Page 97 of Just One Look

Serious Beige

He didn’t come.

She’d rung the doorbell. No answer. After that, she’d sat in the car and waited. He’d left the gym before she had, and he couldn’t possibly arrive more than a minute or two behind her. So why wasn’t he here?

He’d gone straight to the restaurant, maybe, because he was embarrassed that he’d been so frustrated, and that he’d yelled, out of those nerves he wouldn’t admit he had, not to mention the fear of losing his career?

And then there was calling her a piece of ass. That was a seriously weird thing to yell at somebody. It was either a bizarre, incredibly sexist insult, or …

Or something else, in which case he’d be here.

In any case, he might be sorry for some things he’d said, or even for kissing her, but if so, he wouldn’t avoid her. He’d come find her and fix it. He was a straight-ahead man, and he didn’t run.

That was what she thought for minutes two through nine. After that, though? It started dawning on her that maybe he hadn’t wanted to look like he was waiting for her. Maybe he even wanted her to wait in vain, to humiliate her, to win again, like he’d won over Gerald. So, yes, he must have gone straight to the restaurant.

She’d read it wrong. It wasn’t the first time.

She’d have sworn, though, that he was kind. How could she have beenthiswrong? Was she actually gettingworse?

She should drive home right now. She should get out of here before he did show up. Instead, she was leaning her head back on the headrest, closing her eyes, and swallowing hard, thinking,Is this always going to be my life? Can I really not change?

She should have gone out with Gerald. She was supposed to be saying “yes” to things now. That was the whole point of the reboot. And there she’d been again, saying no, sure that Gerald couldn’t give her what she needed and thinking, somehow, that Luka would, and that he’d want to. Saying no to what was in front of her, what was real, what was reasonable, and living in a fantasy.

It was a do-over, and it was the same old thing, like her past was her destiny, like she was going to live her life on repeat. It was her hanging back, waiting for approval, wanting love from a man she knew would never give it, because he couldn’t. There was no point throwing yourself against that wall again, though. It hurt too much when you landed. It hurt too much when you cared. She had to stop. She had to leave. Now.

Her brain wouldn’t stay under control, because she sat there, hands on the wheel, going nowhere, and thought about the time after a shopping trip from which she’d come home with a navy-blue cotton sundress and more black pants and white shirts. She’d tried to explain to Jordan over the phone, “Nothing else looked good, though. I can’t wear those bright colors and prints. They’re not me. I get self-conscious.”

Her doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, and Jordan handed her a sign written in marker on a piece of computer paper. “Stick it on your bathroom mirror,” he told her. “These are your affirmations. Say them in the mirror every time you’re in there, so you remember that you don’t have to blend into the background. Next time, ask me, and I’ll come shopping with you. You’re a star, and you can shine, baby girl. The hard part’s over. You can shine now.”

She shut the door, and then, when he was gone, she looked at the piece of paper, crumpled it in her hand, and cried. Clutched her chest, staggered against the wall, and cried. Because he’d looked inside her, and he’d seen the shame there.

The sign said,

I Am Beautiful.

I Am Worthy.

I Am Lovable.

She threw it away.

She wanted him now. She needed to lie face-down on his couch, her arm hanging off the end and her face smashed against the plush fabric, and say, “Is it just me, or does my life kind of suck?” She needed to hear whatever he’d say next, the thing that would make her laugh and feel better, and not have to share the parts she couldn’t stand to. She needed to feel Clement’s arms around her, because nobody hugged like Clement, big as a bear. It was the middle of the night in Atlanta, though, and she couldn’t even call them, and the only other person she wanted to talk to right now was a new mother whose husband was Luka’s teammate and friend. She couldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair.

She’d never considered, on her reboot, how hard it would be to live without a friend.

She turned the key, backed out onto the street, and her headlights met those of an approaching car. She pulled up sideways to the driveway to allow the other car to pass—this street was seriously narrow—but it didn’t. It sat there a long moment, and then the door opened and somebody got out.

Luka.

He came over, looking like the Stranger in the Dark in the glow of two pairs of headlights, and she tried to think and couldn’t, so she rolled down the window instead.

He stopped there, crouched down, and said, “You came anyway.” With something in his face that wasn’t hardness.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“I was at your house. Waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Something was going on in her chest, her throat. Clenching. Pain. Relief so strong, it hurt.