THE NEXT DAY, WHEN MY alarm starts blaring, I wake up with a sense of dread over the news that Ivy might just be back in the office today. It doesn’t matter that I’ve changed mentally and physically since the last time I saw her. It doesn’t matter that in that time, I’ve gained some of my confidence back. I’ve been stronger. At that moment, the feeling of hate and fear instantly pushes me back once again. Hate for her, but even that is overshadowed by the hate I feel toward myself for being so weak that I forget every step I’ve made to better myself over the last six months. And fear that being around her again is going to cause me to slip and forget the strength I’ve earned.
Physically, I’ve worked hard to shed some weight and have dropped a solid fifty pounds from my body. I no longer look in the mirror and hate who I see looking back. I don’t love it, but I’m getting there. I had been a size twenty for so long that sometimes I still struggle to see the size fourteen I’ve earned through basically starving myself of the food I crave and maintaining daily—sometimes twice a day—trips to the gym. Getting ready this morning, though, no matter how hard I try, I see the old me. I feel the same helpless self-loathing I had for so long. Just because of Ivy and what her return could mean.
I know the problem. I know why I see the old me. It’s taken months of deep theory to understand that it is a trick my mind plays on me. I have a preoccupation with finding my flaws. All of this stems from suffering from what my doctor calls body dysmorphia. I’ve made the vision I see for myself a product of the imagined flaw. Even realizing this and working daily to overcome it, I still find that it’s easier said than done. A week after my divorce was final, she started me on anti-depressants, and with the help of our sessions, my journaling, and a lot of extensive therapy I had been able to put it behind me … for the most part.
To be honest, I’m mad at myself for allowing Ivy to bring me back down to my lowest of lows with just a thought.
You’re better than this, Willow. You’ve come so far. Don’t let her take everything you’ve earned from you. You aren’t weak anymore. No one has that power over you but yourself.
I dress with care, picking one of my more flattering black dresses and black pumps. The dress hugs my ample chest, covers my arms to the elbow, but more importantly pleats at the skirt to hide the slight roundness of my stomach I can’t seem to rid. Even I feel pretty in this, so hopefully, it will add some much-needed confidence to my mentality going forth today.
The ride to work, like always, is uneventful. The ascent to the floor of Logan Agency’s offices has my pulse spiking. I try to mentally prepare myself, but when I step off the elevator and into the glamorous lobby, I lose every ounce of careful preparation. Like a sixth sense, I just know she’s here. As if Ivy’s very being has left her twisted vines of evil behind with every step she takes.
Why would he bring her back? God, really, I can be so stupid. Why wouldn’t he bring her back? She’s his pride and joy.
“Hey.” I jump when Kirby’s voice calls out to me from behind Mary’s desk, the floor’s main receptionist. Mary, an older woman who has been with the agency from conception, gives me a kind smile and wave before lifting the ringing phone from the cradle.
“What’s up?” I ask, shifting the weight of my purse and giving Kirby a small smile.
“You look pretty, Will,” she praises.
“Thanks.”
“You know, don’t you?”
“That she’s here?” I ask. Kirby’s eyes soften before she nods. “I know. It’s okay, Kirb. I’m not worried about it.”
Lie. Big freaking lie.
“What can I do? I can start a small fire in the break room? We could be out of here before you ever saw her face. Run off to Mexico? Drink those yummy tropical drinks until we pass out in a drunken stupor?”
Despite my unease, I laugh. “Nothing you can do. I just need to get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Who knows, maybe she’s going to be happy to see me.” I laugh; the sound hitting my ears is as fake as it feels coming out.
“We could quit,” she continues. “I wouldn’t mind being a kept woman and staying at home all day,” she jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood that has settled over me.
“You would be bored out of your mind, and I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills.”
“Right, well … it’s a suggestion. If you want to run, just pull the fire alarm or something … I’ll follow your lead.”
“I love you, Kirby Quinn.”