“I’m not behind,” Delaney snapped. “What things do you want to talk about?” She chewed her lip, looking worried.
My mind drifted back to that photo.
Who was the boy that sent it?
“I just want to catch up with you, Laney. Get some rest. I need to get going.”
Delaney said no more, just watched anxiously from the top of the staircase, as I saw myself back downstairs.
In the grand entryway, I gathered up my purse and took one last sweeping gaze around the room. There was another door downstairs I hadn’t entered, and with one glance, I knew it was Michael and Samantha’s room.
The bed was partially unmade, a heap of men’s clothing piled haphazardly on the floor. The small mess looked out of place with the glitzy mirrored walls and the chic pink vanity in the corner. Neat bottles of perfume and gold packs of makeup lined Samantha’s space. In the mirror, I could see her face, smiling sweetly at herself as she powdered her nose and cheeks. And looking past her own reflection in the mirror, her eyes meeting Michael’s, as he watched her getting ready …
Michael always did like women who “took care of themselves”, as he put it. I was never the type – I bought cheap mascara from CVS and rarely wore jewelry or perfume.
Maybe it wasn’t the loss of Dillan. Maybe our relationship had been doomed from the start.
I wasn’t his type. And let’s face it, he wasn’t mine either.
Suddenly, I heard the thud of a car door slamming out front.
With a jolt, I darted across the hall, then slipped inside the kitchen. Through the curtains above the sink, I saw Michael walk around the front of his truck. Samantha was in the passenger seat; I could see she was wearing a neck brace still.
He gave my van an irritated look as he wrenched open Samantha’s passenger door and began helping her out of the truck.
“Shit.”
I started looking around for another exit. It was stupid; they knew I was here. There was no getting around that, but I didn’t want to come face to face with them, didn’t want to have to explain why I was here.
There was a mudroom connected to the kitchen. I scooted past a stackable washer and dryer and a messy shoe stand in the corner. Finally, I let myself out the side door beside the shoe stand, hoping I’d come out on the side of the house. And hopefully, by the time I made it around to the van, Michael and Samantha would already be inside.
I heard the jangle of keys in the front door lock, and with an itchy sense of panic, I closed the door behind me.
Dull sunlight coated my face, a welcoming relief. The door did in fact lead to the side of the house.
This part of the yard was hidden from view from the front by thick shrubbery. It offered a decidedly less pleasant view. Thick green algae licked up the sides of the weathered old house.
As I made my way around front, I passed a rickety, out-of-place carport. Samantha’s Beemer was parked beneath it.
There was a deep gash in the side of it, ugly and long.
Why haven’t they had this fixed yet? I wondered. God knows they can afford to.
Grateful to find Michael and Samantha gone as I curled around the side of the house, I climbed behind the wheel of my van and backed out, shuddering at the monstrous old house my daughter considered home.
Chapter 7
BEFORE
“Don’t move again,” Pam breathed. Her breath, minty and hot, blew in my face as she sighed. She licked the pad of her thumb and rubbed something off the corner of my eye lid.
Jerry was stretched out on my bed, eyes closed, flipping through an outdated National Geographic with the headline, ‘WAS DARWIN WRONG?’
“It was just annoying, that’s all. The house was perfect … so eerily unblemished …” I said, telling them about my tour of Casa de Michael.
“Unlike your face if you don’t stop talking.” Pam stepped back, eyes searching crazily, then announced, “You look perfect. I’d fuck you.”
“You’re nasty,” Jerry said, throwing the magazine at her.
“Yes, she is.” I whipped around to look in the mirror. I didn’t look perfect, but I did look good. My makeup was flawless despite Pam’s teasing, and my hair was bone-straight and shiny thanks to Pam’s ultra-expensive straightening iron.
I’d bought a new shirt for the occasion, too, a soft grey V-neck with tiny sequins. It matched my black leggings and combat boots.
“I still think you look too … I don’t know … dark?” Pam pondered. She was jamming her makeup brushes into a gold, plastic pouch, then she stopped to give my mostly black outfit a full look-over.
“I want to look like myself,” I sighed. “Remember that corny quote about ‘like me for me’? Well, I believe that shit. As naïve as it may sound …”
“You’re right. But do you have to wear those shoes? You look like you’re going to stomp a hole in someone’s ass,” Jerry teased.
“These aren’t shoes. They’re boots. And they’re my favorite, if you really must know.” I walked over to the full-length mirror, ducking down a couple inches to see my whole face.
“Fuck it. I’m ready.”
***
Pam and Jerry saw me off, like two proud yet overly critical parents. A few hours later, I was sitting in a diner with Boston456, otherwise known as a Ben Blankenbaker. Unlike Richard, who had impressed me with his looks and repelled me with his behavior, Ben was quite the opposite.
Admittedly, I was a little disappointed when I saw him hunched under the awning at Cineplex 4. He looked five or six years older than his profile picture on the dating site and at least fifty pounds heavier.
But who was I to judge? My pics and bio weren’t me either, not exactly. And marking my age as thirty was plumb ridiculous.
My profile was a reflection of who I wanted to be … a mere ghost of who I really was.
But I had to admit, Ben had a great smile. And his eyes were soft and smiley too – the sort of eyes you might call “kind”. His whole face lit up when he saw me. He was also unlike Richard in that he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. He asked questions about Delaney, instantly making me feel at ease.
I was the one who suggested going to see a movie. After the catastrophe with Richard, it seemed like a good idea. But once we were seated in the middle aisle, crammed between a rowdy group of teens and a few middle-aged couples, I couldn’t help wishing for the solitude and intimacy of a quiet restaurant.
Ben let me pick the movie, which was nice of him, but I’m not a big movie or TV person. I’d pored over my choices the night before: horror was too iffy – some people hate scary flicks, although I like them from time to time – and romance had seemed like an awkward choice, considering we didn’t know each other.
“You should pick that new DC movie. Or Marvel, whatever the hell is,” Jerry had suggested. “Men love those movies.”
No way.
As much as I wanted to pick a movie we’d both like, action movies weren’t my thing.
Finally, I’d settled on a drama.
“I haven’t seen the previews for this, but I like Jake Gyllenhaal,” Ben whispered to me in the dark. “I’m just glad you didn’t pick a superhero movie. I know people love them but they’re not my thing.”