any of my followers know this. Ever. So, of course, I lie to them.
I stopped brushing my hair and looked at myself in the mirror. I leaned in. My brown roots were starting to show and my hairdresser was a million miles away. My usual appointment with her had been this week, but I was here. Blonde—another lie I tell. I’m not blonde. Far from it. I touched the brown roots with my fingers, and the hair there felt different to the blonde hair. It felt softer. I sighed and looked at myself in the mirror. I told my followers a lot of lies, now that I thought about it.
I also told them how much I loved myself. All of myself. How confident I was. How motivated and #blessed and #happy and at peace and striving for my goals I was . . . all the time. I looked at my phone, lying on the bed behind me. I had told a lot of people a lot of lies. Or led them to believe things about me that weren’t really true. But Kyle always said that—
Wait.
Why did I keep thinking that? Kyle always said?
That’s because he did always say. He was always the one saying, and doing, and saying how things should be done and I’d always gone along with it.
Why?
I turned back to the mirror and looked at myself. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling very good at all. My stomach tightened and knotted, and my feelings had nothing to do with the date. They were something else entirely. I finally emerged from the cottage at around six thirty and walked into the house; Mark was sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair, reading a book. He looked up at me and then seemed to silently study me.
“Are you wearing that?” he asked.
“Are we doing this again?” I said, remembering the night we went out.
He continued to peer over the top of his book at me, which made me feel uneasy.
“Something wrong with it?”
“It might be a bit formal.”
“Oh, that again.” I looked down at my dress and heels. “But I’m not walking this time.”
“Mmmm, I know. But the heels might look like you’re . . . you’re . . .” He looked at me helplessly. I had no idea where he was going with this.
“What?” I asked.
“Heels sort of say . . .” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair.
“They say what?”
“Nothing,” he said, quickly looking back down at his book. “It’s none of my business, actually.”
I looked down at my sexy heels and twisted my foot from left to right, the glittery bits sparkling in the light. “You think heels are too datey? They make it look like I’m trying too hard?”
He shrugged. “Are you? Trying?”
“God. No! I wouldn’t want him to think I was trying too hard. Or should I be?” I asked, taking a step forward.
“Should you try hard?” Mark reached for his glasses, slipped them on and looked at me again.
“Yes,” I stated.
“If you want to. If that’s what the vibe is?” Mark’s eyes drifted over me and I felt goosebumps on my arms.
“I don’t know what the vibe is!” I put my hands on my hips now. “What do you think the vibe is?”
“I thought it was a date vibe,” he said.
“I mean, it’s just a casual date, vibe. No other vibe intended, obviously.” I looked at my dress again and sighed. “Yeah, this gives off too much of a vibe, right?”
Mark stood up now and his eyes ran the length of my body again. I shivered. “It definitely gives off a vibe.”
“Okay, I’ll change. And let’s stop saying vibe!” I rushed off and put on a much simpler dress and flatter shoes. I rushed back to Mark who was now in the kitchen making a cup of coffee.
“And now?” I asked, giving a small spin.
He turned around, and his eyes drifted down to my feet. “Maybe the shoes are a bit too . . .?” He looked like he couldn’t find the word.
“They’re Gucci,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I nodded. “You think they’re too fancy?”
“I didn’t say that. You did,” he replied.
I sighed. “You’re right, too fancy and showy.”
Mark didn’t say anything, but nodded his head.
“Okay.” I rushed back outside to change.
“Perhaps it’s more of a pants and T-shirt thing,” he shouted after me as I ran. And then I thought I heard him say something like, “the older and uglier the better,” but I probably imagined that.
I emerged again in some jeans, a T-shirt and