Is she jealous that I get on so well with her daughter? Surely she should see it as a good thing?
Maybe it just boils down to her not wanting Jared to have a boyfriend?
Whatever the reason, it’s becoming more and more obvious that Sophie really doesn’t like me.
My stomach hollows and I feel like I could throw up.
If Sophie doesn’t like me, then Jared and I can’t work, can we?
Jared will never choose me over his family. That’s not the kind of guy he is. He’s the guy who gave up parties and dating to help raise Emmy. He’s the guy who does Sophie’s grocery shopping when she’s overwhelmed, who spends at least two days a week helping his sister and niece.
If Sophie tells him I’m not right for him, he’ll listen. He’ll start seeing that I’m not enough in some ways and too much in others. The over-the-top jokes, the scars that are hard to look at, the baggage I carry around like a really depressing backpack.
The pasta dinners, comfort TV-watching, and marathon sex sessions won’t mean anything if the most important person in his life thinks he deserves better.
And looking at me through Sophie’s eyes, maybe Jared does actually deserve better.
He deserves someone stable and normal who doesn’t need weekly therapy just to function. Someone without a face that makes children ask questions.
The thought makes my chest feel like someone’s reached in and started squeezing my lungs like stress balls.
All that churning through my mind means I’m already not in a good headspace when we reach the mirror maze.
Oh great. A room designed to show me my face from every possible angle is not exactly what my fragile ego ordered. It’s like the universe saw me spiraling and thought, “You know whatwould really help? Infinite reflections of exactly what you’re insecure about.”
I can see myself from every angle—every scar catches the weird lighting, creating a kaleidoscope of damaged skin.
Emmy’s spinning in circles, watching her reflections spin too. “There’s so many of me!”
I swallow hard and try to make my voice light.
“Imagine if there were actually that many Emmys,” I manage to say. “The world’s supply of tutus would be depleted within days.”
“I would share,” Emmy says seriously. “Some Emmys could wear dresses.”
I’m trying to hold it together, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirrors, but there’s nowhere else to look. I’m in a hall of infinite Felixes, getting the full surround-sound experience of my scars. It’s like IMAX for self-loathing.
I try not to hyperventilate as I find my way to the exit.
Unfortunately, the mirror maze is exactly what it states, a maze of mirrors you have to navigate your way through.
“This is trippy,” Jared says, but then he catches sight of my face.
He moves closer, his hand finding the small of my back. The warmth of his palm through my shirt grounds me.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough only I can hear.
I take a deep breath. “Just contemplating whether infinite reflections of my face count as cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Come on,” he says, steering me gently through the maze with his hand still on my back, using his other hand to feel along the mirrors. “Follow my terrible navigation skills.”
True to his word, he immediately leads us down a dead end.
Despite everything, I snort with laughter, which turns into a real laugh when he does the same thing again.
And by the time we emerge from the mirror maze into a transition area with non-reflective walls, Jared’s making me laugh about how terrible his sense of direction is. And he continues to make me laugh as we work our way through the rest of the maze.
Will this man ever stop rescuing me?
