How to Steal a Happy Ending

•forty one• wabi- sabi

"What have you been up to?
I heard that you fell in love
Or near enough.."

-Snap Out of It, Arctic Monkeys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted to be anyone but me.

This, was nothing new. It followed me around like a shadow. Pounding me down to the resignation that I was nothing. That I had nothing.

As common as it was, this was the first time I'd felt so shitty while dressed so elegantly.

A pastel pink tulle with a white, lacy bodice. Coming down to just above my knees, I honestly felt like the dress belonged on the pages of a magazine instead of on me. Hell, even my prom dress wasn't half as nice as this. I was certain that once I was put up on stage with the rest of Margret's bridesmaid lineup, I would be only one doing the clothes an injustice.

Sure, she'd assured me that only her childhood friends would be up there with us. But the private school bred rich kids she grew up with were undoubtedly just as posh and out of my league as the models she clothed. It wasn't the dress that was problem; it was the people I'd be wearing it around. Still, I knew better than to complain. Compared to the ones I'd get shackled with at my cousin's wedding, my new stepmother's was a welcomed improvement.

I'm sure Dad also thinks she's a welcome improvement.

I scowled the treacherous thought away, I was supposed to be on my mom's side. Supposed to? You are on her side. Yet...

I sighed as I caught her reflection in the mirror. Trying desperately to ignore her plain face as she busied herself in doing up mine. She'd coerced me into sporting a needlessly complicated, twisty turny hairstyle and then guilt tripped me into wearing her pearls. Not that I didn't love the attention she was giving me. It just felt a bit...much. Like she too was worried that I'd be the odd one out, that I wouldn't fit in with the type of crowd that'd be the wedding.

You know, not everything's about you. It could just be the fact that her ex husband is replacing her with a hot, young piece of ass. Traitor, traitor, traitor. Margret's probably lying about her age. She must have more plastic in her face than actual tissue.

Either way, Mom's better off without him. Better off miserable and lonely? She isn't lonely, she has me. Although... that's isn't much.

Sighing, I pushed aside her hands. And if only to placate the nagging in my head, asked. "Mom, you're okay right?"

She laughed, weakly and utterly unconvincing.

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be? And you look so beautiful, Claire." She rest her chin on my shoulders as she said this; the smile a bit more real, more ernest.

For a moment, I think, we didn't really need anyone else. For a moment, it felt as if we were all we needed to make each other happy. For now, and for whatever the future threw at us.

"It's so much better than that smudged, cat eye thing you do every time you go out. Why you stopped letting me doing your makeup, I will never know." Way to ruin the moment, mom.

I rolled my eyes at her though the mirror, "Whatever."

"Whatever," she mimicked in a high pitched whine that sounded absolutely nothing like me.

However, when I told her so she insisted that this was a perfectly accurate representation. And in the midst of our nuh-uhh/uh-huh volley, the bell rang.

"I'll get it, put on those shoes we bought at New York." With that my mother hurried downstairs, leaving me alone in front of the vanity table.

The only difference between the master bedroom now and five years ago was the absence of its "master". That and the not-so-mysterious disappearance of her wedding photo. This along with family pictures taken in the good old days. Note sarcasm. Instead of being adorned with memories of our fail fishing trips, long dead dog or my first time falling off a bicycle, her bedside was stacked with dry collegiate publications and self-help books. Both, I'm sure, did little to help her forget how sad her life had become. She'd sleep alone on a king-sized bed everyday for the rest of her life, while daddy dearest lived it up like royalty.