Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,14
between now and then. Me and her.
Out go the floral dresses and pretty vintage-style tops with shiny buttons. Gone are the baby pink, violet, and soft sunshine yellow. One thing I have learned in the last few weeks of life, I can only do what I feel to be right. And asserting my own identity, starting over from scratch, feels good.
“What are you doing?” asks Frances, appearing at the bedroom door. Her gaze takes in my new hairdo, but nothing is said. Same goes for Ed’s T-shirt, which I’m still wearing for some reason. I haven’t even washed it because that would get rid of his smell.
“Get off work early?”
“I don’t like leaving you on your own.”
I frown. “You’ve already had to use up some of your vacation time because of me.”
“Not a big deal,” she says. “Want to answer the first question?”
“I’m having a clean out.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Arms crossed, she leans against the doorframe. “Why don’t I put it all in storage for now? In case you change your mind . . .”
I just shrug.
“You’re not throwing out the books, are you?” Her voice sounds vaguely horrified. The colored clothes lay in a heap beside the boxes from the basement. “They were your favorites.”
“No. Not without reading them, at least.”
“Good.” Her shoulders slump in relief. Can’t blame her for being worried. From a distance, self-destruction and reinvention probably look a lot alike. “Clem, how’s your head?”
“Still there. A little sore, but nothing too bad.”
“Did you take the pain meds?”
“Yeah, earlier.” And it’s not a lie. I’m a few hours overdue for the latest dose of Tylenol, but she doesn’t need to know. The idea of popping pills all the time doesn’t sit well with me. Life is full of so many crutches. Props to hold us up and help define who we are. Shit to lean on to get us through the day. My attempt at growth, or at least understanding, has me stripping all of the detritus away in a bid to get to the heart of matters. To gain some understanding of myself. It might not be possible, but I’m going to try.
“Since you’re here, feel like going on a shopping trip?” I ask.
A line appears between her brows for a moment. Then she smiles. “After a purge like that, you’re probably going to need it.”
I smile back at her.
“Are you sure you’re up to going out?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
Ed: How you doing?
Clem: Fine. It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be busy with friends?
Ed: I’m out. Just waiting on someone. Thought I’d check on you. No more seizures? Falls?
Clem: Someone—not plural? Are you on a date?
Clem: Sorry. None of my business. Thank you for checking on me. Bruising is pretty spectacular but head is otherwise intact.
Clem: Would I be able to visit Gordon sometime? Take him for a walk, maybe?
Ed: He’d like that. Sunday afternoon? Say around five?
Clem: See you then.
* * *
“I didn’t bring your shirt,” I say, climbing out of the Uber outside his building. And it’s not a lie. If I’d said I’d forgotten to bring his shirt, then my immortal soul would be in trouble.
“Another time.”
“Sorry.” Okay. Maybe that one’s a lie.
Ed stands on the sidewalk, one hand stuffed in his jeans pocket and the other holding Gordon’s leash. At the sight of me, the dog just kind of vibrates with excitement. I’m happy to see him too. Ed’s in his usual T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. All of it looks good. Too good. Because it’s like my hands have some phantom itch. The urge to touch his skin, trace my fingers over the muscles in his arms, the line of his jaw. My body’s attraction to him is distracting, to say the least.
Meanwhile, I’m trying out one of my new navy V-neck distressed T-shirts, boyfriend jeans, and sandals. Simpler and less girly than my previous style. I place my copy of Pride and Prejudice in the cotton sack I found in Frances’s kitchen cupboard. It contains my bank card, thirty dollars in bills, my cell, mace spray, and lip balm. All of the basics.
Now for the important stuff. I go down on one knee, giving Gordon lots of scratches and pats. “Hello, beautiful boy. How are you? Did you have a good week?”
“He can’t actually speak,” says Ed.
“Ha-ha.”
“You cut your hair.”
I shove my hand through the shorter threads self-consciously. “Yes, I did it myself. What do you think?”
“Very punk rock.”
“Is that code for crap?”
“No. It’s just different.”
“I can live with that.”
The dour