Destined

Day Thirteen

I feel like I'm going to throw up and not because my body's killing me from the inside out. 

Because I have to go visit my mom. 

Unsure of how formal to go, I decide on a pair of black leggings, a threadbare sweater dress, and a pair of stiletto boots. I even went so far as to tame my mass of curls by running my flatiron through it (multiple times), throwing on a little makeup, and taking out the stud in my nose. The things I do for my mother. 

My mom, Aimee, lives in a one story ranch house just outside of the city limits with her current boy-toy of nearly two years now, Henry. Henry thinks he's a cowboy, but, in fact, he's just a breeder of fine barrel horses that's never actually worked a ranch in his life (he has stable hands for that). He seems to have personality of a wet mop and has only ever spoke to me nearly three times in the year that I lived with him and mom. He adores her and treats her like she's the center of his Dallas cowboy universe, which, naturally, suits her just fine and makes them get along famously, as always. He's also nearly thirteen years younger than her, but we pretend like she's not robbing the cradle with her cougar-like tendencies. After all, can she really be a cougar if the woman still honestly thinks she's in her mid-to-late twenties? 

Henry opens the door with his hound dog, Butch, at his feet dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, and with a Stenson on his head, but the pristine condition of the clothes makes me roll my eyes. If he was really out working like he claimed you'd think he'd get at least one spec of dust on him, right? He leads me through the foyer and down the hallway, pointing out the numerous renovations they'd made to the house that my mom's been bitching about wanting since they'd moved in together my senior year of high school. We finally stop when we reach the newly renovated dining room complete with a rustic chandelier, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the backyard, and featuring a massive mahogany table where my brother and his family are already seated. 

Jen shoots me a bland smile as I enter the room from where she sits poised and proud beside my brother. Jen looks like the picture of a perfect Christian daughter in a modest navy dress, a cream colored cardigan, and a strand of pearls around her neck with her ash brown hair tied up in a bun. Me? I'm wearing a threadbare oversized, long-sleeved sweater dress and a massive ring to cover up the tattoos on my fingers. 

"Auntie Lanie!" Annabel cries out joyfully, running towards me as quickly as a klutzy three-year-old can before wrapping her short arms around my legs. 

I giggle before sweeping her up in my arms and grinning at her, "How you doing, kiddo?" 

"You're funny, Auntie Lanie," Annabel says, and I roll my eyes. 

She thinks it's hilarious that I call her kiddo since I'm short and-according to Colton-look like I'm a child when I have my hair tied back. It's really not funny especially since her own father's barely an adult himself, in my opinion. "You think so, huh?" I ask while she nods shyly, her smile growing as she realizes what's coming, "I don't think it's funny." I begin tickling her while she squeals joyfully, wiggling around in my arms, and I ignore the pain I feel as she accidentally kicks me in the side, "You think it's funny now? You still think it's funny, now?" I ask, and Annabel squeals before yelling no. 

"Enough funny business, ma cherie," my mom says waltzing into the room look as youthful as ever. "Put ma petite-fille on ses pieds so we can eat dinner, comprenez?" My mom inquires. 

I roll my eyes wondering why she even bothers. She loves throwing French words into conversation to make herself sound more sophisticated, or so it seems to me, she's never confirmed this. However, she tends to overdue it. After all, if every other word is going to be in French, she might as well have just said what she wanted to in, you know, French.