Flawless (19 page)

I wait for a second, and when he doesn't say anything more, I ask, “Yes?”

“We're friends, right?”

Friends.

The word slams into me like I've run headfirst into a brick wall.

“Of course,” I tell him. Friends is all we'll ever be.

“And you trust me?” he asks, still close enough for me to enjoy the heat from his body.

“Of course,” I repeat, worried he's about to unload the brutal facts on me. Something to the tune of “If you'd just fix your nose …”

He rocks back on his heels, eyes shifting to the ground between us. “The truth is … I think you're incredible.”

Incredible? Did he just call me …
incredible
? I stand frozen with my heart doing Olympic-worthy gymnastics in my chest.

He raises his eyes back to mine, a grin on his face. “You don't believe me.”

I won't even let my brain go where my heart has already raced. I won't let myself believe Rock actually likes me.
Really
likes me. And so what if he did? My loyalty would still be to Kristen. It always will be.

I smile back at him. “I think you're a really good friend. A protective friend. And I really appreciate it, but—”

Rock shakes his head, impatient. “That's not what I meant.”

“Then I'm lost,” I tell him.

He clears his throat abruptly. “I don't know how to—” he begins, then stops when Kristen opens the front door.

“Y'all lose something out here?” she calls from the front door.

I close my eyes, willing him to finish what he was going to say. It could have been anything.

I don't know how to read braille.

I don't know how to crochet.

I don't know how to tell you I love you.

I nearly laugh out loud at the last thought. Geez, maybe I
do
need to get out of town this weekend.

Even when I look around him to answer her, Rock doesn't move, keeps his eyes on me. “Just chatting,” I call back with a small wave.

“So …,” I say, wishing he'd tell me what he's thinking. There's something going on in that gorgeous head of his and I'm dying to know what it is.

I open the car door and slide into my seat.
Say something, Rock.

Rock holds the door, an unreadable expression on his face. “Good to see you tonight, Sarah.”

“You, too, Rock.” I pull the door from his grip and close it, but roll the window down, giving him one last chance to say whatever was on his mind.

His eyes are on me; his unspoken words are hanging between us. “See you around,” he says quietly, then taps the hood twice before he turns around and strides back up the sidewalk, where Kristen's waiting for him.

Even as I pull from the curb, I can still feel Rock's eyes following me, his unspoken words now question marks swirling around in my head.

There is no cosmetic for beauty like happiness.

—MARGUERITE GARDINER BLESSINGTON

Chapter Eighteen

When I get home, I find Mom reading on the couch, feet enjoying the warm vibrating water of her favorite footbath. It's one of those supercool ones that keep the water hot for hours.

“Hi, sweetie,” she calls over her shoulder as I enter the living room. The smell of lavender fills the room. Those aromatherapy hippies know what they're talking about. The scent immediately loosens the tightness in my shoulders.

I drop my backpack and purse on the floor and fall into the cushion next to her.

“Tough day?” she asks, dropping the book and grabbing my hand for a squeeze.

“Confusing,” I tell her.

“Feel like talking about it?”

One of my favorite things about Mom is that she doesn't force me to talk about anything. It's always my choice. And nine times out of ten, I talk. A lot.

I tell her about the things Jay told me, right down to the impossible-to-believe story that he'd had a crush on me for years.

When I finish telling her how our conversation ended, Mom stays quiet. Her eyes are soft, intense, like she's choosing her approach with me very carefully.

“Just say it,” I tell her.

“Sweet Sarah,” she says. “How can you be so smart and still so …”

“So
what
?” I demand when she pauses.

“So unaware,” she finishes.

I stare at her like she's officially lost her mind. Because, let's be honest, she has. “I know you're still reeling from the whole Jen thing, but that's
your
issue. Don't make it mine.”

“This has absolutely nothing to do with Jen,” she says, spitting out Jen's name like she just swallowed a huge gulp of sour milk, “and everything to do with you.”

I laugh out loud because if I don't, I seriously might cry. Why can't she just support me 100 percent, no questions asked?

She reaches down and turns off the footbath, then dries her feet with the towel in her lap. She sits cross-legged on the cushion, facing me. “Sarah, I know it's hard to believe, but I was your age once. And I had the same nose you do.”

“You keep saying that, but I've never seen a single picture that proves it.” Trust me. I've done plenty of digging for old pictures and yearbooks over the years, but I've never unearthed a single photo of her pre-rhinoplasty.

