Page 38 of Reformation

Who is this person? This person has my eyes. My nose. The small birthmark on my neck just under my ear.

As I look at this woman in the mirror, I’m confused. There’s no way it can be me. I’ve been sitting in this chair for hours, getting my makeup and hair done by a girl with a rainbow mohawk and gauged ears. I never went to prom, and I rarely go to a salon, so I figured that I’d look like a clown when she was done with me.

As I look at my reflection, I have to remind myself that this person is me.

I’m… I’m beautiful. Those are two words I’ve never said about myself in all of my thirty years. But right now? I can’t think of any other way to describe myself.

I’ve never thought of myself as ugly, and I’ve never really had problems with self-esteem, but worrying about my looks or making sure I was up on the latest makeup trends was always the furthest thing from my mind. I had too much else to worry about growing up—mainly making sure that my mother wasn’t drunk, high, or dead in a ditch somewhere.

“What do you think?” the stylist asks, giving my hair, which is styled into perfect waves, a final spray. I look closer at the makeup. I felt her applying it, but looking in the mirror right now, you can barely tell it’s there.

“I think you did an amazing job. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It’s easy when you start with such a beautiful model. Knock ’em dead, hun,” she says as she walks away, giving me a small hug before heading over to the next person, who I’m sure has been peer pressured by Kelly or Boomer to model today.

Or maybe I’m the only one they had to convince. Because who wouldn’t want to put on a beautiful dress, get pampered, and raise money?

Me. That’s who. Because even after my fitting, and the rehearsal on Friday, Kelly still had to bribe me with pastries and wine to do this. I told her I’d be much better suited organizing the models backstage. That idea was shot down when she told me that she ran backstage. I then offered to help serve the champagne. Then she told me that the men did that, dressed in tuxedos.

And that is what Garrett would be doing.

I’ve been thinking about Garrett in a tux since she mentioned that, and as I slip on the dress that I’ll be modeling soon, the image takes over my mind once again. I bet he looks amazing, like a modern, real-life version of James Bond. I hope it’s a tuxedo with the suspenders. There’s something about the image of a man who takes off his jacket, only to reveal suspenders that I drool over.

I shake away the thought, and the urge to go see Garrett in action. The luncheon started about an hour ago and it’s taking all the power I have not to go sneak a peek of him.

I’m with the other models behind a curtain backstage who are getting primped and dressed to show off the dresses that Kelly designs and her store sells. It’s a great fundraiser. We model the dresses to the women who have been drinking their weight in champagne all morning, served by attractive men in tuxedos, which apparently, according to Kelly, only makes them want even more of the bubbly. With their inhibitions slightly skewed, they bid on the dresses with all profits going to a local cancer charity. From what Garrett said, each year the fundraiser not only raises thousands of dollars, but it also gives Kelly’s boutique an added boost of business.

I’d love it even more if I wasn’t worried about falling on my face in front of hundreds of women, most I’m sure I’ve had their children in school. I mean, come on, I teach kindergarten. I don’t wear high heels. Especially ones that are approaching four inches.

“Why do you look like you are about to walk in front of a firing squad?” Charlie asks. I must admit, having her back here helps. A little.

“Because I think I am. Why do I have to wear stilettos? Can’t I wear a sensible pair of flats? I’ve seen pictures of celebrities wearing old school Keds with ballgowns, after all.”

“Absolutely fucking not. You are going to make every woman out there jealous as hell that you look like a fucking model. You are also going to make Garrett’s tongue hang out of his mouth.”

I blush as she says the words. The thought might have popped into my head, Garrett getting to see me like this, but I quickly pushed it away. What’s the point in fantasizing about that? I know for a fact that Garrett doesn’t see me in that way. Plus, we are friends. He needs a friend, and I’m determined to be that person for him.

Even if I’m dying a small death right now not getting to see him in a tuxedo.

“I’m… that’s not the point of today. I’m here for Kelly. And Boomer. I just wish I could do it in shoes a few stories closer to the ground.” I turn away from Charlie, pretending to check my lipstick in a nearby mirror.

“Fine. If that’s how you want it. I’m guessing that if you don’t care if Garrett sees you, then you have no desire to take a peek into the audience and maybe see him in his tuxedo?”

The evil woman begins walking to the curtain, and like she knows I’m powerless, she doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following her.

“You blame Mark for Cullen’s behavior, but I’m pretty sure he gets some of it from you,” I state, catching up with her before we exit backstage.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out,” she says, slipping through the two pieces of black fabric acting as walls to our dressing room. “It’s just really easy to blame it on Twilight.”

“Twilight?”

“That was his call name in the SEALs.”

“Oh my, is that why Cullen…?”

The realization dies on my tongue as I take in the scene before us. And like the universe wanted to torture me, Garrett is serving a table of women right in front of us.

I’ve seen him in a suit. I’ve seen him casual during our volunteer outings. Once, I saw him in scrubs when I had to drop something off at his office. Each time I didn’t think he could get any more attractive.

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