Girl Before a Mirror (17 page)

“I don't think it's some kind of checklist, love,” Lincoln says.

“Well, why not??”

“It doesn't work that way.”

“I've been to therapy. I've been on a yearlong hiatus from dating. I've cleaned house of faux friends. I've made smoothies with flax oil in them and started drinking green juice. What else do I have to do?” Lincoln can't hold in his laughter. “I know. The green juice? Not as bad as you think it's going to be. But you know what? There was this moment.” I lean into Lincoln, excited. “I was taking this pilates class. I know. Just stay with me. I tried everything over the last year to help fix myself. Everything. And I'm stretching out my back and the instructor takes his fingers and gives my spine a quick little massage. He gets down to my sacrum.”

“Your what now?”

“This. Your sacrum,” I twist him around and put my hand at the base of his spine. Lincoln nods. “And I howled out in pain. I turn around and the instructor says, ‘Ah, I was wondering where yours was.' ‘My what?' I ask. ‘Where you hold all your pain.' Just
like that. Where you hold all your pain. Like he was talking about where I keep my produce or my reusable bags for the grocery store.”

“Sounds like a prat.”

“Maybe, but what got me? I thought I'd grown out of it, that my adult brain knew how my parents acted—how icy they were and just . . .” I look away from Lincoln. “How they . . .” The tears. I stop. A breath. “How they didn't love me. At all.” I look up at him. And he's just there. He doesn't look like he feels sorry for me or that I'm some sad little match girl. He's just there. Listening. So I continue, “I understand—however abstractly—that that's on them. So, I thought all that pain—I had it all figured out of course—would just evaporate. But apparently it doesn't. It just sank down into my sacrum where it waited for some yahoo to knead his fingers into it and then smugly report that, you know, he knew it was there the whole time.” Lincoln laughs. “That's what scares me. That this is just how I am. Like directions. If I don't know how I got here, how am I going to know how to get back?” I bite the inside of my lip, hoping it'll stem the tide of tears trying to push its way up and out. It doesn't. Now I'm crying and the inside of my mouth is bleeding. Lincoln pulls me into him and I hold on to him. “How am I going to get back?” I ask again.

“I don't know . . . I don't know . . . ,” he says, rubbing my back. “And we're not doomed.” I let out a strangled laugh and pull away from him. Looking straight at him.

“Come on. We can barely handle three days in a hotel,” I say.

“D.C. and Manhattan aren't that far apart,” he says.

“What are we going to do? Date?”

“Sure.”

“Uh-huh. So, you're comfortable with this level of intimacy. Just, like . . . all the time.”

“Are you?” he asks.

“You're answering a question with another question.”

“Of course I'm not comfortable with this level of intimacy all of the time,” Lincoln says. He looks over at me and waits.

“Neither am I.”

“Right.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don't know.” Another look over at me and then he lets his head fall into his hands. “I don't know, love.” He drags his fingers through his hair and finally looks up. “I'd like to say that I've been . . . careful? Is that the right word? No. Shut down. That I've been shut down since the accident, but that's not true. The accident just slammed the door shut. Tight. Maybe I thought I could handle you . . . this . . . us? Because I knew or rationalized that it was only going to be temporary, if I even thought about it at all, which I'm really good at not doing.”

“Why am I relieved?” I say, almost in a whisper.

“What?”

“I don't think it's good. I mean, in the way that everything with you is terrifying and whatever it is that you just said made me relieved.”

“And that's not good?”

“No, because that means I think I'm off the hook.”

“Off the—”

“Right. That—”

“No, I know.” Lincoln looks away from me. He shakes his head. “I'd screw it up.” He manages a smile. Pain. A shrug. Another
shake of the head and then an ironic laugh as he finally settles. In the end he can only get up from the bed in shame. I stop him. “Any relationship—I mean, if you can call anything that I've had a relationship—doesn't last more than . . . a few weeks? Maybe a month?” he says.

“See now that's where I've got you beat. I, at least, had the ability to shut down and endure a loveless marriage for eleven years. And you call yourself dysfunctional.”

“Are you trying to beat me at being emotionally unavailable?”

“What?”

“You are, aren't you? You are actively competing with me to be more hopeless.”

“I'm just . . .” I can't help but laugh. “I mean, can you blame me for wanting something good to come of it?” He laughs.

We are silent. He takes a few steps toward the bathroom, his hand falling out of mine. Something about it feels . . . intentional. A chill runs through my body. He doesn't turn around as he begins speaking.

“I can't have you hate me.” He turns around. The night-light from the bathroom illuminates him like a low moon. He lets his head fall. His arms akimbo. He shakes his head. “I don't think I could survive that.”

