True to Me - Kay Bratt Page 0,5
the “Room Service” section, then called in an order of garlic rice with a side of French fries and a cold (fully and guiltily caffeine- and sugar-loaded) Coke with ice.
Screw the protein, greens, or fruit she’d normally be ordering.
Sometimes having such a healthy partner was tough. Along with Ethan’s good looks, he was exceptionally fit. He found time for his workout regimen no matter where he was. He’d worked hard to develop a six-pack that he could wash clothes on and biceps that made an admirable bulge under his perfectly ironed, tailored shirtsleeves. Secretly, Quinn thought he was terrified of middle age and what could happen to his body if he relaxed even for a minute.
She appreciated his commitment, but his diligence could also be irritating when it came to his watching what she put in her body.
They didn’t fight about it, but she knew he wanted her to be slimmer than she was. It was in the way he raised his eyebrows if she ordered anything but the healthiest dish on a menu, or the way he’d once held up a pair of her slouchiest pants she’d left at the end of the bed and said he’d almost mistaken them for his own.
He knew they weren’t his. He’d just wanted to make a point. Get her to work harder to lose the extra weight she’d put on that year. The pounds, that no matter how hard she worked out or how little she ate, refused to budge.
Or was she just being paranoid—too sensitive, even?
Why couldn’t men understand that some women were simply wired for curves? That no magic pill or amount of exercise would transform them into the phantom willowy creature that society strove for, an elusive goal that drove many women to years of self-doubt and hatred?
On the other hand, it showed that he cared about her health, so how could she be resentful?
But today—she swore to herself—just today, she’d indulge in what she wanted instead of what she needed. She kicked off her shoes and lay back on the comfortable white pillows, releasing a long, pent-up breath of exhaustion.
She reached over and grabbed her laptop, opened it, and signed in to her Lineage account. The screen popped up, and there stood her very own ancestral tree, looking about as lonely and forlorn as a tree could look. The main box bore her name, but it was still connected to only empty boxes around it.
Her imagination conjured up dozens of nameless figures rushing to jump ship, snipping themselves from the branches as they slipped away, eager to avoid being discovered by her.
She slammed the screen shut. Her thoughts went immediately to Ethan. She could call him, but if he didn’t answer, it would deflate her mood even more. And if he did answer, there wasn’t much she could tell him at this point. She didn’t want to argue with him about the house, and that only left her plans for her mother’s memorial, of which she had none yet. His attitude about even that would probably make her sad. He’d never understand the loss her mother’s death was to her and probably thought it was as simple as finding a beautiful lookout and scattering her ashes over a cliff and into the ocean.
Quinn felt a catch in her throat. She and her mother had been closer than most. Growing up, it was just the two of them, moving from place to place and scrimping to make ends meet. She had to give it to her mom—even without an education, she’d always found a way to provide a decent home in a semisafe neighborhood. Over the years she’d worked as a nanny or a housekeeper, and sometimes both at one time. Those positions paid the rent and put food on the table with enough money left over for Quinn to have the things she wanted.
Yes, her mother had rocked it as a single parent, and they were fine with it being just the two of them. Or at least that’s what they both pretended. When Quinn thought about her birth father, wondering if he’d loved her at all, she never let those feelings out. In those first years, undocumented in a time of no cell phones or social media, absent of photos, had he ever held her? Rocked her to sleep? Whispered things a father would say to a soft, tiny girl?
When social networking took off, Quinn had spent hours trying to track him down. Searching his name and