by Aria Ford
What was I supposed to think? I’m not that ugly…am I?
I sighed. It was four years, almost, since he’d been with me. And he’d walked out on me then. Was I really just so worthless to him after all?
I heaved out a long sigh and lifted my coffee to my lips. I should drink and hurry out to the gym. It was twenty minutes before I’d said I’d be there, and Glenna, my coach, would be mad at me.
I drank down the scalding coffee, ran my fingers through my hair and hurried off to get dressed.
“Why’d he do that?” I asked my reflection. Then I smiled, a bittersweet smile. I had been wondering about Jay and his propensity to walk away for far too long. Why was I so upset?
It’s like a feature.
It was a feature of how we were. Maybe it was because he just didn’t really care about me. The sex—and if I was honest with myself, I had to think of it as sex, not making love—was great. But maybe that was all it was for him.
I sniffed, determined not to cry. Then I got dressed and shot off to the gym.
“Margo?” Glenna said as we worked on my press-ups.
“Yeah?” I sighed, sitting back and wiping a strand of hair out of my eyes. I was tired. I was sad.
“What’s up this morning?” she asked. “You’re not really focused like you usually are.”
I sniffed. “I’m not,” I admitted. She’d noticed I was half-touched and half-shy. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. I wasn’t going to let this make me cry—not here, in front of Glenna—not now.
“What’s it?” she said gently. She lowered herself to sit on the mat, staring into my eyes. She was older than me by, I would think, ten years, her face hard and muscled like the rest of her, hair black and chin length, stubbornly dyed. Brown eyes.
I looked away, seeing the kindness in her face and not wanting to go there. If I opened up now, I was going to cry. And that just wasn’t on. If nothing else, I’d ruin my face and I had a session later this afternoon, a preliminary photo shoot for the contract with the new company. I wasn’t going to jeopardize it for anything.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, maybe you’re just tired,” Glenna said kindly. “It happens. Come on. Let’s finish with squats and then let’s call it a day. Hey?”
I sniffed and nodded. “Okay. Thanks,” I added.
She smiled. “No need to thank me. Let’s go.”
We did the squats and she seemed to be extralenient with me—I could do more than she set me to do, and we both knew that. Then I headed to the shower.
Under the steam, I planned my day. I had the shoot at two, which left me free from when I got home—about eleven am, I guessed—until then.
“Maybe I should have lunch with Alex.”
It was a tempting thought. I might even be able to ask her about Jay. But, I reckoned as I dried myself off, rubbing vigorously with the towel on my tingling, rejuvenated skin—I knew that if I confided in her and she was understanding, I’d cry.
“I can’t risk my face.”
I grinned at myself in the steam and my reflection grinned back—white teeth below sad eyes.
Why did I have to go and give my heart to such a joker? I sighed and shrugged into my clothes again, heading to the hall.
At my apartment, I decided to do some cleaning. Just seeing the bed with those sheets on it made me a mixture of sad, hurt and mad that I didn’t need now. I ripped the sheets off and rammed them into the wash, then set about rearranging the room. I intended to obliterate any memory of Jay. I wasn’t going to let myself get all mopey.
I couldn’t help the reflex of checking my phone as I sat at the table, waiting for lunch to cook. There was nothing.
“Why did I think there would be?”
I was mad at myself. I should know better by now than to think Jay really cared about me. He came into my life, had good sex and left. That seemed to be how it worked. Or didn’t.
All the same, I sent him a text.
Well, I guess it’s easier than mail, right?
I winced and tried to forget his sweet voice, his tenderness.
Hey, Jay. All okay? Have a good day.
There. Completely neutral and friendly. Could be from anyone.
I sent it and leaned back with a long, shuddering sigh. I couldn’t do more than that.
I finished my lunch, did some more exercises, checked emails, fixed my eyebrows and then checked the clock. It was half past one. I should get going if I wanted to get to the studio on time. It wasn’t far, but with the traffic I could still be late.
I ran out into the hall and went down to my car. Behind the wheel, waiting for a break in the traffic so I could join it from the ramp I checked my phone. He hadn’t replied. Too bad.
I was not, absolutely not, going to spend my time worrying about Jay Locke.
Not anymore. Not this time. I had enough to worry about as it was, with the shoot. There was a lot hanging on the success of this. That, combined with my natural reluctance to meet someone new, was making me nervous. I liked the esthetician and the photo guy I worked with at Petals. They knew me, and I knew them, and we’d built up mutual trust. With these new people, there wouldn’t be that easy, safe feeling. That was more than enough to worry about right now. Jay could take a back seat.
I shoved my phone resolutely into my pocket and focused on the drive to work.
“Ms. Lawrence. Hi.”
The red-haired guy, tall and dressed in a beige T-shirt, shook my hand vigorously. I took in a breath, trying to conceal my nerves.
“Hi.”
I shook hands with the photographer, at least I guessed that’s who he was. Behind him was a woman with a kind squarish face and strawberry blond hair. She must be the makeup artist—certainly she had beautiful nails and makeup herself. With her was a tall, dark-haired guy in a brown suit with a casual black shirt—he was another guy who I half-recalled.
