With Colby, I often forgot she wasn’t a ten-year-old kid. She was twice that age now. She matured much slower than other kids her mental age, but she would retain her childlike innocence forever. There was a fine line between patronizing her and relating to her, and it moved often. This auntie gig was hard work.
“One of my friends, Max, prefers they/them pronouns. I got curious. The internet isn’t only for games.”
“I must have wax in my ears.” I sucked in a gasp. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Rue.” Her sigh rustled my eyebrows. “You are so lame.”
“Yes, well, I’m old. Old people are allowed to be lame.” I hesitated. “Did that answer your question?”
“Yeah.” She retreated to settle in. “Do you think they make wigs in my size?”
“If they can make doll wigs, they can make moth wigs.” It couldn’t be that hard. “We’ll ask Clay.”
“Nah.” Her voice went quiet. “I was just curious.”
Obviously, I wasn’t the best role model. For literally anyone. But I also hadn’t spent much time on what I started to worry might spark a trend with Colby with Clay in her life. Hair, makeup, clothes. That stuff. It hadn’t mattered to me. Ever. I trained, I studied, I practiced. That was it.
The director wasn’t much into teaching me how to be womanly, so I skated by on the bare minimum.
Lucky for me, I had that youthful glow that required no makeup to enhance, and I let it work for me.
Unlucky for all the owners of the hearts I had consumed to earn this rosy complexion.
And doubly unlucky for me if I had to explain to her my true beauty secret was, well, murder.