“That's because I moved heaven and earth to erase that part of my life. I didn't have the confidence you have. There wasn't a single day I wanted to keep that nose. Not one single day.”

None of this is new information. Mom's told me a million times about how she saved every penny from her after-school job at the mall for three years to get her nose job. It's clear she felt imprisoned by her nose.

“You hated your nose. Got it. What does that have to do with
me
?” I ask.

Mom sighs a deep breath, then speaks so quietly I have to strain to hear her. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you're not as tough as you let others believe?”

“Who said I was tough?” I ask, matching her tone. As much as I don't want to have this conversation, something deep in my gut tells me I need to. Not that Mom would ever let me escape now. She's got me and we both know it.

Mom smiles, a sad little smile, one full of regret. “You've been fighting to prove that since the day you were born, Sarah.”

I shake my head. “Whatever.”

“It's true, you know. Even when you were a toddler, you kept everyone at a distance. It was like you didn't need anyone.”

I focus on the intricate pattern of the rug, doing my best to block her out and failing.

“Sarah, look at me.”

I cut my eyes her direction. “What?”

“I think Jay may be on to something.”

“I can't believe you're taking his side. You don't even know him!” Aren't mothers supposed to be on your side, no matter what?

Mom laughs, like I said something freaking hilarious. “There are no sides here, Sarah. And if there were, you can bet I'd be on yours. All I'm saying is that there's some truth to what Jay said.”

I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at her and feeling completely betrayed.

“When was the last time you hung out with someone besides Kristen?” she asks.

Narrowing my eyes, I shrug. “What does that have to do with anything? It's not like there are people out there just dying to be my friend.”

“How can you be so sure?” she pushes.

“The barrage of never-ending big-nose one-liners and snickering when I walk by is a pretty good indicator. Trust me, if someone said hello or even smiled my direction, I'd notice.”

“So how is it you missed Jay's crush on you?”

The truth is, I've been asking myself the same question all afternoon. In a sea of sarcasm, how could I have missed Jay's laugh, his warmth?

Would it have mattered?

“The answer's pretty obvious, if you ask me,” Mom says slowly.

When I stay silent, she pulls my chin with her soft hand so that we're facing each other.

“Sarah Burke, I love you. I think you are the most amazing person I've ever known and I thank God every single day for you.”

I refuse to give her any leeway. “You have to say that. You're my mom.”

She giggles, sounding and looking more like a college girl than a middle-aged woman. “I guess all moms feel that way,” she concedes. “But I wasn't finished.”

I hold up my hands. “My bad. Please go on.”

“Sarah, you're a difficult person to get to know. You're adamant about keeping your nose the way it is, but you won't look strangers in the eyes. You keep your eyes down and heart closed to new people who might want to get to know you better. I understand how you feel, and I know kids have teased you over the years. I'm not saying that's easy to deal with or that it's fair. It's all a matter of
you
accepting who you are, Sarah. Everyone else around you has already done that, and those that haven't don't matter anyway.”

“You've been reading Dr. Phil again, haven't you?” I say, the sting of her words burning my eyes.

She playfully slaps at my hand. “Don't let your nose keep you from life. Don't let it limit the people who get to know you and love you the way I do. I guess that's why I always pushed the nose job on you … I was never as strong, as independent, as you. I craved approval and attention from everyone else. I guess a part of me still does. But you don't, Sarah. You're perfect just as you are.”

I look at my mom, a sinfully proportionate, stunning, successful woman. “It's hard to imagine you with a single flaw,” I say.

“Trust me, I still have flaws. Lots of them.”

“Yeah, right. Tell that to the million people that watch you on the news every night.”

“You know,” she says, “I've been thinking about what happened between you and Jen at the station. I'm really proud of you for sticking up for me. For us.”

“You would have done the same thing,” I say, feeling a rush of warmth on my face.

“Not at your age, I wouldn't have. If I'd been the seventeen-year-old standing in that doorway, overhearing those ludicrous rumors, I'd have run and hid. But you've got more guts than I ever had. That's why you don't need a nose job to make you feel complete, worthy.”

I stare at Mom, wondering if she could possibly be right. Could someone really love me with my nose exactly the way it is?

More importantly, can I learn to love myself? Nose and all?

