Chapter 8 - One of the Girls

By late Sunday afternoon, Jennifer was exhausted.

Not physically.

Completely.

The kind of exhaustion that settled into the bones after spending an entire day trying to think about:

* posture,

* voice,

* makeup,

* walking,

* smiling,

* sitting,

* crossing legs correctly,

* and remembering not to gesture like Michael.

The dining room table looked like the aftermath of a department store explosion.

Jewelry.

Hair products.

Makeup brushes.

Pantyhose packaging.

Three different handbags.

Two pairs of heels.

Jennifer sat at the kitchen island looking exhausted while Michelle checked her phone.

“What are you doing?” Jennifer asked weakly.

“Ordering dinner.”

“What kind?”

“Sushi.”

Sophie immediately looked up from the couch.

“Oh thank God.”

Jennifer frowned.

“That doesn’t feel like comfort food.”

Michelle barely glanced at him.

“You’re wearing shapewear tomorrow. We’re not doing pizza.”

Jennifer stared at her.

“You’ve become terrifyingly committed to this.”

Michelle smirked slightly while tapping through the delivery app.

“Spicy tuna okay?”

Jennifer sighed.

“I don’t think I’m emotionally equipped to argue anymore.”

“Perfect.”

A few minutes later Michelle stood and looked toward him.

“Okay,” she announced.

“You’re done for tonight.”

Jennifer blinked tiredly.

“What?”

“You’ve practiced enough. Your brain’s fried.”

Jennifer nodded immediately.

“Correct.”

Michelle pointed toward the stairs.

“Go change and relax.”

Jennifer started standing.

“Into what?”

Michelle folded her arms casually.

“I already laid clothes out for you.”

Jennifer narrowed his eyes instantly.

“That sentence scares me.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“It absolutely should.”

As he headed upstairs, Michelle called after him:

“And hang the navy sheath neatly on the hanger before you change. I don’t want wrinkles for tomorrow.”

Jennifer looked over the railing.

“You sound like my manager.”

“I practically am at this point.”

—

The guest room door stood partially open.

Jennifer stepped inside slowly.

And immediately stopped.

Folded neatly in the center of the bed was the pink sweatsuit.

Bright pink.

Velour.

Soft-looking enough to be dangerous.

Jennifer stared at it in disbelief.

“She actually bought this,” he muttered.

The matching sweatshirt sat perfectly folded beside the sweatpants like Michelle was somehow proud of herself.

Jennifer picked them up reluctantly.

The fabric was annoyingly soft.

Ten minutes later, Jennifer walked downstairs wearing the oversized pink sweatsuit and socks, blonde hair falling loosely around carefully made-up eyes, and the word “PINK” in rhinestones across her ass.

He already regretted everything.

Sophie looked up from the couch and immediately burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh my God.”

Jennifer pointed instantly.

“No.”

“You look adorable.”

“I look kidnapped by suburban wine moms.”

Michelle looked over from the kitchen island carrying wine glasses.

The corners of her mouth lifted before she could stop them.

Jennifer caught it immediately.

“You’re laughing too.”

“I’m absolutely laughing.”

Jennifer looked down at the sweatshirt miserably.

“It’s so pink.”

“That’s generally how colors work,” Sophie replied.

Jennifer groaned and collapsed dramatically onto the couch.

Michelle handed him a glass of white wine.

“There,” she said calmly.

“That’s better.”

Jennifer looked at her suspiciously.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Michelle settled onto the couch beside Sophie.

“Honestly?”

“That answer already worries me.”

Michelle took a sip of wine.

“You look… comfortable.”

Jennifer blinked.

Comfortable.

Not ridiculous.

Not humiliating.

Comfortable.

That somehow felt more dangerous.

The doorbell rang.

Sophie jumped up immediately.

“Sushi!”

—

A half hour later, containers covered the coffee table.

Sophie sat curled beneath a blanket eating California rolls while Michelle balanced wine and chopsticks effortlessly like she did everything else in life.

Jennifer sat next to them in pink velour holding spicy tuna and wondering when exactly reality had stopped making sense.

Normally, Sunday evenings meant football.

Michael’s Sundays had always been predictable - football.

But tonight there was no football.

No sports.

No Michael.

Only Jennifer sitting on a couch in a pink sweatsuit while Michelle searched for movies.

Sophie suddenly gasped.

“Oh my God.”

Michelle already recognized the tone.

“What?”

Sophie grinned mischievously.

“We have to watch Pretty Woman.”

Jennifer closed his eyes briefly.

“Of course we do.”

“It’s perfect,” Sophie insisted.

“Career makeover. Shopping. Transformation. It’s literally Jennifer.”

Jennifer looked horrified.

“I hate that sentence.”

Michelle laughed softly into her wine glass.

An hour later, Jennifer sat beneath a blanket watching Pretty Woman with his wife and daughter while wearing pink velour and acrylic nails.

At some point during the movie, Sophie looked over thoughtfully.

“Can I ask something?”

Jennifer sighed immediately.

“That never ends well.”

Sophie hesitated.

“It feels weird calling you Dad right now.”

The room quieted slightly.

Jennifer looked at her carefully.

Sophie rushed ahead nervously.

“Not in a bad way. Just… weird.”

Jennifer nodded slowly.

“That’s fair.”

Then Sophie smiled awkwardly.

“Would it be okay if I called you Aunt Jennifer for now?”

Michelle immediately laughed.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“That is actually kind of amazing.”

Jennifer looked betrayed.

“No. No, it is not amazing.”

“It makes things less confusing,” Michelle argued.

“For who?”

“For everyone.”

Jennifer stared at both of them.

“I have lost control of this family.”

Sophie leaned comfortably against Michelle’s shoulder.

“You’re one of the girls now.”

Jennifer opened his mouth to argue.

But stopped.

Because sitting there beneath a blanket next to them…

it didn’t feel entirely untrue anymore.

And that realization scared him more than tomorrow’s interview ever could.

—

By 9:30, Michelle finally stood and stretched.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Early night.”

Jennifer nodded immediately.

Tomorrow wasn’t practice anymore.

Tomorrow Jennifer Russo became real in front of strangers.

Michelle began gathering empty sushi containers while Jennifer quietly folded the blanket beside him.

As they headed upstairs, Michelle paused outside the guest room door.

“You’ll be okay tomorrow,” she said gently.

Jennifer looked down at the pink sweatshirt sleeves covering half his acrylic nails.

“You sound very confident.”

Michelle smiled faintly.

“I’m trying to be.”

Then she disappeared into the master bedroom while Jennifer stepped alone into the guest room, knowing sleep probably wasn’t coming tonight either.