“What are you on about?” I say, and he laughs.

“You've been hanging out with me too long.”

“Aye, matey!”

“And now you're a pirate,” he says. I begin inexplicably singing a confused, rambling medley of songs from Mary Poppins that were almost ruined by Dick Van Dyke's terrible cockney accent. And somewhere around “Step in Time” I notice that Lincoln isn't laughing anymore.

“The other women. Every woman, really. I've disappointed. Why couldn't they understand that it's because I like them that I had to stop dating them?” He laughs. “What was that quote . . . one of the Marx brothers?”

“Groucho.” He nods and I can tell it hurts him that I know exactly what he's talking about.

“Groucho,” he repeats. “That he'd never want to belong to a club that would have him as a member.”

“Right.”

“I never wanted to date someone who would have the poor judgment of falling for me. I mean, I know exactly how worthless I am; why didn't they?” A mean little laugh crumbles into a layer of him that breaks me open.

“Fools. Every last one of them,” I say. Lincoln laughs. “Thank God I had the sense to steer clear.” I reach for a glass on the nightstand and gulp the stale water, hoping it will mask the wobble in my voice as I try valiantly to keep from crying.

“This has to stay temporary. It has to. Or else you'll end up hating me.”

“I hate you now, so . . .” Only half true.

“Good.”

“Good.” I want to scream. I want to . . . well, anything else except have Lincoln Mallory telling me we only have mere hours left together. Instead, I walk over to him in the dim light of that hallway. Up close, I now see the tears streaming down his face. I am calm. Eerily calm. I take his face in my hands, brushing his golden curls back.

“I think we should just look at the next however many hours we have together as the only thing that's for sure. I know I want to spend the entire day in bed with you. I know I'm tired of talking
about sad things. You make me happy—so happy,” I say, and then I kiss him. “Happier than I've ever been. Right here and right now and . . . I don't want to think about what happens when we have to leave this bed.”

“I feel the same.”

“I know you do.”

“Anna, I—”

“Don't. Just don't,” I say, stopping him with a kiss.

And that's exactly what we do.

After I get word that Audrey has returned to D.C., I can only think that coming to Phoenix was merely a portion of her plan. She'll go back to the agency and Sasha and I will brace ourselves for whatever the next wave is. Helen Brubaker is attending the giant signing with all the authors and Sasha is still hungover and dead to the world—I have nothing to do but languish in Lincoln's hotel room until the pageant that night.

We sleep soundly in each other's arms as the sun comes up, and then I wake up just long enough to find that I'm curled up and facing away from him, my arms hugging the pillow. Lincoln is snoring away on his side, his fist notched into the crook in his neck, thumb tucked into his hand like a baby. The morning rolls into lunchtime and Lincoln is up and telling housekeeping to skip us, but he's taking the mints they offer him as a consolation prize. He presents me with one in a low morning growl, flipping it to me as he flops back into bed, pulling the covers over him. As the heat and bright sun of high noon break through the
drapes, I shuffle over and pull them closed, falling back into bed and into Lincoln for what are fast becoming more and more desperate sessions with each other. We can feel the countdown getting louder.

“I'm bloody starving,” he says, crouching down next to me by the bed. “I'm going to get something from the machines. Any requests?” He cinches his bathrobe around him, his flips of dark blond hair everywhere. I grab my glasses from the nightstand and hitch myself up.

“Something from the machines?” I ask, still blinking myself awake.

“Yes, darling,” he says.

“What time is it?”

“We're going to need to prioritize in these last hours, my love.” He kisses me. “Food. What do you reckon?” he asks, taking money out of his wallet on the nightstand.

“Everything,” I say.

“Good. Kettle's on,” he says and he's out the door.

A beat.

The silence settles in around me as the chill of . . . the void begins to creep in. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, find my pajama bottoms, and lace my arms through the spaghetti straps of my tank top. I scrape my hair up into a ponytail, wrapping the tie around and around my tangle of hair. I check my phone. Nothing from Ferdie. I let my head fall into my hands as I realize how completely exhausted I am. From everything. Exactly how long have I been in Phoenix—a month? Month and a half? A decade?

But this is how it's going to be when he's gone. And not just at the machines for food. Isn't this why I decided to marry a man
like Patrick—to avoid this exact moment? A moment that feels like I'm on a speeding train and can only watch as the blown-up bridge in front of us gets ever closer. Utterly helpless. How do I go back to my life after experiencing what I have with Lincoln over the last few days? Is the training montage over? Is that what this is? Me stepping into the ring? Even now the pangs of loss begin to tighten their grip around my heart.

