I started to hate that tiny hole in his cheek, though it felt so nice to have it trained on me that my toes were tingling.
“Sure,” I said, with a shrug. “I’ll go.”
He’s texted me twice a month every time there’s a game: Game tonight. Come see me.
Or
Lax game tonight. I need some luck lady.
Or
Lax game. Kicking ass tonight, you’ll enjoy it.
And I always make up some lame excuse.
*
I got home ready for bed, but didn’t rest one bit. A night of no sleep really helps with the soul searching. By the time I wake up, I’m determined to call Wynn and ask her for Trent’s number.
When Paul broke up with me, I never thought it possible to miss another human being like I missed him. I don’t ever want to feel like that again. But I’m ready to move on. I want to give myself another chance.
Rachel and I, we always said we were the smart girls, the girls who know what guys really want from you. It’s hard to stick to this belief when both of my friends have found true love. It’s hard not to consider that maybeeee…just maybe…I can find it too.
I leave Wynn a message and head to work. I’ve felt…discontent ever since I came back from Rachel’s wedding. Restless.
I’m questioning everything, what needs to stay and what I want to change in my life. And the more I question, the more I realize that what I want to change is—me.
So I try to soften; softer eyes, softer blush. I work on my face for the first half hour of my shift, since usually store hours are slower in the morning.
I brush a shimmery light pink Bobbi Brown shadow on my lids, a pale blush across my cheeks and a soft gloss on my lips. I finish, happy and curious to see my new look, but the girl who stares back at me has too big brown eyes, too soft pale skin, and looks too vulnerable, too young, and too innocent, like a girl fresh out of college. Which I guess I am….
Why did I end up at a cosmetics counter?
Because of Paul.
Because I couldn’t get over being broken up with while at my worst, with a toothbrush in my mouth. It’s the reason I never leave home without makeup. It comes on the second after I brush my teeth.
My makeup is definitely my mask, the mask that makes me strong, pretty, whatever I want to be. I like helping other women put on masks too.
I never want any woman in this world to be half-dressed and wearing no makeup, with a toothbrush in her mouth, when she’s broken up with.
Because you never let him see you at your worst. Especially when he’s discarding you like something old and worn.
Feeling vulnerable with my new look, I spend another half hour changing my face back to my heavy smoky eyes and red lips. And by the time Wynn calls back to give me Trent’s number, I feel strong. I feel capable. I feel ready to see where it goes.
DATE NIGHT
Emmett said Trent wanted my number, but I called him instead. I’m giving myself a chance after encouragements from Wynn to “just see.”
So I sit at a nice little round table at a well-known little restaurant, but I don’t see Trent.
He’s late.
I rub my palms over my black jeans. I’m nervous. You’d think I’ve never gone on a date before. And really I haven’t. I’ve had one boyfriend and yeah, that went well.
“Anything to drink while you wait?”
I look up. Even the waitress is looking at me with pity. I’m having one of those crazy klutzy hair days, where my curly hair is reacting to the rain outside. I tried my best to flat-iron it into submission but I can feel the edges starting to curl already. Please, Universe. Let me have a decent first date since Paul.
“Do you have cabernet by the glass?”
“We absolutely do.”
“Great. I’ll have one. And if he’s not here in five minutes, bring me the tab.”
I try to distract myself. Across the table from mine, a man is twiddling his feet. Someone is eating a cinnamon-laced dessert and the scent teases my nostrils.
“See, you don’t listen to me anymore. But if a man talks, you listen,” a woman is complaining, three tables away to her partner. Behind me, another woman is saying she had to buy her shirts extra big so she didn’t pop a button. The man she’s with is assuring her she doesn’t need to diet.
I feel a pang for her. Isn’t that the way it always is? Spending our lives trying to improve, never quite happy with who we are?
“Sorry I’m late,” Trent, in tan slacks and a pastel yellow shirt, says as he plops down. He waves a waiter over. “Bring us the house specialty, make them doubles, and keep those drinks coming.” He looks around the restaurant then, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s here, anyway? A couple girls were looking through the window.”
That’s when I see Tahoe.
I see him.
As if neon lights were flashing around him, as if every light in the restaurant were aimed at him.