The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

in mind, passing more storefronts, most empty—a reminder that nothing lasts forever—save for a pharmacy or a gathering spot to have coffee. It’s hard to have longevity in this town, and apparently, not even my “father” was meant to be a permanent fixture in my life.

Without a concerted effort, I park in front of a bar fittingly called Bar on Main. The other option down the street is Mickey’s. These are the only two bars I know of in town, and though they act like archrivals, it’s ludicrous to me since both serve the same watered-down alcohol by the same breed of bored bartender, listening to the same type of music repeatedly on the jukebox.

The permanently tired fortysomething woman behind the bar nods in greeting as I sit down on a squeaky barstool.

“ID.”

“Seriously?”

Her short bob nods up and down.

“Aren’t you cute, making me feel young?” I chuckle. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“The ones under fifty-five, at least.” She shrugs. “What’ll it be for your liquid lunch?”

Sliding my ID out of my wallet, I say, “Vodka cranberry, a splash of lime.”

After a quick glance at my driver’s license, she sets it down and lowers a glass off a shelf. I know I’m out of my bubble when it’s assumed well vodka is my preference. She pours my glass and serves it to me on a paper napkin.

Taking a long sip, I feel her eyes boring into the side of my face.

“This is just what I needed.” The circumstances of the morning have weakened my resolve when it comes to drinking even more.

Considering me, she puts her hands on her generous hips. “Say, your name looks familiar. You from around here?”

“I grew up here.”

“Sibley.” She rattles it off. “Sibley Bradford.”

I hold out my hand to shake hers.

“Miranda.” She gives it a limp shake. “Don’t know that last name.”

“It was Sibley Sawyer.” I shrug. “You might know my mother from around town. Deborah. Deborah Sawyer.”

“Wait a minute.” She peers at me. “You lose your father?”

I nod.

“He a farmer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah. I remember hearing that.” She taps a long talon on the counter. “Long time ago, right?” Without waiting for confirmation, she continues. “But those stories don’t die.” She pours me another round and slides it across the counter. “Where do you live now?”

“Arizona.”

“Your mom in the same house?”

“Yep. Still on the farm.”

“Is your farm by any chance close to the Guthries’ place, John and Nancy?” She huffs a strand of dirty-blonde hair out of her face.

“Not too far. They used to throw all the holiday parties.”

“That’s it!” She points her sharp fingernail at me. “That’s where I recognize you.”

“Did you go to their parties a lot?”

“Not often, but I was at the Halloween party that night.”

I almost heave the vodka and cranberry with a splash of lime back up, my throat burning like I took shots of Fireball instead. Miranda would remember that night my senior year. She would have been present. Why wouldn’t she? Everyone knows everything in this town.

John and Nancy Guthrie have two kids close to my age. They were notorious for their epic parties, and the Halloween one was quite the extravaganza, a yearly gathering with hayrides, a bonfire, and a costume party. Much to the disgruntlement of the youth, parents were also invited. If kids wanted to sneak in liquor, they had to mix it in pop bottles beforehand.

My parents, though asked, rarely went to parties.

This year stood out because of my mother and what she did. My mother didn’t go to many places alone, probably because we only had one vehicle, my daddy’s truck.

This time, my daddy had to go out of town and pick up a malfunctioning part for his tractor. It wasn’t until I got older that it seemed weird we only had one car, but I guess I assumed we were poor growing up. My mother didn’t work outside the home, and farming isn’t an easy way to make a living. So many uncontrollable factors can come into play—the weather, crop prices, and crop production.

That evening was the catalyst that started the downhill trajectory of my life. It might’ve been only one night, but like a destructive tornado, it ravaged our family and ruined lives and friendships.

Not to mention it carried a health hazard—death.

I remember that night vividly. I was upstairs in my bathroom, putting the finishing touches on my makeup, when my mother walked in.

“Need any help?” My mother smiled at me.

Setting down the eyeliner I used to draw the thin lines, I returned her gaze. “I don’t think so.” Twirling around, I showed off my black tights and leotard.

“Your tail,” she reminded me. “Don’t forget your tail. It’s the most prized possession of a cat.”

“What about the whiskers?”

“What about them?” She put a hand to my face, almost smearing my not-yet-dry whiskers.

“Mother,” I said crossly.

“Let me attach it for you.” She used a safety pin to secure the long fabric tail in place. It was nothing more than black pantyhose stuffed with black garbage bags and shaped into a bendable limb.

I slid on the finishing touch to my costume with a flourish, proudly staring at the headband with faux-fur cat ears. Giving my real ear a gentle tug, she asked, “Who’s picking you up?”

“Kristin.”

“I thought you two weren’t speaking?”

I sighed at the thought of our tumultuous friendship. We would fight, go weeks without speaking, and then inevitably find our way back to each other.

“We’re friends this week,” I murmured, though I was pissed because she had decided to do a group Wizard of Oz costume when we hadn’t been speaking, and admittedly, I was jealous. It was much cooler than my cat attire.

What my mother said next blew my mind. “Do you mind if I ride with you?”

“You wanna go to the party?”

“Yes, I think so.” She nervously touched the cross pendant that never left her neck. “I never get out, and it should be fun.”

“Will you have a good time without Daddy?”

Frowning at the question, she stammered, “They invite