WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

I have to ask, “What did I do to uh…deserve this gift?”

Jonathan leans forward in his seat. “My parents are coming to visit next week, and I’d like to introduce them to you. As my new girlfriend.”

“Seriously?” I sit up a little straighter, my chest fluttering with delight. Jonathan and I had the “let’s be exclusive talk” a few weeks ago. But introducing me to his parents—that’s a huge milestone.

“Yes, I’d love to meet your mom and dad!” I grin…but then realize I’m still confused. “What does meeting your parents have to do with this book, though?”

Jonathan winces, his handsome face creasing under his swept-back blond hairline. “Well, you see, they were a bit disappointed when Missy and I broke up shortly after college—my mother was convinced we’d make beautiful babies. But maybe if you read this book and incorporate some of her tips, they’ll see that you’re not so different from her.”

Hold up…what?

“Wait, you and the woman who wrote this book used to date?” I glance down at the book then back up at Jonathan. His mother was right. They’d make beautiful babies. Beautiful, blond, toothy babies. Both my alarm and my voice rise as I point out, “I’m not just different from her. We couldn’t be more opposite. The only thing we have in common is being poor when we were kids.”

“Now, I didn’t say she was poor.” Jonathan holds up a hand and chuffs like I’ve made a funny joke. “Her mother and father raised her in a trailer park commune to rebel against their own parents who were in oil and steel. Poor Missy’s maternal grandparents weren’t able to gain custody of her until she was in her teens.”

Jonathan places the hand he was holding up over his chest, his expression full of pity. “It’s a very harrowing story. You’ll see when you read—”

Anger volcanos inside of me before I can stop it. “I am not reading this book! What the hell, Jonathan?”

I don’t realize I’m shouting until several people in the previously peaceful restaurant turn to stare at me.

I breathe in and force myself to calm down. Little does Jonathan know, I’ve already read a lot of self-improvement books to get to where I am today—so many. I’m aware angry women don’t attract the kind of men who can give them good lives.

But honestly, I don’t know how a nice, normal, non-angry woman would take this. It feels like I’ve fallen into a Reddit “Am I the Asshole?” post.

Jonathan gives the people staring at us an apologetic wince before turning back to me. “This is why I thought the book might be of service to you. Missy included an inspiring section on how she managed to smooth out her rougher edges to emulate the kind of woman she wanted to present to the world. Before long, she truly became the person she was pretending to be.”

“So you’re saying you want me to pretend to be like your ex-girlfriend?” I'm half-outraged and half-wondering if I’ve just utterly failed at making myself over into someone deserving of a Dr. America boyfriend.

“No, of course not!” He leans forward to cup my hands across the table. “I want you to be yourself. Just maybe…not so loud. And if you could pick a dress with a nice muted tone for dinner with my parents.”

I look down at the yellow dress I bought especially for this occasion. Yellow is my favorite color. I wear it every chance I get outside the ER.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you also don’t like the way I dress.” I take back my hands.

“I adore the way you dress, Mimi,” Jonathan assures me, his face earnest. “I think you look gorgeous tonight. It’s just that my parents can be very judgmental, and they might consider yellow a bit garish for a nighttime function taking place after Labor Day.”

Before I can respond to that, he rushes on to explain, “I just want them to see in you what I see in you. The bright, beautiful woman you could be if you just put in a little more effort.”

Could be? A little more effort?

I picked out a new dress I could barely afford for this birthday dinner—all because Jonathan had noticed the last time I doubled up on a date night dress. I kept my 4C curls in a long straight weave because he’d told me how much he liked my hair when I’d mentioned wanting to get rid of it. Despite working back-to-back shifts yesterday, I paid a visit to the European Wax Center. I was planning to try to give my doctor boyfriend birthday sex tonight, and I knew it wouldn’t do to have even a spot of hair below my waistline.

Despite my best efforts to remain calm and perfect, anger boils beneath my heavily curated surface as I tell Jonathan between clenched teeth, “I’m not sure I have any more effort left in me.”