Adam was right when he said there is safety in what is familiar, thus why we repeat even what might be bad for us.
The next day I do not wear red, or tan, or light blue, or any color but black. To be specific, a black dress that personifies the me who has lived in the shadows, the woman who stands in front of the room and might as well be in the back. This dress, and its color, is my safe place. With the level of comfort that my normal attire delivers, I dare to do something that does not feel like me at all. I wear my hair down, long and brown, around my shoulders.
Nervously I head to work, walking down the street, skipping my preferred coffee stop, and heading straight to the library. No one will notice, I tell myself. A change of hairstyle does not shift the world on its axis. Me being seen and heard, beyond the embarrassment that was the presentation, would be that and more.
The minute I step inside the entryway, Doug, who is more often stoic in his guard duties than not, lights up. “Well now, Ms. Mia,” he greets. “Look at you. I don’t believe I knew you had hair.”
“Of course I have hair.” I laugh. “I wear it every day.”
He grins. “You wear it well today.”
“Thank you,” I say, warming with his compliment and hurrying on my way.
I’ve just stepped onto the escalator when a tingling sensation on my neck has my gaze lifting and landing on the zoo-level customer service desk. Akia is presently staring at me. It’s weird and awkward, and I turn away from him, facing forward again, running a hand down my hair, and ignoring floor two as I pass it by. Do I look that different? I flash back to the moment I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection, my long, dark hair draping my shoulders. After wearing my hair up for a decade-plus, I’d felt as if I were looking at a stranger, but not an unpleasant one.
What am I thinking, though, really? Akia’s still pitying me from the encounter with Neil, I suspect. His attention has nothing to do with my hair. I doubt that man could tell anyone what my hair normally looks like even if paid.
The escalator pushes me onto floor three and I hear, “Mia,” from behind.
It’s Jack’s voice, and obviously, somehow, even with my hair down, he knows this is me. I turn to find him joining me on our floor and handing me a cup of coffee. “Hair down,” he says, “lips shining. Am I in an alternate universe?”
“I think we both are,” I confirm, lifting the cup. “Thank you. I need this.” I motion to his tie, which is a bright color, when he tends to remain as muted as I do. “I like the red. Did I inspire you?”
We’re still standing at the top of the escalator, neither of us moving toward our office area.
“You did, actually,” he states. “You know I can’t let you climb out on a limb by yourself and hang there. You take a risk, I’ll take a risk.” He points at his tiepin. “Even remembered to buckle up.”
This idea that we are in things together warms me inside and out, even if my actions of late prove it to be less true than we’d both prefer. “Buckle up?” I laugh.
“A man can’t have his tie flapping in the wind and smacking him in the face. But seriously, Mia, you look good. What’s going on with you?”
What’s going on with me? I think.
Talk about a loaded question with a complicated answer, one I think he’d understand more than most. This is why I decide to go with the truth, even if it’s not the entire truth. “You know how Jess put up that one photo of me, where I don’t look like me? And then I changed it to a photo that looks like me?”
“They both look like you, Mia.”
“Well, I don’t think so, but regardless, this stranger commented when I changed the photos. He said his read on me was that I am afraid to be the girl in the first photo. For some reason, despite him having a cartoon character for his photo, it hit home. I guess random remarks from objective outsiders can have more impact than I realized.”
His eyes narrow, and he studies me for several beats before he says, “While I’m glad this cartoon guy inspired you, Mia, just remember this. Anyone with a fake photo has something to hide.” He motions with his head. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say. “Ready.”
I follow him to our offices with his warning in my head.
Anyone with a fake photo has something to hide. But Adam is not fake. His photo is no longer a cartoon character. I down a swallow of coffee and run to the bathroom. While in there, I stare at myself in the mirror again, starting to get used to seeing myself with loose hair. Who says a librarian has to be conservative and restrained in extreme ways? I like this new look, I think. I really do.
When I was five, I played dress-up in fancy Cinderella gowns and high heels made for little girls with big-girl dreams. I don’t remember when I stopped fawning over beautiful dresses and shoes. I don’t remember being teased or taunted. I remember being overlooked. At some point, clothes stopped being a path to being noticed, but rather a way to hide. That’s what Jack doesn’t understand.
I’m the one with something to hide.
Not Adam.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I’ve barely sat down at my desk when my phone buzzes with a message from Adam: I like it, Mia. Thank you for doing that for me.
I blink in confusion. Wait, what? He likes it? Oh God. He means my hair. Of course he means my hair, but I didn’t stop for coffee. Isn’t that how we’ve crossed paths in the past? How does he know what I look like today? Unease slithers through me all over again, but I warn myself to calm down, to ask questions, and to not claim assumptions as reality. With a trembling hand, I type: How?
You walked right by me. I told you. The universe wants us to be together.
My brows dip and I type a combative: And you didn’t say anything?
Is a random introduction on the street how you really want us to meet in person? he challenges.
“Hey, Mia,” Jack says, stepping into the office doorway. “Mrs. Mackey is here. She says you have a book for her?”
“Right,” I say. “Yes. It’s in the back. I’ll grab it.”
“I’ll let her know.”
He exits the office again, and my phone buzzes with another message. I glance down to read: Let’s meet this weekend. I have a surprise for you.
He has a surprise for me?
When? I type.
Saturday night, he responds. I’ll text you the details in advance.
My hesitation is unexpected considering how much we’ve talked, and yet expected in that I am me and forever insecure. What if he doesn’t like me in person? What if I don’t like him? What if the magic of our calls is as awkward as it always is with everyone else?
I wet my dry lips and type, Saturday then, in confirmation.
I slide my phone into my pocket. It’s official. I’m going to meet him. I will see him with my own eyes, touch him, I am certain, and look into his eyes, which I know to be green from his dating profile. Once I do all these things, once I know him, really know him, this entire situation will stop feeling weird.
Chapter Fifty
I wake Saturday morning, only hours from meeting Adam, with the incredible realization that he’s still my little secret.
Not an easy task with the two Js in my life, but as proves true at random moments in time, neither is in tune with me right now. Jess is busy with work and even had to cancel our drink date last night. Jack, on the other hand, is battling his knee injury to the point that he missed two days of work this week. I’ve tended to him, brought him dinner, binged Squid Game with him, and ensured he was well medicated. He’s focused on himself now, rightfully so, and trying to heal.