Girl Before a Mirror (8 page)

“Yeah,” I say, taking off my jacket.

“You're still all flushed, you know.”

“I know. I can . . . I know,” I say, feeling my face with the back of my hand. I'm embarrassed. I feel . . . wait. It's the same exact feeling that happens when I fear I'll get caught reading a romance novel. It's that blush. I kick off my heels and just stand there, letting my head fall onto my chest. I pull my long brown hair out of its twist and start to feel normal. Ish. I can still feel him . . . everywhere. I clear my throat, trying to regain some level of composure . . . if only temporarily. “I'm super tired and we have a big day tomorrow, so . . .” I walk toward the door to my room and Sasha follows, crestfallen.

“That's all I get?” Sasha asks, as I pull open the door.

“For now. I just need some sleep,” I say, managing a smile.

“An early breakfast then,” she says. “Where I'll get more details?” Sasha steps out into the hallway. I nod. “He was cute. Seemed really into you.” She cinches her robe tightly around her body.

“Yes, well,” I say, letting the thought hang while I have an entire conversation with myself about what just happened—what I
did
—in that elevator. What came over me?? “ Seven
A.M
. then?” Sasha nods with a sheepish smile and walks across the hall to her room. We close our doors with a polite wave.

I unzip my skirt, step out of it, and hang it up in the closet along with my shirt. Bra goes in the drawer, panties go in the laundry bag, makeup gets washed off, hair gets combed out, teeth get brushed, contact lenses get taken out, and glasses get put on. I can't look at myself, but hotels have a way of forcing you to look at your own reflection. In my apartment I have a system so I'm never caught off guard with my own reflection.
But hotels are lousy with mirrors in oddball locations whose goal, it seems, is to make me look at every angle of myself whether I want to or not. Every time I meet my own gaze I blush, still in disbelief at what I did. And then there I am again, and is that the sort of person Lincoln Mallory finds attractive? I lost myself in that elevator and all these mirrors are reminding me that I'm still me . . . forty-year-old-bodied me.
She ain't a beauty, but hey she's all right
.

As I plug my phone into the charger by the bed and set the alarm for six
A.M
., my mind is still swirling—the root of the maelstrom deep in my gut. I take my glasses off, turn out the lights, pull the covers up over my shoulders, and settle in on my side.

A flash. Him. His touch. I breathe. Flip onto my back. The warmth of his mouth, his body pressed against mine. I lay my arm across my forehead, eyes wide open in the pitch black. Those dark blue eyes fixed on mine in a way no man has ever looked at me. I flip over on my stomach, and the sensation of his fingers tightening around the crook of my knee sends tingles all over my body. I swallow. Hard. I flip the pillow over and the coolness of the other side calms me down. The tangle of his dark blond hair running through my fingers and I'm on my other side again, back where I started. I feel like a raw nerve. My brain is sharp and attuned.

My brow furrows and I pull the covers up tight around my shoulders. I want the darkness to surround me. Hide me. Cover me. Protect me. Something.

Incalculable.

I haven't felt this alive for as long as I can remember.

By the time Sasha and I meet for breakfast the next morning, just a few minutes past seven
A.M
., I've concocted untold thousands of narratives for how last night happened and how either a) I will continue to spiral out of control until I've been turned into some sex slave and only Liam Neeson's very specific skill set can save me, b) I will be be crushed when it turns out that I am not, in fact, in a romance novel and real life doesn't work like this, or c) Lincoln Mallory checked out this morning and I missed my chance at . . . and then my mind goes blank . . . missed my chance at whatever this is . . . was . . . I don't know. We order two breakfast buffets and everything seems to be settling back into the real world as I grapple with which toppings to put on my oatmeal.

“It doesn't even sound like a real name. Lincoln Mallory,” Sasha says, biting into a chunk of cantaloupe.

