You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.
By now I have at least ten of them, one left for me every morning before he goes to work?—
You have no idea how much I missed you, Lucy. You are my motherfucking wish come true.
You snore when you sleep, but you give me the honor of sleeping next to me, so snore on, baby.
Take your time healing. Just know: I’ll never forget you. Ever.
And then, this morning when I went to grab a water bottle because I was thirsty, I found the latest one nestled on top of the plastic pack that he orders specifically for me. Now I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinets, bare feet flat against the cool tile, staring down at the one in my hand because the simplicity of the words did such a number on me, I couldn’t find the strength to make it back to the living room.
You’rebeautiful, Dandelion.
Beautiful.
My reflection stares back at me faintly in the dark oven glass. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair hanging limply around my face because I don’t remember how I used to wear it. I don’t remember if I used to wear lipstick or mascara. I don’t remember if I used to smile easily.
Most days, I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like Humpty Dumpty. I had a great fall, but when they put me back together again, they did itwrong.
But my husband calls me beautiful, and he doesn’t lie to me.
Does he?
I really am fucking broken.
It’s hours later, and though I pulled myself to the feet earlier and forced myself to move, I’m back on the kitchen floor again.
I’m pathetic, too. Dallas left me the note saying I was beautiful. For once, I wanted to be beautiful. For him. So I made myself shower, and after I went searching around the penthouse, I found a hair dryer in one of the closed-off rooms. I figured, when I saw a large, six-foot-tall standing mirror in one corner, that it would have the best odds of having any kind of haircare products, and I hit the jackpot: an old can of mousse and a dusty hair dryer that still worked.
I didn’t have make-up, but I styled my hair the best I could. Instead of changing into another sweater and leggings set—Loni seems real big on sweaters and leggings which, okay, same—I pulled out one of the silky nighties I haven’t worn to bed yet. This one was a virginal white, and I thought it was pretty so I pulled it on so that, when Dallas came home for dinner, I… maybe I would bebeautiful.
But then I went into the kitchen and that was a mistake. I was grabbing plates and forks for dinner when, once again, I caught a glimpse of myself. I can’t really explain why, but embarrassment turned my stomach. Me? A virgin? Especially after what happened between Dallas and me at the park, he’d take one look at me and laugh.
Who did I think I was? One of the fresh-faced beauties who found some way to sneak up to the penthouse and throw themselves at my husband? Dallas assured me that he spoke to security about whatever leak allowed Heather to reach our door. It shouldn’t happen again, and so far it hasn’t.
I guess I’m still afraid that it might, though, because here I am, wearing a nightdress at six o’clock in the afternoon as though I laughably thought I could seduce my husband once he got off of work after a long day at the garage.
Stupid. That was so stupid. Beautiful? Maybe when I felt more comfortable in my skin, I was, but now… just like earlier, I sank to the floor, leaning my head back against the wall, working up the nerve to get up and change before Dallas showed up.
I didn’t.
Before I know it, the elevator hums down the hall. The sound is quiet, but in this penthouse, everything echoes, especially when you’re in the front room or the kitchen. I freeze when I hear him approach. He’s whistling something under his breath as the keys rattle and the door opens.
Like always, he calls for me. “Luce? I’ve got dinner.”
Shit.
He’ll come to the kitchen to go through the order to make sure it’s right. That’s what he always does. Why didn’t I remember that? My memory before the fall is shit, but shouldn’t I have picked up on his habits? Shouldn’t I haveknown?
Too late. I’m too late. I can’t even pull myself up into a seating position before he’s walking into the kitchen, still whistling. He stops—his walk and the whistling—when he sees me on the floor.
His eyebrows draw together. “Lucy? What are you doing on the floor?”
I can’t get up because I’m paralyzed by my own ridiculousness, isn’t it obvious?
That’s the answer. Since I can’t admit to that out loud, I just shrug.
Dallas doesn’t hesitate.
