The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,446

overplucked and have seen better days. I’m guessing she fell victim to the “Skinny Eyebrow Craze of the Early 2000s.” Fortunately, they make products for that. I grab some brow gel and start filling them in. “So what are you wearing tonight on your hot date?”

Her face lights up. “I splurged. I went to Bergdorfs and spent the kind of money Harold would’ve shat a brick over. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind sticking around while I try it on? I could use an honest opinion. The saleslady said it looked great, but you know how salespeople are.”

“I’d be happy to.” I finish her makeup and she ducks off to her room, closing the door and telling me she’ll be right out.

When she emerges, she’s dressed in a curve-hugging bandage dress. Her breasts are sky-high and her long legs are freshly waxed and smooth. Her arms are toned, Pilates I’m guessing. I never would’ve guessed Helena was hiding this banging of a body beneath an old ratty robe.

Sliding her hands down the front of her hips, she sucks in a deep breath. “So, Aidy? What do you think?”

My jaw hangs. “Um, you look like a freaking supermodel. Seriously. I could put you on a billboard in Times Square right next to Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington and no one would think twice.”

She swats her hand at me. “Oh, stop.”

“I mean it. Brad the Accountant is about to have his world rocked, and he’s not even going to know what hit him.”

There’s a full-length mirror in the middle of her hallway, leaning against the wall. She stops before it and examines herself, her expression fading from excitement and morphing into pure, unabashed fear.

In slow-motion real time, I watch as her eyes glass up and thick, mascara-colored tears slide down her perfectly made-up cheeks.

“Helena, Helena,” I take her aside, sliding my hand down her arm. “Stop. Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

She pushes me away, tearing at the dress, trying frantically to get it off. Her creamy skin fills with red blotches and she gasps for air.

“Get it off,” she says, breathless and panicked. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . .”

I tug the zipper down her back and escort her into her room, where she lets the dress fall to the floor and reaches desperately for her robe. Covered and hunched over on the side of her bed, she buries her face in her hands.

“What’s going on?” I ask, taking the spot beside her. I rub my hand across the small of her back, which sends her into an immediate state of inconsolable sobbing.

I sit with her, not saying a word, being the surrogate friend she so clearly needs in this moment, and when she finally comes up for air, she turns to me, her face a ruined mess.

“I can’t go out there,” she says. “I can’t look like this and wear this dress and pretend to be someone I’m not and hope that this complete stranger will love me half as much as Harold did.”

Helena sobs into her hands again, her shoulders heaving with each ragged breath.

“Clearly you’re not ready,” I say. “And that’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it. Brad will understand.”

She snorts. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

“You know,” I say, “I’ve lived in this city for five years now, and you know what I’m starting to realize?”

“What’s that?”

“This place is full of people faking it. Everyone’s pretending to have their shit together, but very few actually do,” I say. “You know that saying, fake it ‘til you make it?”

“Yeah.” She reaches toward her nightstand to grab a tissue, and I spot a half dozen wadded up tissues beside the box.

“Can you do that tonight?” I ask. “Can you fake being the confident, beautiful woman I know you are underneath all these tears?”

Helena laughs, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t know, Aidy.”

She rises, moving to the dresser mirror and dabbing the black streaks on her cheeks.

“I’ve ruined the beautiful makeup job you did,” she says.

“You didn’t need it anyway,” I say with a wink. “But I can do a touch up on the house. Only if you want . . .”

She turns to me, her expression undecided.

“But if I fix your makeup, I’m going to expect you to go on this date,” I say, injecting the kind of tone I’ve seen my sister use on Enzo.

Helena glances back at her reflection, gathering the lapels of her robe in one fist.