Free Shopping for a Billionaire 2 by Julia Kent

looking good!” She lifts up her makeup bag. It’s bigger than most NHL player duffel bags. Pink with silver buckles, that thing has more chemicals in it than a Monsanto pesticide lab.
    “And my new mascara came. Four layers of color!” she squeals.
    Four layers of torture and doom.
    “Great,” I say weakly, grabbing my purse and climbing out of the car. “My eyelashes will cross into three states.”
    Four days ago I was walking down the same apartment stairs I’m now walking up. I wore an elegant black dress, my mother embarrassed me thoroughly, I split my skirt, and I rode to one of the finest restaurants in Boston with a man I’d met just twelve hours earlier in a men’s bathroom.
    And now here I am…getting dolled up again for a date with the same guy. My eyeball has barely recovered from Mom’s game of Pin the Eyeshadow on the Donkey on Monday .
    She yammers a steady stream of words about Dad, yoga class, something involving the words “vaginal ultrasound” and “banana” and “online condom site.” Because none of those words should ever be uttered in sequence, I have to block it all out. My dreams, though, will be vivid tonight, because the subconscious is like Chuckles.
    Eventually you pay the price for simply existing.
    I walk in my front door and a lovely surprise greets me. Chuckles is smiling—smiling!—with his eyes closed and ears tucked back, sitting in my dad’s lap.
    “Dad!” I shout, rushing to him. He stands and dumps Chuckles on the floor. The look Chuckles gives me convinces me that he has Feline Borderline Personality Disorder, and a chill runs through me. I’m about to be the target of one hell of a character attack.
    Too bad, kitty , I think. Daddy’s little girl always prevails . I glare back at him over my dad’s shoulder as we hug and Chuckles slinks away. Ha. Score one for Shannon.  
    Pretty bad when the highlight of my day is beating my cat at being loved by my own father.
    Dad looks…different. He’s two years older than Mom, and has that middle-age paunch all the fathers of my friend have, except for Mort Jergenson, who runs ironman triathlons and makes my dad mutter about “showoffs” and how “only a trust fund baby could do that marathon shit” under his breath.
    He conveniently ignores the fact that Amy does that marathon shit , too. She didn’t qualify for the Boston Marathon last year, and everyone was sad for her when she got the news. Mom, however, was a sobbing mess on race day when the bombings happened, and for two hours no one could locate Amy, who had been in the city along the race path to cheer friends on. Fortunately, she was fine and back at mile twenty in the crowd.  
    This year she did run . And Dad couldn’t be prouder.
    If there’s one thing my family has taught me, it’s that being a hypocrite is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, some people polish their badges and wear them like an award.
    “Dad, what did you change?” I scrutinize him as we stand in the living room. He’s beaming at me and Mom scowls.
    “Look closely,” he urges. Mom says nothing. That, alone, sends chills down my spine.
    I frown and squint. Something about his face has changed. The clothes are the same—old jeans and a faded blue polo shirt. The same scuffed brown boat shoes he’s owned since I’ve been alive. His hair is squirrelly and full of tight auburn curls, as always. Eyes are warm brown and hooded slightly by sagging eyelids that all my friends’ parents seem to be getting. Except for the mothers who can afford lid tucks. Then they just look REALLY EXCITED ABOUT EVERYTHING. You can tell them the tag on their shirt is showing and THEY ARE JUST SO JAZZED.
    It’s like looking at a meerkat nonstop.
    He rubs his chin. Then I see it. “You have a goatee!” I peer closer. “And it’s red .”  
    “Red” doesn’t quite describe it. Dad’s had a scruffy beard on and off for years. Gray took over at least since I was in third grade. This is a young