“Hi, Margo. It’s me—Durrell,” the guy in the suit said smoothly.
“Oh yeah. Mr. Burne.” I recalled him from the interview. He was there as the company representative. I took his hand and shook it.
He gave me a smile. He was quite good looking and somewhere in his forties, his hair just touched with gray. He should have no reason to make my skin crawl, except that he did. I was relieved when he let go my hand.
“Fine, I’m Mr. Burne, if you like,” he said with a wry smile. “The name’s Durrell. I will go and leave you all to it in a moment. I was just briefing the team. All yours, Ms. Lawrence.”
I smiled at the use of my title, though it felt awkward, like he was rebuking me for using his surname.
He headed out. I looked at the photographer and the makeup artist, nervous and shaken.
“Okay,” the guy said, clearing his throat. He was about my age or younger, and he was flushed, seeming really awkward and a bit shy. “So, Ms. Lawrence, we’re just going to do some shots in here and then two or three in natural light next door…”
I listened to the briefing, taking note of what he said and asked for. I am a professional—I’ve been in the field for six years and I did courses in modeling before that. He seemed really nervous, and I had to ask questions to elicit the right information from him.
“Okay, nothing more I guess?”
I smiled. “No, it’s all clear.”
I was quite relieved when he left to set up shop and Bernice, the makeup artist, took over. She was about my age or older and seemed quiet and capable.
“Right, now we’re just going to go with the natural look today…” she began.
As she worked—applying eyeshadow, painting my brows, contouring my cheekbones—I sat with my eyes closed and thought about the night and the morning.
My body tingled deliciously with my memories, but I was uncertain. My heart was sad and wistful, and I wished that he would just relent and contact me.
“All done.”
I smiled and nodded, getting myself under control.
“Thanks.”
We headed through to the studio for the photo session.
When it was done, I was surprised to see Mr. Burne in the lobby again.
“Hey, Margo. Uh, Miss. How was it?”
I closed my eyes. During the session I’d gotten a headache. He made it worse.
“It was fine,” I said levelly. “Your people are professionals.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow. “High praise, Ms. Lawrence. Thanks.”
I sighed. “Well, it’s to be expected, I guess. You’ve got a great reputation, for a new company.”
“Oh.” He looked pleased. “Thank you, Ms. Lawrence. I take that personally.”
He was, as I recalled, some senior executive in the company Realtone. Why he felt the need to even be there at the shoot I had no idea. But there he was and there wasn’t a lot I could do to shift him no matter how awkward it was.
“Well, fine,” I said lightly. “All done?” I asked, raising a brow as Dylan, the photographer, came out.
He flushed red and stammered. “Y…yes. Thanks, Margo. That was amazing.”
I bit my lip and blushed. It wasn’t so much his response, as the slow smile that spread across the executive’s face as he looked from me to the guy and then to me.
“You have a strong impact,” he said softly. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, his eyes drifting up my neck to my face. “We made a good choice, I think.”
“Thanks, I think,” I said.
He chuckled.
“Well, good looking and hard to get. Irresistible.”
I stared at him, but he’d said it so softly that I didn’t know if I’d heard it right. I wanted to say something, but he’d turned, chuckling, leaving.
I sighed and shrugged into my coat. It was cooling off. It was almost four P.M. and I wanted to walk through the park before I went home—I had deliberately parked the car in the parking lot just across the street from there. I needed time to think.
As I walked through the streets and headed to the park, I tried to clear my head. It was confused and sad and reeling.
Mr. Burnes. Jay. My career.
I couldn’t help that, on the one hand, the way the senior executive had complimented me had made me feel better. After Jay shot out of there as if the demons were after him I had felt a bit bad. It was a strange way to react.
“I’m not that ugly,” I told myself wryly.
At least after the creepy guy and the photographer, I had some sense of my own beauty. Jay had, oddly, left me feeling down.
“I suppose what did I expect?” I asked the air. I sank onto a park bench and leaned back, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. I had put on sunscreen before I left, so I didn’t have to worry about messing up my face. And I had sunglasses and a hat, should I need them.
I let myself focus on the problem at hand. The disappearance of Jay.
I didn’t check my phone, as I knew he wouldn’t have said anything.
After twenty minutes of trying to make sense of stuff and failing dismally, I stood again and headed across the park to my car, ready to go home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jay
Why was this so hard? I couldn’t recall having felt so frustrated.
I talked to myself, like usual. There wasn’t anyone to talk to. But that was on purpose—for the entire day, I’d been avoiding everyone in the house.
I looked down at my hands where they were poised on my keyboard. My mind kept on straying back to the night with Margo. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to sit here and work on my article for the store’s blog, and forget.
So far, it wasn’t working out.
I turned away and let myself lean back in the chair, the evening sunshine bathing my face. It was five thirty, and the sun was starting to sink below the hills. I let the warmth soak into my tense shoulders and tried to forget.
Margo.
My mind was full of her. The harder I tried to erase memories of last night, the harder they resurfaced.
My mind was empty of everything but her.