I will drink tea. I stand and pour myself a cup, laughing that Lincoln Mallory actually travels with an electric kettle. I remember my own words:

I want to be happy and not feel guilty about it. I want to be curious without being called indulgent. I want to be accepted regardless of what I look like, what I do for a living, my marital status, whether I have kids, or whether you think I'm nice enough, hospitable enough, or humble enough to measure up to your impossible standards. I want purpose. I want contentment. I want to be loved and give love unreservedly in return. I want to be seen. I want to matter. I want freedom. I want to be . . . I want to just be
.

Ninety percent of that list has nothing to do with Lincoln and everything to do with me. So why does it feel exactly the opposite? Maybe I just already miss him.

I think about Helen Brubaker and her question about what would happen if I made an entire playlist with just the songs I enjoyed. Even if I'd previously labeled them fluff. Why did I believe I had to ration out the good stuff to myself into bite-sized nuggets, apologizing to those who caught me indulging as if what I was doing was so wholly shameful? Of course I know. I dig into the deeper recesses of my mind to uncover a childhood with very little good. So I rationed it like it was sugar during wartime. Always careful. Always mindful. Never reckless.

Until now.

What do women want? Let's start with what I want. I want to feel like I deserve greatness. To demand the best all the time. I lift my head up and grab the hotel pen and pad of paper on the bedside table and write.

JUST. BE
.

Lumineux:

Because luxury should be something

every woman deserves on a daily basis
.

No.

Because luxury is something every woman deserves each day
.

No.

Women deserve luxury every day
.

No. Almost.

Because luxury is for every day
. . .

each day
. . .

on a daily basis
.

No. Come on. Think.

Lumineux:

The everyday luxury all women deserve
.

YES.

YES.

YES.

I look at what I wrote. That's it. That's the missing piece. It's one thing to convince women it's okay to luxuriate in romance novels and long hot showers with a fresh-smelling shower gel. I want this ad campaign to give women permission to sink into these things without all the baggage. Wanting to be happy does not make us bad people. Allowing ourselves to feel pleasure should not make us feel guilty. We are not being selfish if we don't always put your needs first.

We are women. And we can be the person we want to be, not the version you wish we were.

We'll repackage Lumineux. Beautiful and simple, stark whites and deep blues. A modern font with few words. No pink. No sparkles. And absolutely no glitter. Women are, although this may upset the applecart, neither idiotic nor little girls.

I text Sasha to see if she's up yet. She replies that she is. I suggest we meet before the pageant and head down together. She agrees. I balance the cell phone on the armrest of the chair, idly spinning it around as I blow on my tea. I take a deep breath and look at the time.

Four forty-three
P.M.

The pageant starts at seven
P.M.
That leaves me with just over two hours with Lincoln until . . . until who knows.

Thing is? We both know. This isn't that scene in a romantic comedy where the audience wishes the two main characters would just talk to each other. Tell the truth! Tell him you love him, they yell to the movie screen. Sometimes you can have the most honest conversation of your entire life and the timing still
isn't right to fall in love with someone. At least that's what I'm telling myself right now. I finally take a sip of my tea.

The door clicks and Lincoln tromps in with an armload of snacks and drinks. He dumps it onto the bed with a ta-daaaaaaa and an oddly executed curtsy. I watch him as he scans the candy. A brush of his chin as he thinks, and I can't help but smile.

“It's an embarrassment of riches,” he says, running his hands through his muss of hair. He plucks a bag of roasted peanuts from the pile and rips it open. “I need protein.” He pours the bag of peanuts into his waiting mouth.

“It's almost five o'clock,” I say, my voice calm and low. Lincoln chews and swallows the peanuts, washing them down with a newly purchased bottle of water. I'm just about to start speaking again and he nods no. Another gulp of water.

“You'll come back here after the pageant,” he says. I am quiet. He crosses the room, kneeling down in front of me. He takes my cup of tea, sets it on the bedside table, and takes my hands in his. “Just come here after the pageant.” He squeezes my hands.

“Okay.” He pulls me in for a kiss. It's . . . urgent. Desperate.

“Good,” he whispers, so close to my face. Another kiss.

“So, I'll go get ready for tonight then. Now that this isn't . . . you know.” I can't say it. Another kiss and I wriggle past him, my hand brushing his shoulder as I pass. I walk into the bathroom, grab my toiletries, and come back out into the room to find him sitting in the chair I just vacated. His bathrobe is cinched tightly around him and he just sits there.

