What would I have done, face-to-face with a man like Andrew?
I grab the waistband of Andrew’s pants—jeans tonight, not the terrible gray uniform he wears during the day—and pull him to me. I lick his neck, tasting salt and sweat and aftershave. I put my face close to his, but I don’t kiss him, not yet. Instead, I whisper my own lyrics against his lips.
Never settle,
Never beg,
Never let them tell you what you’re worth,
You’re a diamond,
You’re a pearl,
You only have to be your own favorite, girl.
What happened to the woman who was so in love with herself she didn’t care if anyone else loved her?
I know the answer. In my mind’s eye, I can see my husband’s face the way it was the last time I saw him, when I knew he would never, ever come back.
When I was pregnant, I talked to my belly, promising the baby inside that I’d found her a good father, one who wouldn’t leave her like my dad left me.
I tried so hard to make him stay.
I failed so completely.
He left us both.
It’s Andrew who closes the gap between us. When his tongue slides between my lips, I feel it in my knees.
Andrew backs me up to the couch. His hand slides under my nightgown, and his fingers trace the outline of my left nipple, sliding down my torso and around my back, down my pants. I unbutton his jeans, feeling desperate. My husband’s face vanishes from my mind’s eye. My song fades as the radio station cues up their next song. A DJ announces that they’re playing music bybadass womentonight.
Suddenly, I’m not cold. I’m so hot that I push Andrew off me and rush to the glass wall, pulling the sliding door open wide.
I breathe in the icy, thin air, and I sing:
Was the tower her prison, or the wide world outside?
Was the prince her rescuer
Or just another place to crawl inside?
Would she always be searching for somewhere that felt like home?
Some place she could be herself, unafraid to be alone?
No longer afflicted with Imposter Syndrome.
I look back at Andrew, wink, then rush out the door.
34Amelia Blue
The gravel path crunches beneath my feet, louder than it seemed when Edward was with me, louder even than the music blaring from the third cottage.
I recognize the song that’s playing. In fact, I’ve heard it more times than I can count. A relic from Georgia’s glory days.
I know exactly how many weeks it spent on theBillboardtop ten (eight), and I know that my mother thought eight weeks wasn’t enough.
If she had been in the kitchen with me tonight, Georgia would’ve eaten right alongside me, but she wouldn’t have called it bingeing and she wouldn’t have felt the need to purge after. She would’ve been pleased to see me so hungry. To see me like her.
