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The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)

If I thought my father leaving us destroyed her spirit, the accident was the final nail in that coffin. Left with a giant scar across her left cheek, a broken nose that never fully healed, and a gimp in her walk, she turned toward men for reassurance that she was still pretty, like before.

And God, did she use to be pretty.

She turns toward me. “You look different, Meadow. What’d you do?”

I shrug. “Cut my hair.”

Her eyes squeeze. “Nah. It’s more than that. You did something else.”

“I cut my hair,” I say again, firmer. “Highlights too.”

She points a pair of kitchen shears at me. “That’s it. Highlights. Only hussies and high-maintenance bitches get highlights.”

Ever since her injuries, other women—or at least women who Mom considers prettier than she is—are all either hussies or high-maintenance bitches.

“It’s just something different,” I say, reaching for my hair and smoothing a palm along the side of my head. “Doesn’t hurt to change things up sometimes.”

“Your clothes,” she says. “They actually fit you for once. Do I know you?”

Turning to the pack of ground beef, she slices through the plastic with her scissors and huffs, laughing like she thinks it’s funny that I look the way I do.

I have to remind myself that she’s just jealous.

I’m no longer her homely-looking daughter, the one who could never outshine her. I’m blossoming into a beautiful young woman, one learning how to hold her head high, one getting hit on by cute college boys at bars, one with friends and a life.

It makes sense now, why she never taught me to do my hair. Never reminded me to wash my face or brush my teeth. Never taught me how to find a bra that fits. Never once took me shopping.

Misty Cupples didn’t want to be upstaged by her daughter.

“I’m going now,” I say, striding across the small kitchen.

“Meadow,” Mom calls after me.

But I ignore her, the way she’s ignored me my whole life.



I’m rich!

Okay, not exactly.

Let’s just say I’m $31,261.35 richer than I was a week ago. A little less if you subtract the gently used Audi I bought to replace my rusted Honda. And the money I’m about to drop at the Berkshire Commons Shopping Galleria with Lauren.

“What do you think of this?” I hold a bottle of Maison Margiela perfume to Lauren’s nose. I need a signature scent. Hers changes constantly, rotating between rose and lavender and almond and vanilla. Tessa’s is gardenia, never wavering. Now I need one. I don’t even know what I like. I’ve never worn perfume. All I know is that everything smells amazing and some of it makes me sneeze.

The attendant working the perfume section hands me a little jar of coffee beans to “cleanse my nasal palate.”


“Love!” Lauren says. “You should get it!”

I flip the bottle over to look at the price tag.

$125 plus tax.