I couldn’t focus on work, on what people said, on myself. I had meant to update my CV and finish this article today, but so far nothing was working out. It was, to put it mildly, frustrating.
“Jay?” a voice called from downstairs. I closed my eyes.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Can you come down and help me a moment?”
I sighed. “Okay.” So much for avoiding people all day.
I pushed aside my laptop and headed downstairs. It was slow, painstaking work getting down the stairs. Part of me appreciated the fact that Mom felt free to call me down as often as she liked. At least she didn’t pity me or think of me as in any way incapacitated. She seemed to forget about it, which was both heartening and frustrating.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “Could you take out the trash?”
She was kidding, right? I can’t even go to the gym without getting depressed. “Sure.”
She chuckled. “Thank you, son.”
I made a long-suffering face. She laughed and then unlocked the door as I lifted the bag and hobbled out with it.
When I returned upstairs—going up was harder—I sat down heavily at the desk. I was breathing hard and I was mad at myself. I should work out more, but the thought of it made me cringe. What would people think of me?
It shouldn’t take so much out of me to climb two flights of stairs. I lifted the screen. I read through what I’d written and sighed. I would never get this work done at this rate. I’d promised the boss I’d send it off as soon as I could. So far, I had ten sentences. Great start.
I sighed and shook my head. I was twitchy, miserable and confused.
I was also determined.
I was not going to let temptation lead me to mess up someone’s life.
“Dammit, I left her because of this.”
I had vowed to myself when I lay in the hospital that I would not burden anyone with myself. Not my parents, not my buddies, not a girl. And, especially, not this one. Not her. Margo.
I closed my eyes, blotting out the memory of how her soft, scented body pressed against mine, the feeling of her breasts against me, the amazing way she seemed to melt as I held her tight against me, her body molded tight to mine.
I am absolutely not going to think about her. I am going to stop it now and pretend I never saw her right now. Before it’s far too late.
When I was finished with the rehab and able to walk on crutches, I’d chatted with the physio. It was her idea that I go to tech in Houghton and become a nutritionist. I’d never stop being grateful I’d done that. It had allowed me to break with my past. To step away from able, handsome Jay into lame, plain Jay.
And now I’d gone and screwed it up.
I had worked so hard, then, to walk away—but now I’d been stupid and let myself give into temptation and now I had to work extrahard to walk away again. I had to. I couldn’t do this to her. Margo was part of other Jay’s life, the one who I wanted to forget. The one when I was whole and handsome and deserving of a girl like her.
I had pretended not to notice some of the stares we got in the restaurant, but I had noticed them. Not while we were seated—the leg wasn’t apparent then—but when we left. Worse than that, I recalled how Margo had looked at me when she’d walked in and found me trying to get my underwear off the floor. I had felt humiliated. I wasn’t planning to feel like that again.
I closed my eyes, determined not to let this get to me. I focused on the outside, listened to the noises in the yard, in the street. The sounds drifting up through the floor from below me.
“I know! It’s incredible. Isn’t it, Sherril?”
“Mm. It is, Don.”
I smiled. My parents, chatting in the living room. The rise and fall of their voices was a pleasant background burr, the sound of my childhood. They had a strong bond.
I wish I could have a bond like that with someone, one day.
I snorted. I was thirty-one, for crying out l
oud! I still had so many years ahead of me. Why was I suddenly thinking about things like that? Four years ago, I would have laughed at myself.
That was before my leg changed everything.
I chuckled. For a thing that could do nothing at all, it sure caused a load of trouble.
I had a career, another life. I needed to forget it.
I should be happy. Could I be happy.
I would be happy, I told myself crossly, if I could just finish work on this damn article. I bent over and settled down.
I was a good page in when someone knocked on the door, making me jump.
“Jay?”
“Mom!” I whipped round, startled out of my tranquility. “Hell. Sorry. You made me jump.”
She chuckled. “Sorry, son. I just wanted to ask if you’re okay with fish tonight?”
I blinked. “Sure. Sounds awesome. I’m fine with anything you cook, Mom.”
She smiled softly at me. “Well, it’s good to have a son with an appetite.”
“Mom, you know you’re a good cook,” I mumbled. I turned back to my work. There was something about the fondness in her eyes that made me want to talk to her and that was at this point the last thing I thought was wise. She had probably noticed my absence last night.
I didn’t want to have to tell her what happened. And why I wasn’t following through.
“I guess I should let you get on with it,” she said evenly.
“Mm. Thanks. Sorry—I guess I should offer to help?”
She chuckled. “It’s okay. Everything pretty much comes ready. I just need to open some boxes and things.”
I smiled. “Good. I’ll be down at seven. Okay?”
“Okay, son,” she nodded tranquilly. “See you then.”
I set to work, trying to make myself interested in the writeup on creatine in bodybuilding.
“…and creatine supplementation appears to increase the number of myonuclei that cells will ‘donate’ to damaged muscle fibers, which increases the growth of those fibers….”
I was reading out of an article, simplifying it in my head as I went along. Basically, creatine made your muscles grow. I knew that better than anyone. I rolled my shoulders experimentally. I was glad they were still intact—in fact, one part of my body the crutches benefited was my shoulders.
