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

I peered between the slats in the railing, and when they entered my field of vision, it was like they’d become a different couple. There were at least three feet of distance between them, the earlier closeness either imagined or gone.

My gaze was level with their knees, and my eyes widened when I spotted the knee-high brown boots the woman was wearing.

They were my brown boots, the ones I’d let my mother borrow for her costume.

And obviously, the man was not my father.

I was frozen in horror. He wasn’t a stranger either.

He smelled like spruce and the outdoors when he hugged me.

It was Miles Fletcher’s dad.

Horrified, I had no intention of ever crawling out of my hiding spot, preferring to curl up in a ball and die. I stayed concealed for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes.

Numbness settled over my body. Some from the cold, some from the shock. My face, my legs, my hands.

When I returned to the party, my mother was sitting on a barstool, talking to a blonde woman. I approached her. “Where have you been?” Even speaking sounded monotone. “We’re ready to go.”

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I must’ve lost track of time.”

Kristin drove us home, but Josh was with us, and I noticed Kristin was talking too fast and not making eye contact with my mother or me.

When she dropped us off, her goodbye was forced. My mother didn’t seem to notice, and inside, I watched as she hurriedly washed the makeup off her face, all traces of the party evaporating from her pores as if she were Cinderella getting home from the ball, turning back into a frumpy housewife.

I wanted to ask my mother about what I’d seen. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t force them out.

The next day at school, my stomach dropped when Kristin brought it up at my locker.

In a whisper, Kristin told me what she’d seen, how my mom and that man had been kissing and necking, their hands all over each other. But she couldn’t keep watching; it had felt wrong, so she’d rushed out when they’d started to undress.

She promised she’d never say a word, and I believed her at that moment. I hoped it would become old news now that she had more Josh problems to talk about.

A couple days later, after a fight over something trivial, half the school heard what a cheating whore my mother was.

My contorted reflection in the mirror behind the bar causes me to glance up. I’m grimacing while Miranda stares at me with wide eyes. “You okay, darling?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I shake my head sadly. “Memory lane.”

“Yikes. I shouldn’t have mentioned that night.” Miranda blushes crimson. “You probably get tired of talking about all this old drama.”

“I was just thinking how my former best friend and I had a falling-out then,” I muse. “Actually, both of my best friends.”

“You know, Kristin wrote Deborah a letter before she died.”

“Really?” I’m incredulous. “Saying what?”

“I’m not really sure. Hell, it could be just another rumor.” She wipes a rag over the bar even though I’m sure it’s unnecessary, since the room is empty except for us.

“You know . . .” Miranda sucks on her lip. “You should ask your mother about it.”

I watch as her unreasonably long claws get caught in a strand of hair and she mutters a curse word.

Taking this as my cue to cash out, I bid Miranda adieu.

CHAPTER 19

Sibley

When I stumble out to my car and lock eyes with my reflection in the rearview, my face is drenched with sweat, perspiration clinging to my upper lip.

As I drive, I warn myself to slow down. You’d think I’d be overly cautious because of my earlier encounter, but I’m in a warped mood, my foot pressed on the accelerator as the old beater lurches, struggling to gain speed. My only concern is outrunning the instability of the emotions that threaten to internally combust.

I pass a rare sight on the road of another vehicle, an old tan Buick that’s at least a decade old but looks brand new. It most likely belongs to an elderly person who drives a few hundred miles a year and keeps it garaged the rest of the time.

Scanning the driver inside, I realize it’s Nora, our elderly neighbor, who must be in her nineties by now.

I debate whether to wave.

She’s not going to know who I am, but it’s the neighborly thing to do. I can’t remember her without white hair and gnarly hands smelling of flour and turpentine. The woman always had keen eyes behind her spectacles and an insatiable taste for gossip.

When I give her a shrill honk, I startle the poor woman, though she attempts a flimsy wave. I careen around her; my reckless driving has her behind me in a matter of seconds as I gain distance.

I need to focus on something other than my jaded emotions, and flicking on the radio, I can’t settle on rock or oldies. Talk radio can be so dull, depending on the topic and the host.

I find an alternative channel and drum my fingers on the wheel. It’s a song popular from my high school days.

I try for the high notes, hitting my lung capacity, and then burst into laughter at my voice, a high-pitched hyena sound that never can reach quite the right note.

Before I know it, I’m sobbing, my shoulders hunched over the steering column as if embracing it.

When I pull into the derelict yard, I have to swerve to avoid one of the farm cats that seem to be in endless supply. Wiping a hand across my nose, I remember why I wasn’t able to stay in the first place. I don’t have a key.

Most of the windows on the first floor are solid panes and don’t open, and the kitchen window is too small for me to climb through. I walk around the perimeter of the porch, but I’m unable to