My hand shakes as I sweep eye shadow across the crease in the lid of one eye and then the other. It’s a dramatic, smoky look, one I’m not known for sporting with any regularity at all.
But I figure, a confident woman needs a confident look, and if she’s not confident on her own, a confident look will sure as hell help her play the part.
I clean off my brush and poise it to dip into the next accent color when the doorbell rings. My eyebrows draw together in confusion, and then, I’m ashamed to admit, in hope. Maybe it’s Jake, and he’s here to make up!
I toss the brush down on my vanity top and rush out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, down the hall, through the living room, and out to the front door.
It’s only when I see Chloe’s face pressed up against the glass, her smile growing excitedly as she sees me coming, that I remember I promised her I’d do her makeup for the party tonight.
Holy shit, I feel awful!
I cannot believe I forgot.
Thank God I didn’t accidentally flake out on her. No matter what’s going on between Jake and me, I’d never forgive myself if I let this sweet teenage girl down.
I plaster on a quick smile and do my best to think of a game plan for her makeup. I’m a hoarder of way too many products, so I should be able to scrape together what I need without much of a problem, no matter what her dress looks like.
She has a garment bag hanging over her arm, and I speed my jog up to a full run to get to the door quicker so she doesn’t have to stand there and hold it much longer.
I turn the lock and swing the door open wide. Chloe bounces on her toes a little with her excitement, though I can tell she’s at least kind of trying to hide it. I do my best to match her enthusiasm even though I don’t feel it. What’s one more faked emotion at this point? I’m already a smorgasbord of anxiety, sadness, denial, hope, and crushing disappointment.
“Hey, Chlo,” I greet warmly, ushering her in with a swing of my free arm and stepping out of the way. “Sorry it took me a minute. I was all the way back in my bathroom.”
“That’s okay!” she says breezily. “No biggie at all.”
She walks the short distance to my living room while I shut the door, her eyes wandering wildly as she takes in everything my place has to offer. Apparently, it’s only when you get to my age that you feel like you have to snoop in secret. Her eyes are ping-pong balls, bouncing from my furniture to my abstract paintings on the walls to my built-in shelves and back again. Finally, they catch on a photograph on one of the shelves on the left, and when they do, boy do they narrow.
“Who’s that?” she asks, pointing at it with a finger to leave no doubt as to which photograph she’s talking about.
It’s a photograph of Raleigh and me, one of very few that survived the séance-style bonfire I had with them the week after I found out about him and Meghan.
“Oh,” I say cautiously, a little embarrassment creeping into my voice. “That’s my ex-fiancé.”
“You were engaged?” she asks then, whipping around to look me in the eye.
I nod. “We dated for…” I clear my throat. “Well, more than a decade, I guess. Eleven or twelve years. He, um, well…he cheated on me.” I wave a hand. “It was a whole thing.”
“Why do you keep this photo of him?” she asks unabashedly.
I groan. “I’m not sure?” I answer, kind of like a question. “I guess as a reminder of what was and what I don’t want my future to be? Plus, if I got rid of all of our photos together, there really wouldn’t be any of me left for a huge portion of my life. I decided to hold on to just a few.”
She nods, tosses the garment bag at me—I’m impressed that I catch it, frankly—and she bends down to pick up the frame. My stomach churns a little as she studies him closely, but when she turns back to me, her eyes are unbelievably kind. “You’re, like, way too pretty for him anyway. Wayyy too pretty.”
I look at the photograph of Raleigh in his prime and jerk my chin back