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“P rincess, help me decide . The gold or the silver?”

I stand in my mother’s closet, which has a raised circular platform surrounded by three full-length mirrors. It looks like the inside of a couture fashion house. Then again, that's my mother's new life: Clothes. Trying on clothes. Spending money on clothes. Spending money, period. Buying things with her new husband's money is her passion, her hobby, and her career.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for my mother to be spoiled. My dad was the definition of a lousy, no-good, rotten deadbeat. The hell he put my mother through meant I was more than happy for her when she found someone who would treat her right, especially since I want to live my own life without worrying about her rattling around in New Jersey all on her own while I'm going to... well, I don't know what I'm going to do exactly.

“I’d go with silver. What's the occasion?” I ask my mother.

Ronnie has some big business meeting tonight, and I have to go with him. He really wanted you to come along, sweetie. He said, ‘Angela should come. She’d love Joey’s family. Lots of good-looking boys.’”

The way my stepfather talks about his business associates reminds me of some cheesy ‘80s mobster movie. Not the mainstream ones. The ones that were on television as reruns on Saturday afternoons. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was in the mob.

“You never come to Ronnie’s work dinners. You never stick around when we have dinners here.” Her voice goes into a nasal whine that I swear is a “rich trophy wife” affectation. She never had it when we lived in New Jersey, and that’s saying something.

“Well, Mom, I’ve been busy.”

She looks at me with pursed lips and a glare that would freeze flame. “Oh, really?”

“Really.” It’s a lie. I busy myself lining up several pairs of stilettos that would match her dress.

I’m not busy. I want to be busy, but even if I were bored and dying for something to do, I would still avoid Ronnie’s overly friendly business pals. Even though I'm sure all of his friends are just a little bit quirky, we have nothing in common. They seem to be from a pocket dimension where time stopped somewhere in the 1950s, and their wives fell out of hairspray ads from the 1980s. Whenever I'm in the room, the women cluck over me and try to fix me up with their sons, cousins, or other handy male relatives. The middle-aged men ogle me, while the older, wrinkly ones pat my cheeks and tell me what a pretty wife I'm going to make someone someday. The younger ones look at me for too long—and not at my face. I have to bite my tongue every time and remind myself that my stepfather is a lot older than my mother, and maybe his friends just haven't moved with the times. My mother is content and getting every luxury she had to do without while she was working two jobs to support my father, his three six-packs a day habit, and his career of betting on losing horses.

“Busy doing what? You finished school. You don’t have any papers to write. Why is your head always buried in your laptop these days?”

“I’ve got to get my grad school applications done as soon as possible.”

“Oh baby,” my mother frowns at me and drops the discarded gold dress carelessly to the velvet side chair that sits in the corner of her lavish closet-slash-dressing room. “Angela, sweetie, you don't need to bother with that anymore. Ronnie has been very generous to both of us. You don't need to look for a job or go back to school—slaving away over those books that give you so much stress and make your skin break out.” Mom pouts at me and puts her hands on my cheeks.

I roll my eyes at my mother. “You've been hanging out around Ronnie's friends’ wives way too much. You always told me that education was my ticket out of a bad situation.”

“You’re not in a bad situation! And... And maybe I was wrong. All those years, I tried to take online classes... All the money I could have been saving for a good lawyer... No, all I needed was some good shapewear and the right eyeliner to snag Ronnie,” Mom says with a sudden flash of anger in her eyes.

This is quite unexpected. I’ve only seen her deliriously happy ever since Ronnie Argento walked into the diner where she waited tables and swept her off her feet three years ago.

“I didn’t have some fancy degree! Ronnie loves me—and you. He even adopted you, legally, even though you were already an adult. He wanted to make sure you were his legal daughter so your father could never bother you, and so you’d have all of his money if something happened to us.”

“Mom! I love Ronnie. I was happy to sign the papers, okay?” I rub her back gently, silently realizing this is a parenting gesture, the child soothing the mother, something I’ve been doing for far, far too long. “This has nothing to do with how much I love him. I can't just sit around filing my nails and spending someone else's money. Even if I didn't want to go back to grad school, I'd want to work. Even part-time.”

“Well, that's no problem! Ronnie's friend, Zooley? You met him at the Christmas party? He says you can model for him any day. His work is always very tasteful. I saw his work in Mature Swimsuits just this month.”

I refrain from commenting on the name of my stepfather's photographer friend. Any guy who wants to use me as a model is not a legit photographer. I'm too short and too round to be a model. My figure might be hourglass, but that’s like saying a Shetland pony and a thoroughbred are the same. Everything on me is short and plump. Cute but dumpy. And okay, maybe I have finally let my mother give me some fashion tips that make the most of my squat little hourglass. On a good day, you could call me sexy... but I know I'm not a traditional photographer's dream.

