Page 95 of The Do-Over

“They look different. Young, happy,” I said, wishing I could have known these versions of my parents.

“They were.”

I flipped the page to a photo of their first married kiss, my mom and grandma hugging, everyone posing with the judge. It seemed like such a small event, so ordinary for my mother to be a part of. The next page was of Mimi signing what I assumed was the marriage license as a witness. Next to that was a photo of that license up close. I read as much of it as I could—my parents’ names, the place, the witnesses’ names, and the date.

That’s where I paused, squinted, leaned over the book and reread the date. “This is weird.”

“What’s that?”

“The year is wrong on their marriage license.” I took the photo out of the album and showed it to Mimi. “They were married thirty years ago, not twenty-nine.”

Mimi grabbed the photo. She studied it, making a clicking sound as she did so.

“Mimi?”

She didn’t reply.

“If this is right… I’ll turn twenty-nine this coming February. That would mean…”

“That’s right, honey.” Mimi set the photo down with a sigh. “It seems your mama never quite told you the story of why they rushed down the aisle. She was pregnant with you.”

I pushed the photo of the marriage license away from me like it was on fire. “Why would she never tell me that?”

Mimi shrugged. “I can’t say I understand everything about your mother, but I think she didn’t want anyone to know she was pregnant.” Her finger traced a wedding day photo of Mimi and Mom together. “History repeated itself, I guess. I got married because I got pregnant and so did she. Maybe she thought if you girls didn’t know, you wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

And there it was. This explained so much about my relationship with my mother, why I was never good enough or smart enough or pretty enough for her. I hadn’t been part of her plan. In fact, I was the reason she’d had to get married instead of finishing school. My chest tightened, ached with this realization.

To my mother, I wasn’t just a failure, I was a mistake.

THIRTY-EIGHT

“The real measure of a man is not when he does something right,

it’s how he reacts when he screws something up.”

—MIMI

Pericles the Demon Dog bore his bottomless death eyes into the back of my head as I stacked fancy clear plastic plates in my parents’ kitchen. It was the day of the anniversary party and I’d been here all morning making preparations.

“Stop looking at me.” I glared at him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The dog regarded me for a long moment before letting out one sharp, ominous yip. I startled, pressing a hand to my heart.

“Nope, not scared of you at all.”

“Are you talking to the dog again?” Phee asked, hovering by the doorway.

“Is there a dog in here? I’d hardly noticed.” Take that, Scary Perry.

I ripped open a box of plastic forks with more force than necessary. They scattered across the island, bouncing to the floor. With a groan, I bent to pick them up.

I’d been a jumble of nervous energy since the moment I’d woken up. A giant ball of tension lay smack in the middle of my stomach, like an omen of bad things to come.

Phee crouched beside me. “You okay?”

“Me? I’m fine. Just lots to do.”

My sister nodded, frowning as she stood. Dressed in white capris and a bright pink ruffled tank top, her hair and make-up done with a steady, knowledgeable hand, she reminded me of a carnation. She looked lovely. I hated it.