More than once, I thank God that I don't have to go to school and face Rock so soon after that weird exchange at my car. With the weekend as a buffer, I'm pretty sure I can pretend nothing ever happened. And I've been blessedly spared a call from Jay.

But I'm not nearly as lucky in steering clear of Kristen. Not that I'm really trying to avoid her, but I'm not quite ready to face her when I'm still muddling through my feelings about my life and who I am. And I definitely don't need to hear the details of her latest date with him. When she shows up unannounced Sunday morning, I'm still in my pajamas, working at the computer on an article for journalism.

“God, don't you ever get tired of doing homework?” she complains, stretching out on my unmade bed, stroking Ringo curled up on my pillow. He rolls onto his back for more attention, which Kristen freely gives him.

“Doesn't matter if I'm tired of it. It still has to be done,” I tell her, smiling at her predictability.

“So you and Rock say,” she mumbles, arm thrown over her eyes.

“Something on your mind?” I ask, glancing back at the half-written article on the computer screen, wishing I could finish it.

“Yep,” she says, eyes still covered.

“Care to share?” I ask.

She pulls her arm from her eyes and rolls onto her stomach to face me. “It's Rock.”

I brace myself for the play-by-play of her date. I press my lips together tightly and let her take over the conversation.

“So we get to this place called the Chocolate Bar in Montrose. It's totally amazing—chocolate everywhere! The smell alone is enough to give you a caffeine buzz.”

“Definitely sounds like my kind of place,” I say, picking at my fingernails.

“It was the most romantic setting for a date,” she says, eyes drifting to some faraway place in her mind, like she's watching the night unfold in her head.

“That's so great,” I say, stopping myself from hurrying along this little stroll down memory lane.

“But then the poetry reading began.”

I smile, sure that Kristen's about to reiterate her reasons for hating poetry. Always at the top of that list is, “Who talks like that, anyway?” which is followed closely by, “Why are poets so cryptic? Just say what you mean already!”

But she shocks me with the look in her eyes that tells me things aren't so sunny in paradise. “That's when things started falling apart,” she says.

I hop off the chair and sit down on the bed close to her. “I'm sure it's not that bad.”

“It was awful,” she moans, sitting up so we're side by side on the edge of the bed. “I kept trying to make comments about the poetry but he just kept smiling and laughing, like I was purposely saying things to make him laugh.” I reach around Kristen and pull her in for a little hug, and she drops her head to my shoulder.

She sighs deeply. “I think I'm going to break up with him.”

My heart skids to a screeching halt, and the air is sucked out of my lungs.

Kristen raises her head and studies me. “Don't look so surprised,” she says. “You had to know this would happen. It's not like I can keep up the facade without you around. That was painfully evident last night.”

“But it's
Rock
,” I say, feeling oddly conflicted. Thrilled, on the one hand, that he'll actually be free, but terrified on the other. Because now there will be nothing to stop me from telling him how I feel. Aside from my burgeoning insecurity and the fact that twenty-four hours ago he was dating my best friend, of course.

“Exactly. He'll understand when I tell him.” She nods her head resolutely. “Right?”

“When you tell him what?” I ask, already sensing what's coming next.

“About the e-mail and Facebook messages you wrote. I mean, if he hadn't figured it out already, he has to know after last night.”

“You swore you'd never tell, Kristen. Besides, he probably just thinks you were being cute,” I suggest in desperation.

“There is nothing cute about being dumb. Not in Rock's book, anyway. Besides, it's too much work.”

I stare at her, infuriated that she'd ever consider telling him I'd written the letters. “It's too much work for
you
?” I nearly scream. “
I'm
the one who wrote those letters.
I'm
the one who spent hours on Facebook thinking up believable replies and coming up with questions to keep the conversation going. You can't tell him, Kristen. You swore you wouldn't tell him.”

“Breathe,” she tells me. “You've seriously got to relax. Geez.”

“You. Promised.” My voice is lower, but still shaky.

“I won't tell him
you
wrote the letters, just that I had someone else write them for me. I owe him the truth.”

“Since when did you grow a conscience?” I ask her, instantly regretting it when I see the hurt cloud her eyes. I hug her tight. “I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that.”

She pulls away, looking at me through watery eyes. “That was way below the belt.”

I nod. I'm not too proud to admit when I'm wrong. And that was way wrong.

Kristen stands, walks to my computer, and scans the article on the screen. “Do you have any idea how long it'd take me to write something like this?” she asks, pointing at the screen.