“I know,” I say, leafing through today's schedule. Helen Brubaker's workshop is today and both Sasha and I have been enrolled. We have some judging responsibilities in the early evening
before we have to attend the . . . sigh . . . Pirate Booty Ball. I can't help but wonder how many times I'll be asked if I'd like to walk someone's plank.

“And you said he was British?”

“Yeah,” I say, closing the schedule and going back to the work e-mails now overloading my smartphone. A few from my assistant and many more than usual from Audrey.

“Do you just want to eat breakfast alone or . . . ,” Sasha says, no longer eating.

“What? Oh, I'm so sorry. I would have liked to see Preeti last night, is all. Either at the Con or here. I just want to make us . . . well, you know. Okay. I'll stop,” I say, tapping out some final instructions to my assistant and setting the phone down.

What I want to say? I hate that Sasha saw me so unguarded. Hell, I hate that I was so unguarded, whether Sasha saw me or not. I've had to work twice as hard to get half the respect my mostly male colleagues get. Community college plus night classes doesn't come close to the pedigrees of most of the people I work with. And now I've gone and given them ammo to brush me aside. Turns out, vulnerability isn't just something that shall set me free—it also makes me a target. I must keep my head. Or decide that I can trust Sasha if I can't. Or don't want to.

I continue, “I just want today to go well, you know? I still haven't pieced together exactly how to involve Helen Brubaker and whether it's going to be a direct tie-in at all.” I start in on my oatmeal, making sure to have brown sugar in every spoonful. “And that really bothers me.”

“No, I know. It's like we came down here with this super-specific plan and the minute we got here it kind of all blew up,” Sasha says.

“Exactly. I'm getting more and more confident that Lumineux is going to want to use the campaign we've designed for them. What I'm getting nervous about is whether it'll still be our campaign by the time we get to that point. Plus, I know we'll get the spokesman. That's for sure. And maybe that's the tie-in, that he's Mr. RomanceCon or whatever. But there's got to be something we can do with Helen and the actual book. Or maybe it'll just be the inspiration.” I shake my head and take another bite of my oatmeal.

“Do you think she'll sign our copies of her book?” Sasha pulls her well-worn copy of
Be the Heroine
from her workbag and sets it on the table.

“Oh, I'm sure she would, but . . .”

“We can ask her, right? I mean, everyone in the workshop will want her to sign them,” Sasha says, her voice growing desperate.

“Maybe we play it by ear?” I ask.

“Yeah, I know we have to keep it professional. Speaking of . . .” Sasha waggles her eyebrows at me and I know exactly what she wants to talk about: Lincoln.

“As I said, I don't know anything about him,” I say.

“Didn't look like that.”

“It's all of this. It made me do it. I was all hopped up,” I say, feeling my face flushing once again. “I'm so embarrassed.”

“You went to a fourth of a Greek-themed party, where from what I heard, all you got hopped up on was dipping various things into a chocolate fountain. And embarrassed? Why would you be embarrassed? Maybe you just liked the guy,” Sasha says.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Why is that bad?”

“I don't know. It just feels . . . bad. Not wrong bad, but different bad.”

“In romance novels that's kind of the whole deal. Different bad is good. Different bad is hot. The sexy stranger who makes your wild side come out? I mean, for not reading any romance novels you're sure—”

“It's not like that,” I say.

“I'm just saying be open to it, and not in a nasty way, just—”

“No, I know.
Open
open.” My therapist's words come rushing back. “But it was a one-time deal, so . . .”

“That's a quote in every romance novel ever. So . . . good luck with that.”

“Or it could just be
bad
bad and I'm trying to rationalize my way into doing whatever it is, anyway.”

“That's true, too,” Sasha says, poking at her scrambled eggs.

“He said that . . . ugh, it shouldn't matter what he said, but—”

“What?”

“He said that I was nervous about the campaign because I lacked confidence. That the most powerful thing someone can do is make you believe you only have the one good idea,” I say.

“Well, isn't that kind of like what you were saying Audrey was doing to me? By acting like she can never remember my name?”

