I shut the door and turn back to the mirror. Things have been decent between us of late—except on the topic of money and/or the means of acquiring it. The tears are flowing with verve now, which just makes me feel stupid and babyish. “Told you this was a dumb idea,” I say to my reflection. “And look at you now. Idiot.”
I did get a sinking feeling in my gut when, after acknowledging our mutual really-like for each other on Monday, Zan asked if I wanted to “hang out in a non-quest-or-transportation-related capacity.” I said yes before I could stop myself, but here we are, now nineteen minutes before the commencement of our Plan, and everything’s falling apart.
Story of my life.
I turn on the water and am prepping to wash my face—hope Zan’s not too upset about the cancellation; I can give him a real reason this time at least—when the door opens again, and Mama reenters and shuts it behind her.
I grab a piece of distinctly not-Macklin toilet paper and wipe my face so she won’t see that I’m crying.
After setting her purse on the counter and draping something black over the shower curtain rod, she spins me around, grabs me by the shoulders, and pushes me down onto the toilet lid.
Okay…
Her brows tug down and she takes my chin. Turns it left and right to examine my face, then bores holes in my pupils. “Close your eyes,” she says.
And I do. Got no fight left in me.
I keep them shut over the next however many minutes as my face is wiped, poked, tweezed (ow!), dabbed with this, and dusted with that. I’m told to lift my chin, look up, look down, suck my cheeks in, bat my lashes, pucker, and smile. Then my hair is yanked and pulled and pinned.
Then: “Open.”
A smile cracks her struggle-crusted face, and she nods once, returns all the brushes, tubes, and containers to her purse, grabs the thing from the curtain rod, unfolds it, and stretches it out to me.
It’s a jacket. Deliciously worn black leather with various zippers, pockets, patches, and buttons.
“Is this your motorcycle jacket?”
Her gaze drops.
Back when Mama first started college, she owned a Harley-Davidson her dad had given her, and was in an all-female biker crew called the Brazen Bitches. When I was small, she used to strut around in the jacket and (playfully?) lament the fact that she’d had to stop riding when I was born.
When my grandpa died, she got rid of the bike and the paraphernalia.
Or so I thought.
I take it, awe surely evident in my open mouth and raised brows, and she looks me over from head to toe and says, “Doc Martens.” Then she grabs her purse and turns to leave again.
Few seconds later, I hear “Bye, Jaxy-Baby!” and then the front door shuts.
I look down at the jacket in my hands.
Almost start crying again, but then remember there’s makeup all over my face now. Makeup I haven’t seen yet.
I turn around to face the mirror.
And almost fall down.
I’ve always been blown away by people who can put on a crap-ton of makeup for the sake of making it look like they’re not wearing any. That’s exactly what Mama did to me. I know the stuff is there because I can feel it, but the effects are very subtle: my cheekbones are a little more defined, the fullness of my lips is well balanced with the rest of my face, my brows are super neat, and my eyes look a little bigger and brighter. She even managed to play up my different-colored eyeballs. Even I think they look pretty cool right now. Combined with the hair she wrangled into this crown-looking thing? I feel beautiful.
For maybe the first time ever?
And now I’m…befuddled. Especially when it hits me again that I’m holding Mama’s jacket. Like how did she go from popping on me about “priorities” to doing my makeup and completing my outfit?
I slip the jacket on—
And then I hear, “She’s in here,” and Jax rounds the corner with Zan in tow.
“WAIT!” I slam the bathroom door.
“Well, that was rude,” Jax yells.
UGHHHH! “I’ll be out in just a minute! Can you, umm…wait in the living room?”
“Rico, you’ve been in there for two hours.”
I’m gonna kill him.
“You can’t put a time limit on beauty, my man,” from Zan. “Come on. I’ll whup you in a couple rounds of 2K on the Xbox while we wait.”
Right. Because all those electronics Zan brought over here when Jax was sick last week? The kid got to keep them.
I shake my head and try to refocus.
I peek out into the bedroom. They’re gone.
“C’mon, Rico, you can do this. Obviously can’t cancel now, so woman the frick up!”
(This is gonna be a disaster, I just know it.)
Into the closet. Boots.
One last look in the mirror…
Okay, can’t lie, I look like a total badass.
When I step out of the bedroom, the boys’ heads turn in tandem. Zan’s caterpillar brows (he does, in fact, get them threaded, according to Jess) sideways-crawl up to his hairline, but Jax is the one who speaks: “Well, hot damn, sister.”
“Jax!”
He throws his hands up. “It’s the only appropriate response!”
Zan still hasn’t said a word.
He and I lock eyes, and it hits me just how much I want him to like how I look. Not sure I like the feeling.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s what’s been bothering me about this whole thing. This sense that I’m not only allowing myself to get distracted from what matters most (a-hunnit-and-six MIL) but also like…losing control of myself AND setting myself up for the kind of disappointment that can utterly decimate a person. That I’m deliberately handing another human being the power to destroy me if they’re (he’s) so inclined.
That I’m changing—caring more, putting forth more effort…
Wanting.
In truth, I’ve never really liked anyone before. For one, I’ve never believed anyone in this rich-ass town could be remotely interested in me; and for two, the only example I’ve ever had of a “person in love” is Mama. We see where all that emotion ’n’ devotion got her (get it? Emotion ‘N’ Devotion = END).
So I’ve kept myself locked down.
But now?
Please say something, Macklin….
He does: “You, umm…” He clears his throat and looks away. “You ready to go?”