Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,82
such great dramatics, but it’s lost on me. She sighs. “You’re the king of the jungle, baby. Walking confidence.”
Yup, this is total bullshit.
She waves a finger at me. “Don’t write me off so soon. There’s more. You’re a fire sign. You love big, but you hurt big, too. But you don’t always let the hurt show, because it’s a vulnerability. You’re the sun. Always there. Even when we can’t see you.”
She believes this so wholly that it’s pretty difficult for me not to buy into it, too. And I like the idea that somehow I am the way I am because it was meant to be.
“But”—here it is, the other shoe is about to drop—“you need approval, too. And that flaw is big enough to stop you. What’s important to remember though is that despite our signs, we still make our destiny.”
It’s hard not to notice how true her words feel. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“Everyone’s got their own religion, right?” She shrugs. “Even if their religion is no religion.”
“What are you?”
She grins. “A Sagittarius, but what’s really interesting is Bo’s sign in relation to yours.”
I am hooked. She’s got me. And she knows it.
“Bo is an Aquarius. Just like his dad. Detached and brooding, but with a good heart.”
It takes me a second to realize I’m nodding.
“According to the stars, you two are quite the pair.” She sips her tea and winks at me.
I know that pair could mean anything. Friends, cohorts, partners. But that doesn’t stop my cheeks from feeling as warm as a sunburn.
She reaches for my knee. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay?”
I nod a little too fast. “Do you— Where’s the restroom?” My face is on fire.
Her brow wrinkles with concern. “Two doors past Bo’s on the left.”
I get up, and turn back to her as I stand on the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room. “I liked talking to you,” I tell her.
I hear the garage door open.
“You’re always welcome to come by for a chat.”
In the bathroom, I splash my face a few times. I want to wake up every day, like that old movie Groundhog Day, and relive this day over and over again.
Here, though, by myself, it’s hard not to wonder if he ever brought Bekah home. Or if Amber got along with his stepmom as much as I feel like we did.
Bo is waiting in his room. He’s changed his shirt and has moved our books and notes to his bed. TO. HIS. BED.
But the door’s open, and I’m slightly grateful for it, too. Because how do people even function like this? Like, how is it that people can even pump gas or pay bills or tie their shoes when they’re in love? Or might be in love. Or are in love. Or are in between the two.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
MITCH: what are you doing tonight? wanna grab some tacos? watch a movie?
I exit out of my messages.
“Who’s that?” asks Bo.
“No one,” I say. “Just my mom.”
We study for the next few hours until it’s time to turn his bedside lamp on. We’ve both slid from sitting positions and are slumped against pillows in a sea of papers.
When he drives me home, I find myself addicted to the comfort of him. I’ve spent an entire day being so myself. Not a daughter, or a niece, or a token fat girl. Just Willowdean. The feeling of it makes me miss El. But I’m tired of other people making me feel this way. I’m ready to make myself feel this way.
“I like Loraine,” I tell him.
“She has a way of making people do that. Infectious, my dad says. I tried really hard not to like her. But the harder I tried, the more I wanted to like her. She doesn’t try to be my mom. Not like some other ladies would. She’s something else to me, though. Not a friend, but not a mom. I don’t know.”
And that—right there in those handful of words—is how I feel about Lucy. But there’s no real term for it, and I sometimes think that makes the pain of losing her that much harder to reconcile.
He parks in front of my house. “So is that what you normally do on Saturdays? Study at home?” I want to know everything about every minute of his life.
“Yeah,” he says. “Unless my dad needs me.”
“What about Sundays?” We’re off every Sunday, which means it’s this one day a week where Bo is a complete