“Hurry back,” he says, his voice tight. I nod, looking down at myself. The same droopy pink tank top, the oversized striped-blue
pajama bottoms. The clothes I wore yesterday are in a pile by the closet, and I pick them up, nestling them in the crook of my arm. He stands and walks over to me. “Here.” He motions for me to hand him over everything. I oblige. A shake of the head and an “I mean . . . come on, love.” He takes everything and dumps it on the bed next to the snacks. He tidies and zips up my toiletry bag, folds my clothes from yesterday, and stacks them underneath the bag. He turns around and takes me in. He walks over to the dresser and pulls a blue V-neck sweater from the drawer. “You can't go out like that. Up.” I raise my hands high and he threads the arms of the sweater onto mine. I pop my head through the neck and he pulls the sweater down over my body. It smells of him, that'll be one of several things that break my heart tonight. A kiss. And I just look at him. I try to stay rational about this . . . everything. I smooth a hand over the cashmere and the softness of it starts to break me open. “Just come back after the pageant.” His voice is quiet, pleading. Whether he's begging me to return or begging me not to lose it right now, I don't know. Probably both.

“Okay,” I say. I curl my fingers around the lapel of his bathrobe, and I am immediately taken back to those first few minutes in the elevator less than three days ago. And unlike before, when his eyes were surprised, confused yet wanton, today his eyes are just . . . sad. But the stillness. This man has a talent for stillness. I pull him into me and let myself burn up in those moments. Letting go. Giving over. Losing myself.

“And just like that, you're going to be late,” he says, and we're on the bed once more, laughing and happy. Apparently he's just as comfortable with being in denial as I am.

I'm getting out of the shower back in my own hotel room when I hear a text come through. Ferdie? No. Lincoln. It's a picture. Of him surrounded by empty candy wrappers with just the words
Look what you made me do
. I laugh. Time ticking away. I pull my towel off and finish drying myself. I carry the towel to the bathroom and hang it on the hook on the back of the door.

hahahahahahaahah
, I text back to Lincoln. I realize that this is the only picture I have of him. The only thing to remind me that he was real.

I switch screens and text Sasha that I'll knock on her door in fifteen minutes.

what??? TOO SOON TOO SOON!
I smile and throw the phone back on the bed.

I put on the bare minimum of makeup and put my hair up into some passable updo that doesn't look like a style called “bedhead plus unwashed.” I spray on a little hair spray and finish getting dressed in the one moderately formal dress I brought to Phoenix—an orange, belted shirtdress with a nice pair of espadrilles I pull from the bottom of my closet. I throw my pajama bottoms, the dingy tank top, and Lincoln's sweater into my purse along with whatever basic toiletries I'll need for tonight. I don't have time to think about tomorrow morning. Flights and airports. Saying good-bye or asking questions with no answers. I shake my head, grab my hotel key, close the door behind me, and walk across the hall to Sasha's room. She opens the door in just her bra and panties.

“Come in, come in . . . ,” she says, pulling me in and closing the door behind me. “You're early.” It's barely 6:15.

“We're supposed to be there by six thirty,” I say, walking over to the desk and settling in the chair. “How are you feeling?”
Sasha's notebook is on the desk, opened to the notes she took during Helen's workshop.

“I'm okay. I've taken too many antacids and maybe some Gas-X and definitely too many aspirin. I've tried to stay hydrated and of course I've already taken my hangover cure,” Sasha says, stepping into her slinky black dress. She walks over to me and I zip her up.

“Hangover cure?”

“Doritos Nacho Cheese and a Coke,” she says, hurrying into the bathroom, where she finishes putting on her makeup.

“Is that the official hangover cure?” I ask, scanning Sasha's notebook.

“It should be,” she calls out.

Underneath Sasha's doodles of a wedding cake topper, I find what Sasha has entitled “The Rules of Romance.” They are as follows:

        
1.
   
Everyone deserves to be worshipped.

        
2.
   
There's a hero inside all of us.

        
3.
   
The hero and heroine are fine on their own but know they're better together.

        
4.
   
Risk your heart, it's worth it.

        
5.
   
Always believe in a happy ending.

I can feel the emotion rising in my throat, a particularly violent kind of joy. At the bottom of the page, Sasha has drawn a sunset and a couple walking hand in hand toward it. I brush my hand over her little drawing. Always believe in a happy ending.

“It looks so easy,” I say.

“Whaat?” Sasha calls out from the bathroom. She walks out, putting an earring on. “What?”

“The happy ending thing,” I say. I point to her notebook. “The Rules of Romance.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sasha's entire body deflates just enough for me to become concerned.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I know we have no time and we're going to be late, but I have to tell you something,” Sasha says. My stomach lurches. Has Audrey told her we're off the campaign?