Page 5 of Accidental Husband

UGH.

I roll over. Bury my face in my pillowcase. The one with Princess Jasmine on it.

One of the many “strong role models” Mom adopted for me.

She had this phase where she tried, hard, to find good non-white role models, so I'd feel beautiful and normal and competent. As if there's any way to feel normal about inheriting features from the Colombian father I've never met.

Or her refusing to answer a single question about him.

I know they worked together twenty-something years ago. I assumed he was tall—I tower over her—and that he had dark hair and the recessive gene for green eyes.

Other than that, I don't have a clue.

Don't get me wrong. I love her. I love my step-dad too. I see him as my dad, I do. But there's something about not knowing my biological father, about looking in the mirror and seeing a reflection that clearly doesn't fit into the family.

Princess Jasmine is great. So is Mulan and Pocahontas and any character portrayed by America Ferrara.

But "role models" don't make up for that feeling of abandonment.

My father didn't want to be in my life.

Nothing makes up for that.

Disney heroines are great, but they exist in a fairy-tale world full of magic and happy endings.

I used to believe that.

After the way shit went with Jackson—

I see those movies for what they are. Fantasies.

There's no magic in the world. No one is coming to rescue me. Or bust me out of my prison. Or tell me I'm the chosen one.

My phone sings with text alerts.

Ugh. I have to talk to these people. I have to assure them I'm fine. And apologize for the inconvenience of canceling my wedding.

Yes, it must be so hard for everyone else that my fiancé was fucking his co-worker.

Ding.

I pick up my cell. Stare at the messages from people who aren't really friends.

I'm so sorry to hear about your wedding.

Omg, Juliette, are you okay?

Jackson never deserved you.

I already have the tickets to LA. How about I come and distract you?

Everyone means well. They want to help. But they also want me to tell them it's okay.

It's not okay.

I'm not telling them it is.

There's only one person I want right now. My best friend knows how to comfort me. He's obsessed with cheering me up.