And I think I’d die if I were in Mature Swimsuits at twenty-six.

My mother grabs a pair of silver pumps to go with the dress she selected and comes over to give my chin a little squeeze.

“Don't work yourself so hard, sweetie. You promised me you'd go to New York with me next week. Remember?”

“Yes, Mother,” I say, dropping a curtsey with the sides of my fluttery tank top. “I’m looking at a couple of grad schools, though. You said we could visit some campuses.”

“And we have tickets to three different shows! All musicals, all sold out!” Mom squeals like an excited toddler.

“Knock knock. Joanne, are you decent?”

I have to smile at the way Ronnie enters his own bedroom. When he sees my mother in her frilly fuchsia dressing gown, he staggers back and then rubs his hands.

“Oh my Lord,” Ronnie exclaims, putting his hands to his cheeks. “How is it that I married the most gorgeous woman in the world? Angela, how did a retired old coot like me end up married to this hot young thing?”

“I’m the lucky one, baby,” Mom gushes, and they rub noses.

“And I have one beautiful young lady as my daughter. You know, it won't be long now before I'm going to be hearing some lucky young man saying the same thing about you.” Ronnie beams with pride at me.

I blush. “Aw. Thank you.” I have to admit, his compliments make me feel good. I've been single for a while now, though not for a lack of trying. I’ve had a string of dates that never turned into anything serious. Maybe it's all my mother's old-fashioned advice or Ronnie's sweet smile that prompts me to say, “Well, if you know anybody...”

“My Angel! I thought you'd never ask! When we go to New York next week, you've got to meet an old family friend of mine. His son is so handsome and such a respected businessman! I know you two would hit it off.” Ronnie flings open his arms. “You two sit next to each other at the theater, okay, Angie?”

Sometimes I think Ronnie believes any woman will be happy with a handsome man who gives her some attention. “He’s a respected businessman” has never been high on my list of turn-ons.

But I’m only in New York for a week. I’ve already got a bunch of tickets to Broadway shows. It might be nice not to be the third wheel... “I thought the shows were all sold out?”

“That’s not an issue.” Ronnie shakes his head. “If you will be his date for the evening, this young man will be able to get a ticket. He's extremely well-connected. If you two should hit it off... You will make your mother and me very happy—and do yourself a favor. Joey’s son, Vincenzo, will see that you want for nothing.”

“All right, Pops. Sounds good,” I say, giving Ronnie a playful hug as I pass. “But let's not jump the gun. Dinner and the theater? Sure. Wanting for nothing? That's marriage stuff.”

“Angela, you're not getting any younger. You don't want to end up missing a golden opportunity or, worse, marrying the wrong person like I did, just because he's exciting and talks a good game. You should let your father and me help you find a sweet man who will really love you and spoil you like Ronnie spoils me,” my mother purrs, wrapping her arms around Ronnie's neck and running her fingers through his silver hair.

“That's my cue to leave, lovebirds.” But as I walk back to my own room in the gorgeous Bayside house that I now call my home, I can't help but wonder if she's right. It wouldn't be so bad to find the kind of love that my mother and stepfather have. I've never seen people so happy together. Maybe it is old-fashioned, but why shouldn’t it be? Love has been around for thousands of years.

And maybe since I’m single at twenty-six, with no job, no clear career path, and no boyfriend, I should let someone help me. A little.

I drag out my suitcase when I get back to my room. Instead of just packing my normal leggings and sweatshirts, I go to my closet and start browsing through all the designer labels my mother has brought me over the last year. Yes, I have to admit I have enjoyed being pampered and spoiled by Ronnie's bank account. I take out a few of the most flattering (and tightest) dresses that I own.

“Vincenzo, hmm?” Could he be Italian? Italian-American? I hold up a pale pink dress that’s cut lower and slit higher than anything I’d normally wear, wondering if I should pack it. I picture a handsome man with dark hair, a sensuous mouth, and intense dark eyes. I picture a faint Italian accent, even though I know I’m stereotyping left and right. Ronnie says he’s a businessman. Suit and tie. Sharp haircut.

Maybe looking to settle down and spoil someone?

I could still work! Go to school. I could be someone’s girlfriend at the same time. I could even be someone’s wife.

I press the dress to my body and wonder if Vincenzo and I will hit it off.

Do I want us to?

I pick out another dress, a slim little black number by some ungodly expensive designer. Mom says it brings out the caramel notes in my skin and makes my dark hair look more lustrous. I drop the pink dress and hold up the black one.

It gives off “Very Available” vibes.

Well. You are very available, Angela.

Maybe it's time I start putting my eye-catching wardrobe to good use...