FIRSTS: Chapter 4

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I'm surprised to see Kim's car still in the driveway when I get home, parked haphazardly, the wheels on the right side halfway into the flower garden, which would mean nothing except the dining room lights are on, too. Coming home to a darkened house is part of my routine, but that doesn't change the flurry of hope in the pit of my stomach when the lights are on. Maybe Kim has finally realized that I'll be out of the house after this semester, so if she doesn't get to know me now, she might never get a chance to.

Or maybe she just wants to pick my brain about the hot date she has tonight.

"Honestly, I never thought he'd be interested," she says, throwing her coat over a high-backed leather chair as I enter the foyer. "I mean, I lied about my age, but I don't really look thirty-eight, do I?"

I drop my backpack on the floor in defeat. I can't believe I was stupid enough to equate the lights being on with Kim actually having dinner here or wanting to spend time with me.

"You're not thirty-eight," I say, watching her lips curl into something resembling a smile, or at least as much of a smile as her most recent Restylane injection will allow, and deflate when she hears the end of my sentence. "You're forty-five, Kim. Actually, forty-six in a month."

"Well. Age is all about how you feel, right? And I don't feel a day older than twenty." She arches an eyebrow and taps a long crimson fingernail on the granite counter, chipping away at an invisible stain. I stifle a laugh, wondering how far up her forehead her eyebrows would go if she knew what happened this afternoon.

"And let me guess. Your date is really twenty? Is it the Pilates instructor?"

She cocks her hip and narrows her eyes at me. She's going for a sarcastic expression, but the amount of Botox in her forehead prevents it from being fully formed. But the most disheartening aspect of her stance is how much I can see myself in her. We have the same green eyes, the same cheekbones, although Kim's eyes are rimmed in too much dark makeup and the hollows in her cheeks are more pronounced. People always tell me how much I resemble my mother, but really I think it's the other way around. She resembles me, thanks to her eternal quest to look younger and younger.

"God no, sweetie. He's out of the picture. My date tonight I met at the bar."

"That sounds promising," I say, opening the fridge to a total lack of food. I stand there anyway feeling the cold air on my hot cheeks.

"Don't be so cynical," Kim says. "He's a great dancer. And you know what I say about great dancers."

I shut the fridge door and stand in front of it with my arms crossed. "I don't know, Kim. What do you say about great dancers?"

Her face sags just a little bit. She hates when I call her Kim, but that's the name she was born with. Mom is something she has yet to earn.

"Great dancers are better lovers," she says, smacking her lips together. "So I probably won't be home tonight."

"That's fine," I say. "Maybe I won't be, either." This is a lie. I have absolutely no intention of leaving the house tonight, but she doesn't need to know this. It wouldn't hurt Kim to actually worry about me from time to time.

But instead, she fluffs her hair and slides her feet into a pair of black Manolos. My black Manolos, probably plucked from my shoe rack while I was at school. I make a mental note to padlock my bedroom door during the day.

"Honestly, honey, now's the time to live a little. You're never going to be as young and beautiful as you are right now. I don't know why you don't have boys over more often." She straightens the hem of her dress, which doesn't do any good. It still hugs her thighs too tightly, and when she sits down, I'm sure her date will see everything under it. The thought is enough to make me gag.

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