And one half of that couple was Mickey.
My stomach got tight, my muscles contracted, and I stared as he walked in, his arm flung around the shoulders of a very tall, very buxom, very pretty redhead who looked not one thing like me.
The lights were dim, I couldn’t study her to get a lock on her age, but many things were clear.
She was way taller than me.
She had way better hair than me.
She was way better dressed than I’d ever be.
She was way, way prettier than me.
And, smiling up at a smiling-at-her Mickey, the biggest hit of all…
She was out on a date with Mickey.
I jerked my eyes to the screen, feeling like throwing up and hoping, hoping, hoping that he would not see me all alone at a cinema to watch a movie.
Not long after, the theater went dark and I waited. I actually counted the seconds.
When I figured the time was right, I carefully, quietly set my snacks on the floor (even though the sound system could drown out an exploding bomb). I grabbed my purse then bent double (even though the theater wasn’t close to full and I wasn’t obstructing anyone’s view, I still made myself as miniscule as I could) and I dashed to the stairs and around, running down the side hall and out of the theater.
I forced myself to slow to a walk, a swift one, one that took me through the lobby, out of the cineplex and directly to my car as quickly as I could get there.
I got in.
I dumped my purse in the passenger seat.
I started up.
And I got the fuck out of there.
I drove home and I shouldn’t have. I should have breathed deep. I should have gathered my thoughts. I should have calmed myself.
I didn’t.
But by some miracle, I made it home safely.
And when I got home, I didn’t want to. I’d been avoiding it. The last thing I wanted to do considering the fragility that was me was that.
But as had become their wont, my feet decided for me.
So I found myself in my bathroom, flipping on the lights and positioning myself in front of my mirror.
I looked at myself. I had to. I couldn’t avoid it.
But I did it being absolutely certain I didn’t actually see me.
Right then, my eyes refused not to take me in.
And it was worse than I expected it to be.
Not worse than it could be. My mother had drilled a regime into me since my fourteenth birthday, when I was allowed to wear light makeup.
So I cleansed. I moisturized (daily and nightly). I exfoliated, and twice a week did this deeply prior to slapping on a facial.
But other than that…I didn’t look after me.
My shining, brunette hair had strands of gray. Silvery-gray that may, when it took over, be stunning.
Right then, it made me look like I didn’t care.
I had lines at my forehead, but not many.
But my skin was sallow. My cheeks were sunken. My eyes looked huge and not in a good way. My makeup was there, but it was uninspired, doing absolutely nothing for me.
And I already knew my clothes were conservative, high-quality and older than my years. I wasn’t a spry twenty-something and they were still older than my years.
I looked past it.
I looked like I gave not…one…shit.
Because I didn’t.
I had not gone for a proper facial since moving to Magdalene. I had not had a manicure or a pedicure. I had not had my hair cut even before I’d moved to Magdalene. And I’d never dyed it, the gray started coming in when Conrad left me (and, incidentally, I blamed each strand on him regardless of the fact that, at my age, it was time) and I’d left it at that.
Robin had said things, cautiously, sensitively. Mother had said them too, not cautiously or sensitively.
I’d acted like they didn’t even speak.
I’d let myself go.
Mickey clearly had different tastes, taller, possibly younger, trendily dressed, beautiful red hair (though his woman had big bosoms and I did too but that was the only thing we shared).
But staring at the disaster that was me, it was no wonder Jake Spear didn’t even allow his eyes to wander to my hair. And it was no wonder that boxer in his gym paid no mind to me.
I was no longer young.
“But I’m not dead yet,” I whispered to my reflection.
On that, I shrugged my purse off my shoulder so it fell to the counter. I dug my phone out. And I made the call I needed to make.
“Hello, Amelia, how’s your evening?” Josie answered.
“I need lunch.”
There was a heavy pause before, “Sorry?”
“You. Me. Alyssa. Lunch tomorrow. Emergency,” was all I could force out, my eyes still glued to the mirror.
“Are you okay?” she asked, concern heavy in her tone.
“No. No, I am far from okay,” I told her.
“Do you need me to come over now?” she went on.