finally.
Amanda bit her lip. She said nothing.
“You’re not gonna trade it in for an SUV? You could, you know. And you’d get a bunch of cash back, too. I’m sure Mr. Black Mercedes wouldn’t mind, whoever he is.”
“I can buy my own SUV, Mom,” Amanda said quietly.
Elizabeth nodded admiringly. “You’re a good girl, Amanda,” she said, yawning. “This heat just wipes me out completely.” She pointed at the wide-screen. “Movie’s back on. I like Bogart. Not that I would have liked being married to him. It would’ve been a part-time job. Well, maybe I would have. Why don’t you put the sound back on?”
Amanda glanced over at her mother, awestruck by the direction the conversation had taken. She actually felt relieved to put the sound back on; the conversation had been a little too revealing for her comfort level. And yet, it was the kind of talk she had always dreamt of having with her mother. She hit the mute button and the raspy voice of Humphrey Bogart returned. A moment later, Amanda saw that her mother had fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear.
Amanda watched the rest of the movie, secretly wishing she had a bucket of popcorn with lots and lots of butter. Forget SoCal tofu—if there were ever a time in her life for Orville Redenbacher, this was it. What a day, Amanda thought, letting out an exhausted yawn as the film credits rolled across the screen.
Chapter 9
S haron Peavy knew she was not the perfect woman. She knew she was moody, insecure, flawed, and hard to stay in a relationship with, or at least that was the feedback she had gotten from men over the years. But she had read enough self-help books and been to enough relationship seminars to know that she was lovable just the way she was, and that if one man said no, there would always be another man coming up quickly behind him to say yes—so she’d been told.
But the older she got, the longer the dry spells between men seemed to be. Sharon was well known as a “covert competitor.” The stories were legendary. She was the type that was always competing with someone for someone or something, but her opponent was never aware they were anything but the dearest of friends. When women who’ve never had to play that game encounter someone like Sharon, they end up hurt, deceived, and betrayed, but walk away from the experience just being very grateful they’ve never had to hone those skills and that they weren’t the type to have to try and make someone else look bad in order to try and make themselves look good. But Sharon had perfected this long ago and was truly a master of the game.
She was also self-evolved enough to know that her attractiveness to men wasn’t entirely spiritual, and that they were not drawn solely to that tiny kernel of lovability that she possessed. She knew that a lot of men were interested in her simply because, in addition to all her other fine points—a great sense of humor, an adventuresome nature, and pretty eyes—she had absolutely, positively perfect boobs. Some said she had the very best rack in Dallas.
The truth was they weren’t store-bought, they didn’t need an assist from a Miracle Bra, and they had never been surgically enhanced. They were naturally, absolutely perfect, and she was exceedingly proud of the fact that it was common knowledge they felt real. At the gym, on the rare occasions when she went there, she frequently saw women in their twenties glancing admiringly and curiously at her, and she would look right back at them. Those girls might have been ten or fifteen years younger, but they had nothing on Sharon Peavy—or so she had convinced herself.
She was also one of those women who would be the first to complain about how she hated it when men wouldn’t look her in the face because they were too busy staring at her chest, but she dressed to show it off anyway. So when Sharon needed something—companionship, attention, affirmation, or information—she knew that all
Amanda bit her lip. She said nothing.
“You’re not gonna trade it in for an SUV? You could, you know. And you’d get a bunch of cash back, too. I’m sure Mr. Black Mercedes wouldn’t mind, whoever he is.”
“I can buy my own SUV, Mom,” Amanda said quietly.
Elizabeth nodded admiringly. “You’re a good girl, Amanda,” she said, yawning. “This heat just wipes me out completely.” She pointed at the wide-screen. “Movie’s back on. I like Bogart. Not that I would have liked being married to him. It would’ve been a part-time job. Well, maybe I would have. Why don’t you put the sound back on?”
Amanda glanced over at her mother, awestruck by the direction the conversation had taken. She actually felt relieved to put the sound back on; the conversation had been a little too revealing for her comfort level. And yet, it was the kind of talk she had always dreamt of having with her mother. She hit the mute button and the raspy voice of Humphrey Bogart returned. A moment later, Amanda saw that her mother had fallen asleep and was snoring like a bear.
Amanda watched the rest of the movie, secretly wishing she had a bucket of popcorn with lots and lots of butter. Forget SoCal tofu—if there were ever a time in her life for Orville Redenbacher, this was it. What a day, Amanda thought, letting out an exhausted yawn as the film credits rolled across the screen.
Chapter 9
S haron Peavy knew she was not the perfect woman. She knew she was moody, insecure, flawed, and hard to stay in a relationship with, or at least that was the feedback she had gotten from men over the years. But she had read enough self-help books and been to enough relationship seminars to know that she was lovable just the way she was, and that if one man said no, there would always be another man coming up quickly behind him to say yes—so she’d been told.
But the older she got, the longer the dry spells between men seemed to be. Sharon was well known as a “covert competitor.” The stories were legendary. She was the type that was always competing with someone for someone or something, but her opponent was never aware they were anything but the dearest of friends. When women who’ve never had to play that game encounter someone like Sharon, they end up hurt, deceived, and betrayed, but walk away from the experience just being very grateful they’ve never had to hone those skills and that they weren’t the type to have to try and make someone else look bad in order to try and make themselves look good. But Sharon had perfected this long ago and was truly a master of the game.
She was also self-evolved enough to know that her attractiveness to men wasn’t entirely spiritual, and that they were not drawn solely to that tiny kernel of lovability that she possessed. She knew that a lot of men were interested in her simply because, in addition to all her other fine points—a great sense of humor, an adventuresome nature, and pretty eyes—she had absolutely, positively perfect boobs. Some said she had the very best rack in Dallas.
The truth was they weren’t store-bought, they didn’t need an assist from a Miracle Bra, and they had never been surgically enhanced. They were naturally, absolutely perfect, and she was exceedingly proud of the fact that it was common knowledge they felt real. At the gym, on the rare occasions when she went there, she frequently saw women in their twenties glancing admiringly and curiously at her, and she would look right back at them. Those girls might have been ten or fifteen years younger, but they had nothing on Sharon Peavy—or so she had convinced herself.
She was also one of those women who would be the first to complain about how she hated it when men wouldn’t look her in the face because they were too busy staring at her chest, but she dressed to show it off anyway. So when Sharon needed something—companionship, attention, affirmation, or information—she knew that all
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