Just outside the office, I stop to check my makeup in my selfie cam. 

The last thing I want is to be going anywhere looking like a cheetah…

I gingerly scratch a bead of fever dew from my lashline studying the pale face on my cracked screen - a jagged line of glass dribbling toward the plain gray case like a trail of tears.

I’m impossibly furious that I let myself get angry enough to cry - 

If I could only take a pill to make myself less emotional-

My brain freezes mid-idea - my train of thought crashing into that look in his eyes.

I wouldn’t.

My fingers dance anxiously over my febrile lips.

“Going to meet up with your boyfriend in the wheelchair?” A voice asks from behind me.

I almost drop my phone, whipping around quickly to look at Mrs. Howard who somehow showed up behind me without my noticing.

Her keys jingle aggravatingly, locking the front door as the words pry themselves out of my mouth:

“How do you know about…?”

She spins the key absentmindedly around her finger once before slipping it into her pocket, her head tilted nonchalantly to one side like she’s debating whether or not she cares to answer my question.

“He was in the video from the award show. I watched it before I came here this morning.”

The award show was nearly five months ago at this point.

She was clearly in no hurry.

But…he wasn’t…

My thoughts writhe and turn themselves inside out.

I don’t think I want to know how…

And yet still…

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I make my mouth say, trying not to let my voice shake, angrier than anything at the way her lips twitch with obvious amusement.

“That makes sense.”

I…

Licia…

“A blind date then?”

“I’m not going on a date at all,” I say flatly. “I was just checking my makeup.”

And that seems to satisfy her infinitely more than it should as she smirks like a cover girl- 

If Etan was here, he would have paid to photograph her. She’s exactly that kind-

“You’ve got a little runny part right here,” she smiles cloyingly, touching one long finger to the edge of her eye.

I flinch before I can stop myself, and glance at the selfie cam.

There’s nothing there.

Oh, I could just… 

Could what?

And she’s gone anyway, like an apparition. The ghost of “high school drama past.”

I should be over caring about things like this by now, but I guess…

“Ugh!!!”

One good scream! That’s all I need! Pounding the steering wheel with that identical palm strike-

Fine! Fine! This is just fine! This is absolutely fine!

No big deal! I’m good. I’m actually great! There is no threat of trouble with this lady as long as we both do our jobs. This is absolutely not going to end like it did with Shannon! Perfect!

But I'm so angry I want to bite off my tongue.

Mm….!

I smile candyishly at the rearview mirror and wonder what I’d look like through other eyes- from outside my own head. 

Do I look even half as pretty and put together as I wish that I could? - look even a little less like a raging tide than this hurricane on my insides - after all, it’s impossible to hide my feelings from myself-

Almost impossible.

I almost succeeded once…

But maybe to other people, all my mess isn’t painted onto my face - worn like a stain on my sleeve, the way it’s always so glaring - glaring back at me.

I slam the car into ‘park’ and step out onto the driveway, almost forgetting to lock the car door in my rancor.

Forcing my hands to stop shaking because I'd rather not snap the key off in the lock, I turn it twice, before shoving the carabiner deep into my coat pocket. Turning quickly, I kick a pile of snow onto the white blanketed grass and watch it fall like foaming sea spray-

I have work to do…I should start thinking about that workshop…

But I just want something sweet.

Taking a bite out of the last stale donut in the box as I yank open the fridge, I can’t help but laugh at myself with scorching feminine scorn.

I’ve become one of those girls, eating my frustration in monstrous unladylike mouthfuls - not even washing my hands first-

Kattar would say I’m disgusting-

And speaking of the devil- 

My phone buzzes twice. Once a rattlesnake, once a sound like sparkles and glass…

Who’s ringer did I set to that wind-chime noise?

Freeing my phone from my dress pocket, I check the messages with one hand.

Kattar and Melissa both. Both texting to ask how my first day went.

I send a “fine” to each, but remind myself to add a little heart after the single syllable-

It’s not their fault-

And as talkative as Melissa is, I doubt she told Mrs. Howard I was ‘emotional’ to be mean - 

I force myself to breathe, relaxing unintentionally just at the knowledge that she cared enough to text and check in on me.

She’s sweet.

Her second text comes through so quickly it almost tumbles over mine-

“I just got this new dress! Check it out! Isn’t it just darling?”

The photo comes through immediately, infinitely clearer than mine ever are. I see a funky paisley halter-top thing lying across a white and red rose-window quilt, and I almost hear her laughter as her text reads:

“My husband comes home in an hour, so I’ve gotta hide this contraband. I technically have two new dresses cuz he got me this gray cocktail beauty for our date tonight. It’s absolutely chic, but there's no color to it, you know? How can he expect me to walk around in mourning duds all the time?”

