“Mystery Man?”
“The one who’s had you mooning around for days. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She caught my expression and grinned. “Ha! I knew it. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
“Maggie, you are a terrible liar. Is it someone from work? That cute guy in the mail room? Oh God, please don’t tell me it’s Harold. I know some women go for the older distinguished type, but the man smells like an ashtray.”
“It’s not Harold.” I hesitated, then figured there was no point in hiding it. “It’s Jack.”
Diane’s hand froze, blush brush hovering over her cheekbone. “Jack. As in Jack Cavanaugh. As in the Jack you saw at the diner with his girlfriend.”
“That’s the one.”
“The one you were on and off with for over year until he finally stopped calling.”
“You don’t have to summarize.”
She set down the brush and swiveled on her vanity stool to face me fully. “Honey. What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” It was the most honest thing I’d said all morning. “I just... I think I made a mistake. With him. And I want to fix it.”
Diane studied me for a long moment, her expression shifting from skepticism to something softer. “You really liked him, didn’t you? I mean, really liked him. Not just the hot-and-cold thing you do with every guy.”
“I really liked him.”
“Then why did you push him away?”
The answer was too complicated to explain—the mother who left, the father who crumbled, the years of therapy I’d had in a life that no longer existed. So I just shrugged and said, “I was scared.”
Diane nodded slowly. “Well, at least you’re finally admitting it.”
She turned back to her mirror, picking up the blush brush again.
“Just... be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt. Or hurt him again. He seemed like a good one.”
“He is.”
“Then don’t screw it up this time.”
Sound advice. I just hoped I could follow it.
Later, getting dressed, I tried to picture Emma’s face and felt something cold slide through me. The details were softer than they’d been yesterday. I could still see her. The dark hair, that crooked grin she’d gotten from Sarah, but the specifics weresmudging, like a photograph left in a wallet too long. What color were her eyes? Brown. I was almost sure they were brown.
They had to be brown. I’d looked into those eyes a thousand times.
I shook it off and reached for the horrible pantyhose. If I stayed, I was going to start the trend of no longer wearing hose. Take that little plastic egg.
By 9 AMthe pantyhose were already driving me insane.
I’d chosen a dress today that was electric purple with a dropped waist and dolman sleeves, the kind of color that practically vibrated under the fluorescent office lights. Bright and confident in theory, tropical bird in the wrong habitat in practice.
After watching Diane’s full production, I’d opted for something simpler. Mascara, a little blush, a neutral lip. The kind of face I’d worn in 2014.
Apparently, that was a mistake.
By mid-morning, Patricia had asked if I was feeling okay. Elaine from editorial wanted to know if I was coming down with something. Dennis the mail room kid told me I looked “tired.” And Harold—Harold, who smoked at his desk and had coffee stains on his tie—actually suggested I might want to “put on some color.”
I’d forgotten that bare-faced in 1987 meant sick. By lunch, I’d retreated to the bathroom and applied more blush and lipstick just to stop the comments.
