—the simple joining of two bodies into one shared space is, though.

I’ll bet that in the expanse of time, space, and millions—billions!—of dates throughout history, none of them started with cat puke on a father’s ass and ended with him wearing his daughter’s period sweats.

“You want me to wear what?” Dad roars. Roars! My father is many things—warm, kind, unfailingly patient (because you have to be in order to stay married to my mother)—but “dominant male” is the lowest thing on his list of attributes. His shoulders seem to expand and muscles in his neck pop out, like he’s becoming the Hulk.

“Anything is better than dead mouse,” Mom says with a sigh. She doesn’t seem to see the massive transformation in Dad.

“Wearing my daughter’s…” He can’t say “period.”

Tap tap tap.

Chapter Nine

I’m still wearing just a bra and work pants. A flush of panic chills my skin as I remember that Declan is just a handful of feet away, waiting for me, and probably hearing every word of my parents’ argument over my menstrual wardrobe.

“Shannon?” Amy says through the door. Her voice is hushed, but I can make out her words. “You might want to get moving. Declan’s here.”

“I know he’s here,” I say back. “I saw you talking to him.” My voice sounds like that pea-soup-spewing chick from The Exorcist.

“I am also cleaning up the cat mess,” she says through what sounds like clenched teeth.

I’m struck dumb. Dumb. I can’t believe Declan just witnessed that. Welcome to my apartment!

Welcome to my crazy life.

“Thank you,” I whisper back with genuine emotion. “I appreciate that.”

“You owe me.”

“I owe everyone.”

“Including me,” Mom adds, “because we are going to make you beautiful.” She has four—four!—tubes of mascara lined up and I swear she’s mixing joint compound into the under-eye concealer.

“Shannon doesn’t need any of that,” Dad says to Mom, reaching for her hand. “She’s beautiful right now. Look at her.” And then he realizes I’m not wearing a shirt, tearing his eyes away and turning his back to me.

“Dad, please,” I say. “Wear my jammy pants.” He takes them from my bed and walks slowly to the door, completely silent. The gentle click of the door closing after he leaves feels like a rebuke.

I throw on the shirt I’d planned to wear all along, kick off my shoes, peel off my stockings, and shimmy out of my pants. Mom turns away, but flings the red thong at me. It lands on my head like a deranged spider.

Ignoring it, I grab a pair of simple bikini underwear and my well-worn jeans, and I finish getting dressed. Then I take care of basic hygiene with deodorant, and tuck my shirt in. If it’s chilly tonight, a sweater would work. Mom watches with the preying eyes of a hawk.

A hawk with an eyelash curler clutched in her talons.

My lightweight v-neck made from a blend of silk and cashmere is perfect, so I tie it around my waist. I can’t run to the bathroom without having Declan see me, so I do what I can with my own makeup at my vanity on top of my dresser, ignoring Mom, whose silence has turned lethal.

Aside from needing to brush my teeth before putting on lipstick, the Shannon looking back at me from the mirror looks pretty good. Brown hair pulled back in a lovely braid, I have that fresh-faced, naturally athletic look, with my skin clear and a light layer of makeup applied to make it look outdoorsy. Brown eyes framed by a little mascara and a hint of eyeliner look more excited than scared. My nose is exactly where it’s always been, and my cheeks are flushed with a mix of applied color and organic arousal.

“You look like a fifteen-year-old going on her first date, Shannon. Like one of those athletic types.”

“We’re going hiking, so that’s perfect!”

“You’re not going hiking. You’re going on a charm mission.”

“A what?” What the hell is a charm mission? I have visions of debutantes wearing handguns on their thighs and rappelling down glass skyscrapers in Jimmy Choo heels.

Mom smoothes the wrinkles at my shoulders and tucks a loose wave of hair behind my ear, tweaking my look with little ministrations that used to annoy me when I was younger. These days, they make me feel loved.

“Charm mission. You’re auditioning, Shannon.” She lets a huge rush of air come out in one big whoosh. “Don’t you see that?” Her voice changes from exasperated to concerned, as if it dawns on her, mid-breath, that I really don’t view this situation through the same lens that she does.