“Maybe. Yeah. I'd forgotten about that. Wow, that's exactly right,” I say. We fall silent.

“My grandmother used to say I had this light in me . . . she said things like that.” Sasha pushes away her plate and sits back in her chair. “And then when I got to be a teenager that light just went out.”

“Happens to a lot of women, I think.”

“So maybe this is about that. I think people—weak people or whatever, I don't think they're bad people necessarily—I think in order for them to feel brighter they have to convince others they're not as bright.”

“And then we turn our own light out,” I say to myself.

“Right. Look, if Audrey pulls something, we'll figure it out. It's not like we don't see her coming.”

“We'll Marple her,” I say.

“We'll what?” Sasha asks, laughing. I explain the Anna Wyatt Marple Theory to Sasha as quickly as I can as if I'm giving her directions to the bathroom.

“But that's not this.”

“What? Of course it is.”

“No. It absolutely is not. Audrey knows we're a threat. She doesn't think we're harmless old ladies at all,” Sasha says. I'm about to say something. “Charlton does. Definitely. Probably Chuck, too. They think we're all idiots, but Audrey? No way.”

Just then Lincoln comes striding into the restaurant. He has a brief conversation with the woman at the front desk, and she whips her hair over her shoulder and laughs coyly at something he's said. I feel a combination of jealous and ridiculous. Flirting with random women equals business as usual for Lincoln Mallory. She pulls a receipt from the little machine and he signs it, saying his farewells to the newest love of his life he scans the buffet and our eyes meet. Every hair on my body stands on end as my mouth runs dry. He stops and slides his hands in his pockets as if he's gazing at a painting in a museum. The buffet line shifts around him, and the growing crowd diverts and detours, people threading their way to the buffet with excuse me's and odd looks.

Lincoln doesn't move.

Until he takes his hand out of his pocket and motions for me to come over to him with an authoritative curl of his finger.

“Excuse me,” I say to Sasha, taking my napkin from my lap and setting it on top of my half-eaten oatmeal. Sasha follows my gaze and I notice her cartoonish double take as I walk toward Lincoln.

“I need to see you again,” he says. I look from him to the throng of people moving through the buffet line and wonder how he can seem so unaffected by it all. I open my mouth to speak and he interrupts me with “And don't say you're seeing me right now.” That was pretty much verbatim what I was going to say, and all I can do is smile. “I must apologize, I would have come to your table, but I wasn't sure how much you wanted your work colleague to be privy to.”

“Privy to? We're not animals, Lincoln. Let me introduce you,” I say, taking his hand in mine and walking over to the table. It's a casual move—fueled by my bravado to be
so okay with this, woo-hoo
—but it catches even me off guard. I didn't mean to take his hand; I was just leading him over to the table. But there it is. We're holding hands now like two elementary school sweethearts on the playground. And as if it's all new to me, my fingers tighten and loosen around his like I don't quite know what intensity level I want to display right now. I settle on the level that just feels right as we near Sasha, who has been watching it all. “Sasha Merchant, this is Lincoln Mallory. He's here in Phoenix on business. Sasha is doing the artwork on our ad campaign.” Sasha stands, extending her hand. Lincoln lets go of mine as he takes Sasha's.

“A pleasure, Ms. Merchant,” he says.

“And also with you,” Sasha says, her face flushing immediately.

“I'll walk you out,” I say, moving Lincoln away from the table.

“Am I allowed to get breakfast first?” Lincoln asks, eyeing the buffet line.

“Yes, of course. I'm so sorry.” I stop and face him. “About last night—”

“I didn't think people actually said that,” Lincoln says, pouring himself a cup of tea into a to-go cup.

“Right? And yet here we are,” I say. Lincoln laughs and it cuts through a bit of the tension.

“Fair enough. What if we just got dinner? Tonight?” Lincoln asks.

“I have . . . I have a Pirate Booty Ball to attend later tonight,” I say, my entire being deflating with each word. Lincoln's mouth curls into a smirk. He waits. “It's a party at RomanceCon. A themed party. With pirates and—”

“And?”