I smile in spite of myself.

“I’m wearing this pretty bland black dress myself at the moment. I look like an advertisement for ‘Blasé Couture.’”

“Never!” Melissa’s text laughs. “I don’t believe it. And even if you were, you’d get me to buy anything you were selling.”

“Give me a second,” I laugh quickly, “I’ll send you a selfie.”

Shifting the phone to a couple of equally awkward different angles, I select the best of my half dozen pictures and hit the ‘share’ button, which immediately shoots me to my contact page.

There are way too many numbers there considering that I rarely call anyone but Kat, and he and Melissa’s chats are flip-flopping places as replies come through on each other’s tails, like two runners jockeying for position in an evenly matched race. I tap Melissa’s number as it pops to first place and hit send, but for some strange reason, the picture doesn’t appear in the chat.

That’s a little weird. 

I send the image again, and this time it comes through. I get a bubble full of heart-eyed emojis from Melissa at the same time a text comes through from Kattar-

“Um…This picture?”

I turn red up to my ears-

So that’s where the picture went.

“My bad,” I reply hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to send that. I was texting it to a friend and I hit your number by mistake. I’ll delete it.”

His reply comes through quicker than they ever do at any other time.

“You don’t have to do that. I don’t mind.”

Don’t mind…?

That’s a little…

“You’re not blinded by the frumpiness?” I smirk, though I know he can’t see me through the cell.

“This one’s actually a lot better than your other dresses,” his reply reads. “Though it could use something to dress it up. Like some lace or a sash.”

“I’m wary about sashes around you.”

“Fair fair.”

There’s a brief pause, but I don’t reply, watching his status read “typing” and then pause half a dozen or more times.

“Hey, I was wondering if you’d have time to get dinner tonight?”

I admit it. My heart stops a little.

But I have…work. 

I should really really work, and brainstorm some ideas for the workshop…

But I could always bounce some ideas off Kat. 

No-

But then I think of that satisfied look on Mrs. Howard’s face when I told her I WASN'T going on a date, and I-

“Sure. I’ll be there in like 30 minutes.”

Hurrying to the bathroom I arrange my hair in the mirror-

My makeup-

Mm…

I wash it all off with one set of hurried motions like I’m scrubbing off my day.

My reflection stares back at me blooming and rosy. Cheeks shining like cherries. And that’s just fine. 

I don’t need to care what that woman thinks.

“Where do you want to go?” I text as I throw my black dress onto the bed and rummage through the closet for a change of clothes.

“Wherever you want to go is fine. Maybe the Italian place you like. Did you delete that picture?”

“Yes,” I reply teasingly, feeling an impish little laugh in the back of my throat.

“That’s fine. I already downloaded it XDDD.”

That brat-

“No! Delete that thing right now you perv.”

“Won’t lol.”

“Fine, then I’ll just have to go through all your photos and delete it later.”

“You don’t know my phone password. I know I didn’t give it to you and you’re not that nosy.”

I roll my eyes so far back I can almost see the plants on the dresser behind me.

“That’s fair enough but I can figure it out in two guesses.”

“Bold assumption. Try.”

“It’s ‘man in the moon.’” 

“Wrong haha.”

“Then it's ‘space cat.’” 

“Okay, that is freaky. I need a new password.” 

“It’ll just be like two more guesses. It’s not freaky; you just have zero creativity.”

He reacts with a thousand laugh-crying emojis.

“Seriously. It’s literally one word different from the password on our old cell phone.”

Silence.

Five seconds 

“Aish, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

I shake my head, biting my thumb, “How could you forget about it? You tormented me to no end over that thing.”

“I did not.”

“You don’t get to argue when you don’t remember it, Mr. Man. Don’t you remember the ‘selfie situation?’”

There’s too much…

“Oh yeah. I remember that now.”

I run my fingers along the cracked glass absentmindedly as his status flickers ‘typing,’ not typing, ‘typing.’

“Do you still have that ugly picture of me as your screensaver?” he asks after a minute.

“You mean that unreasonably cute one? Yeah.”

I can almost feel him blush, and suddenly I’m bombarded by the memory of that night like a rain of hailstones-

And I’ve pushed it down this long…

But I really. Have to ask…

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

It takes too long before he replies with a single question mark. It’s immediately followed by a quick “Yeah sure, but lemme just call. I’m so tired of texting.”

The second he says ‘call’ my introvert brain panics - flashing red lights and sirens -

But my need-to-know heart worries that saying ‘no’ would end the conversation where it is - and I know that would drive me infinitely crazier than I’d ever be willing to suffer just to avoid twenty minutes or even two hours of awkward conversation.

I make myself answer the phone after its second ring.