“Yep. Just now. I’m bubbling with brilliance today, let me tell you.”
“You’re snarky today. No more wine for you. Do I dare ask? Anything on the dating site?”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I say, and my secret cuts, while my answer borders on one of those lies I despise and try never to tell.
We chitchat for a few more minutes before she has to dart off to her date. I consider calling Jack for another opinion on my mom and dad, but he’ll talk about more than them. He’ll talk about me. The normal me would talk about Adam.
I don’t want to talk about Adam.
As Benjamin Franklin said, “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
As guilty as I feel about keeping secrets from my friends, Adam is all mine right now. Only mine.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty.
—Marilyn Monroe
Are there really two sides to every person, or are some of us simply one point of view and in our very simplicity, content?
Then again, variety is seen in all forms of living. Light and dark chocolate. Red and white wine. Two sides of a record album, both with songs to sing along to with my father, as he tells stories of the days past, but not forgotten. As my father says, there can be more than one answer to a question.
I stand in the mirror on Monday morning, studying my image, thinking of the two sides of me represented in the dating-site photos. The one who is free and confident. The one who is anything but those things. Right now I’m her, the girl who has pridefully lived up to the geeky librarian persona with my dark hair neatly pinned at my nape, my thick-rimmed glasses solidly on my face. But is that pride about who I want to be or the limits I’ve placed on myself?
Adam’s words replay in my head for about the hundredth time:
“You looked beautiful and natural in the first photo. In the new photo you just put up, you look guarded and awkward. As if you’re afraid to be the woman in the first photo.”
I let out a choked laugh. “How can I be afraid to be me?”
And yet I changed that picture with whiplash speed in denial of something, didn’t I? Fear, I decide, is a bit likethoserelatives at holiday gatherings you dread seeing—in my case my aunt Betsie, who tries to recruit me to hot yoga to cleanse my karma. There’s only one way to avoid Aunt Betsie, and that’s to stay home, in which case I miss everyone else.
And so I don’t stay home, not on the holidays, but it seems I do the rest of my life.
I’m tired of staying home.
I open a drawer filled with a variety of colored lipsticks, all of which Jess has gifted me with the promise,“They look gorgeous, darling.”I choose the least intimidating, a pale-pink shade, and slide it over my lips. It’s subtle, but it does seem to brighten my features. I also think I have a sweater that, contrary to my Christmas-tree wardrobe, is this shade.
With a quick pace, I walk to my closet, dig way in the back, and there it is. A long, silky pale pink, almost nude, sweater, also compliments of Jess. I quickly change into it and return to the mirror. The color changes to my lips and sweater are nothing dramatic, and I doubt anyone will notice anyway.
My phone buzzes with a text message from Jess that reads:Coffee? Lunch?
It’s not that I don’t want to meet her, but this new me, trying to be some other me, needs to do so on my terms. I text back:Can’t do coffeeWill text you midmorning and see about lunch.
She sends back two emojis: a sad face and a happy face.
I head down the stairs, and, truly, I don’t recognize the girl who spent all weekend talking to Adam and who turns down coffee with Jess. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing, though. To Jack’s point, on many occasions, I do compare myself to Jess. I don’t plan to snub Jess, by any means, but I’m not sure I can find me if I don’t give myself a little time with, well, me.
I’m set enough on this strategy that I stop at a coffee shop a few blocks from my normal walking path, the Caffeine Castle. A silly name with sillier drink names, but they taste good.
I’m just about to head inside when a familiar face exits the coffee shop. Mike Adams, of all names, considering the current Adam in my life, is an old college acquaintance who is both good looking and successful. Mike is an FBI agent who personifies the television imagery of an FBI agent, dressed in a fitted suit with his dark hair cut short to the scalp. My knowledge of his career choice is not a product of a friendship but rather of him visiting floor three to show us photos of a suspect he was hunting. I knew the man but hadn’t seen him in months.
“Mia,” he greets, his tone friendly in a genuine way. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I say, and I’m struck by how comfortable I am with Mike. Truly, we really don’t know each other well outside of our study group, but he has a calming presence, and he has always called me by my name. “Or I will be when I get my coffee,” I add. “Is the FBI office near here?”
“It is, but I also live nearby,” he says. “I just moved downtown to be closer to the office. You still at the library?”