“Booties.” The word is pulled from my mouth by sheer force.

Lincoln just nods. “As you do. That actually works perfectly. A surprise field trip after your . . .”

“Booty Ball.”

“Yes. Quite. If you would, love.” Lincoln hands me his tea and I take it. “Cheers.” He pulls his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and takes his business card from its soft leather folds. He pulls a pen from the same pocket, turns the business card over, and writes a phone number. He slides his wallet back into the jacket pocket, then the pen, takes his tea from me, and hands me his business card. “That's my mobile. We'll talk later.” One last
smile to me and he ambles out of the buffet, grabbing an apple on the way out, tossing it once in the air.

We're just finishing up when my phone rings. Audrey. I show Sasha the name and she makes a face.

“Audrey, hello,” I say, faking enthusiasm.

“Anna,” she says, her voice silken and easy.

“What can I help you with, Audrey?” I ask. Sasha rolls her eyes.

“I just wanted a progress report from Team Lumineux,” she says.

“How thoughtful,” I say. Sasha is scrolling through her phone and I can see something give her pause. She's scrolling and reading. A shake of the head and she looks up. I furrow my brow and she shows me her phone. As Audrey twitters on into the phone about how great we're doing and how lucky Holloway/Greene is to have us and Lumineux Shower Gel this and Quincy Pharmaceuticals that, I read an e-mail from Charlton to everyone announcing how proud he is of Chuck, who just brought in the account of a billionaire playboy who owns three separate sports teams.

And now everything makes sense. If I thought the heat was on before, Chuck signing this huge account has just lit the fuse.

“We'd better be heading off to the conference, Audrey. Thank you so much for checking up on our account,” I say, hitting the word
our
with territorial flare. While I understand Lincoln's point, I am far from giving up on Lumineux. If Audrey wants to steal this idea, she's going to have to do just that. I refuse to make this robbery a comfortable situation for her. This time? I'm not turning off my own light.

“Yes, well. You're welcome,” she says.

“You championing and supporting the work of other women means the world,” I say.

“Of course.”

“Best to you, Audrey,” I say.

“And you,” she says. We hang up.

Sasha and I are silent. Shaking our heads.

“Dammit,” I say.

“Yep,” Sasha says.

We drive to the conference hotel in silence. While Sasha is in the bathroom, I find an open corner of a sofa in the lobby. We have just thirty minutes before Helen's workshop. The lobbies, restaurants, and hotel hallways are filled with cliques of women laughing and talking. They're animated and joyous, like a bunch of kids who still believe in Santa Claus. I feel like an outsider. What a shock.

All of us were romance novelists when we were younger. I kept diaries and built fantasies. Every boy was a hero and I thought I was worthy of that lingering gaze across a crowded room. I was the princess in the tower and the kick-ass heroine who battled the bad guys. I slew dragons and kissed knights like I meant it. I not only allowed myself to get swept off my feet, I expected it. And it was never about fearing I was valuable only if someone liked me. It was the purity of knowing that this life was meant to be shared and that I had the right to someone amazing.

So what happened? How does that same little girl then settle for “You know, he makes a good living and my parents really like him,” which are the exact words I said about Patrick weeks before I married him?

Patrick O'Hara was the right kind of partner. Every box was checked. He was whip-smart and curious. I will always love a
man who asks questions. We were friends first. I thought I was happy. Patrick was always a good man, thoughtful and considerate. He was never cruel. But as our marriage eroded we both became versions of ourselves that neither of us were proud of.
Bratty
is the word that comes to mind as I think back on us now. Because our needs were so far from being met, we devolved into tantrumming toddlers who never respected the other's wishes in any meaningful way. In the waning months of our eleven-year marriage, we became more like feuding siblings than beloveds. Fighting about what was fair and that you got that so I get this and you said that so I get to feel this for this amount of time and on and on, stopping just short of putting a line of duct tape down the center of our home.