Page 59 of An Overdue Match
So, I do. I start with Mrs. Goldmann and how her love story had given me the idea to do a little matchmaking of my own. How Tai had discovered what I’d been up to, the mess I’d made of my first attempt as a marriage broker, and the deal we’d struck. By the time I’m done, Penelope is clutching her middle, simultaneously laughing and groaning.
“Oh man, laughing is hurting the tattoo.” She peaks down to where her new tattoo is wrapped in a protective layer of clear plastic. Her mirth recedes, her eyes shining for another reason.
My own heart swells when I look at the blue morpho butterfly permanently inked into her skin. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the winged insect merely rested on Penelope’s hip. That at any moment its vibrant indigo wings will beat and it’ll take flight.
“This actually makes me like him even better.”
“Not big on consent without a little arm-twisting first, are you.” I scoff because that’s the reaction I need to maintain. The unaffected front.
She makes a derisive raspberry sound with her lips. “Please. That’s not even close to what this is.”
I fold my arms protectively across my chest. “Oh really? Then what is this exactly?”
She places both of her hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. “This is a chance. For you to see beyond yourself. Beyond the mirror and your reflection.”
“Are we having aMulanmoment here?” I attempt to joke, but it falls flat.
“I’m being serious. The way I see it, he’s given you the gift of time. Something you wouldn’t allow yourself to have on your own.”
I don’t answer because, honestly, I don’t know what to say to that.
“Tell me truthfully. Have you hated every minute you’ve been forced to be in his company, or have you been making excuses to keep your walls up?”
She doesn’t understand. I need those walls. If they come down, they’re going to come down on my head and crush me.
“You don’t have to say anything. I already know the answer.” She drops her hands and reaches for her purse. “Thanks for coming with me tonight.”
“Of course,” I say, but it comes out weak, like I’d just run a marathon. An emotional marathon, to be more precise.
Penelope stops with her hand on the knob of my front door. She looks back at me over the top of her shoulder. “You should bring him to Grampie and Granny’s party. I think they’d like him, although the real prize would be the look on Brett’s face at seeing you two together.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say because I know that’s what she wants to hear.
“Love you, sis.”
“I love you too.”
She walks out, and I shut the door behind her, leaning back on the wood as my body sags.
How have I gotten myself here? How have I let my plan—my life—get so muddled? I was supposed to stay along the edges,not get caught in the fray. I was supposed to be ordinary, unremarkable, invisible.
What am I supposed to do? No way forward. No way back.
Kitty Purry scrambles out from under the couch. She always hides when people come over. Except she hadn’t when Tai had arrived. Huh. Strange, that.
She comes over and butts her head against my shin. I reach down and pick her up, snuggling her soft fur against my cheek. She starts to purr, the sound and vibration comforting.
I resettle us on the couch, and she curls in a ball on my lap. With one hand, I stroke the top of her head and with the other I reach up and hook my fingers under my wig, pulling the hairpiece off my scalp. I set it on the couch beside me, making sure the strands are lying correctly and won’t get tangled.
I’m feeling vulnerable and fragile so I know I shouldn’t but I also can’t help myself. I pull out my phone and open the camera app, then switch the lens to selfie mode. My face is framed in the screen, staring back at me. I’ve studied my reflection before. Mostly from the way Brett must have seen me.
At first, my hair had come out in patches. Big clumps pulled away from my scalp in fistfuls in the shower, clogging the drain. Half dollar–sized perfect circles of smooth skin surrounded by long tresses. In the beginning, I could hide the bald spots by how I arranged my hair. With a strategically placed bobby pin and some hairspray, no one was the wiser.
But the hair kept falling out, the bald spots multiplying. The strands of hair still clinging to my head appeared thin and scraggly. With tears streaming down my face, I’d eventually taken a razor to the last thin wisps.
When I’d first developed the condition, Brett had looked at me with concern. He’d held my hand as the doctor inserted multiple injections of steroids into my head with a sharp needle. But my hair didn’t grow back. We tried other treatments. I got balder. Brett’s concerned looks turned to antipathy, thendistaste and finally revulsion. There came a point when he couldn’t even bring himself to look at me at all. When he’d called off the wedding and asked for his ring back, he’d done so while staring down at his hands.
I take a deep breath and try to push those memories and the feelings they stir up back down. I realize how I see myself is so tainted and wrapped up with how Brett saw me. It’s hard to trace the slope of the naked dome of my head without the same sick-to-my-stomach feeling that I felt the last time Brett let his gaze touch me, his mouth pulled down in disappointment and eyes darting away as fast as they could in aversion.
