Page 60 of An Overdue Match
I thrust up my chin and stare into my eyes. My eyes are unchanged. They’re still the color of an Irish meadow after a spring rain. At least that’s how Grampie describes them. My lips, they’re the same too. Although maybe a little sadder. A little more reserved and not as free to laugh as easily as they once were. My cheekbones, my nose, my chin. I recognize each feature. With a bracing breath, I force my gaze higher and wider. I take in the whole picture of my face instead of each of its individual attributes.
I know what Brett saw, but for the first time I ask myself,What doyousee, Evangeline?
I wait, silent, hoping for an epiphany. For some lightning strike of brilliance and self-realization.
But nothing comes. Inside, I still feel ... blank.
What would Tai see?
The thought comes unbidden, and I hate that it crosses my mind. Not wanting to give it a second of consideration, I exit the camera app and take a deep, cleansing breath.
Kitty Purry stretches out a paw, her claws extending and retracting as she sets her tiny pads on my thigh and begins to knead.
I switch over to a social media app to search for Inked by Design. The photo Tai had snapped of Penelope’s butterfly isthe first picture in his feed. I have to agree with my sister that the man is insanely talented.
Instead of browsing his newest posts first, I flick my thumb over my screen, causing the tiles of pictures to roll like thePrice Is Rightwheel. Finally, the scrolling slows and stops. I click on the last picture so it will enlarge and fill my whole screen. Then, I scroll much more slowly, studying each tattoo he’s posted like it’s a priceless work of art hanging in a museum.
There are pictures of animal tattoos like the one he’d done on Penelope. Details so intricate I almost convince myself I am looking at the real thing. The flowers he’s created on people’s skin make me think of something you’d see in a botanical garden. I can almost smell the sweet, floral fragrance from one woman’s peony tattoo.
My breath hitches as the familiar outlines of a particular full sleeve tattoo unfold before my eyes. Penelope had been wrong. Tai did have a picture of himself on his social media feed—or at least a picture of his fully inked arm.
I’d only been able to get glimpses here and there. Little pieces when he’d shed his jacket and had a T-shirt on underneath. But I’d never been able to see the whole piece to its full effect before. Along the outside of his forearm is the negative space of a cross, rays of sunburst light shooting ethereally out from behind the center of the crossbeams. Almost resting on top of the cross is a dove with its wings stretched out in flight. The ink wraps his arm in clouds and wisps. On his upper arm is a majestic lion with a full mane in black and white. The only color are the cerulean blue eyes that appear kind and inviting. I can almost hear him telling me, as Aslan did to Lucy inThe Chronicles of Narnia, “Courage, dear heart.” Nestled off to the side is a baby lamb curled serenely in slumber.
Tai Davis, the town’s reputable bad boy, has the redemption story memorialized on his body for the world to see.
Conviction sits uncomfortably on my chest, and I squeezemy eyes shut. In order to protect myself, I’ve tried to judge Tai’s story by his cover.
And that’s only conviction number one.
I’m sorry, God, I pray as I let my chin fall to my chest. I’ve been so hurt. I’ve wallowed. I’ve blamed even God.
All my life I’ve called Him Father, myself His daughter. Learned in church that as a father, He delights in giving good gifts to His children. But what good gift did He give me but disfigurement and heartbreak?
I didn’t consciously turn my back on Him, but I see now that’s what I’ve done all the same.
I’m sorry.
Kitty Purry hops down from my lap, then stretches, her front paws in two straight lines in front of her, her bum sticking high in the air as she yawns.
“I’ll get your dinner in just a second,” I assure her. I scroll through Tai’s feed a bit more before pausing on a picture that causes my heart to stutter in my chest. It’s a collage, the same woman in each photo but taken from different angles.
She’s bald. And she’sbeautiful.
26
I don’t know how many times I’ve looked at the photo of the bald woman with the henna tattoo on her head on Tai’s social media page, but every time I do, a surge of strength pulses through me. The caption under the photo says it all:Beautiful. Brave. A warrior off to battle.Tai had given this woman armor as she’d marched off to fight cancer.
You can be just as brave. You can be just as beautiful, a small voice whispers to me whenever I look at her radiant, smiling face daring the world to contradict her.
I don’t believe the voice yet. There are still doubts. Weeds left too long that have grown roots too deep to dig out in a day.
But it’s a start, I think. A small hope that even though I’m stuck now, maybe I won’t be stuck forever. Maybe one day when I look at my reflection, I won’t see myself through Brett’s eyes.
Anticipation hums through my veins. I temper the feeling but don’t quash it completely like I would’ve even a day ago. Tai will be here in a few minutes to take me to the baseball game, and I’ve accepted the truth that I’ve known all along but didn’t want to admit—he’s one-hundred-percent hero material. Maybe slightly morally gray with the whole I’ll-help-you-but-only-if-you-go-out-with-me thing, and I’m stickingto my guns about him being a rake, although maybe a less philandering one since he swears he flirts only with me. But that just means he’s layered. Three-dimensional and full-bodied. Like the best heroes are.
My character status, however...
Well, it’s still a little less certain. I’m still not a heroine. But that quiet voice inside my head whispers back,yet. I’m not a heroineyet. But the possibility is there when I’ve not seen it since losing my hair and Brett leaving me.
