Page 22 of Daring You

6

Astor

I’m meantto meet my brother, his daughter, and his girlfriend, Carter, this afternoon in Brooklyn, and I honestly can’t get out of bed.

The left side of the king-sized mattress is cold, because Mike didn’t sleep there—won’t ever rest there again.

This is a good thing, I remind myself as I sit up. The ache will go away. The feel of cold sheets on my skin will dissipate. The draw of nestling into a warm body during the rising dawn before a busy day will become a forgotten memory.

I throw off the sterling gray Egyptian cotton (Mike’s choice) and pad into our attached bathroom, outfitted with matte stainless steel attachments and plush cream fabrics (my choice), turning on the tap and splashing cold water on my face. I can’t avoid my reflection, so I face it dead-on and categorically go through exactly what make-up I’ll need to appear confident, carefree and happy to my brother’s small family.

The acne that riddled my cheeks and T-zone for my entire young adulthood is long gone. I owe the top dermatologist in New York City for all the lasers, creams and sharp utensils that were employed to give me a flawless complexion—with enough pore-refining foundation applied. If one looks closely, the scars are still there.

I stretch the skin on my cheeks. Perhaps I should go back to him for the new stress wrinkles cropping up. Maybe there’s a discount for women who dump cheating men.

Lotions, cosmetic cases and perfume bottles clack together as I rifle through my vanity drawer for the right things. The routine in applying make-up and blurring imperfections has become second nature, almost needed, ever since college. There isn’t much I can do about my body—still skinny, still boobless—but with the barrage of Youtube videos and Instagram influencers, I’ve managed to gain confidence through color. My hair is highlighted just so. My eyes defined in exactly the right way to make the blue irises pop, and my thin lips are accentuated enough to appear mildly plump. Thank you, Kylie Jenner.

In essence, through a lot of expensive treatments and practiced tricks, Acne Hayes is long, long, long gone.

Except when Ben’s around. At that point, I can’t stop the awkwardness from building, the memories from assailing, and before I know it, I’m back to the knobby-kneed, wide-eyed, pimple-faced Astor who couldn’t make it past sophomore year before being utterly and completely humiliated in front of the entire college campus.

Everybody saw it. That picture of me, my pale skin whiter than the sheets barely wrapped around my body, with Ben fully clothed to my right. He even had his sports bag slung across his shoulder, like he was running from the pathetic seduction attempt from his best friend’s ugly sister, and that’s exactly what all the memes said.

ERMAGERD, FERK ME.

ARE ZITS CONTAGIOUS?

AVOID THE CRATER

STDs to the FAAAAAAACE.

RUN, BEN, RUN

BIG BEN POPS BIG ZIT

Anything you can think of,it was said. It was photoshopped. There was even a .GIF, where the pimples on my face all popped at once, animated cartoon puss flying everywhere, while Ben’s cartoon dick shrank like a leaking balloon.

Some were clever. Most were annoyingly lazy. All were hurtful.

The worst part was, Ben didn’t say anything. Didn’t find me or ask if I was okay, or even stop the picture from circulating. He took my demand to heart, and fucked off forever. I just wish he hadn’t. Every girl hopes for a guy to fight for them, and I was no different back then. Despite what I said, regardless of the fury and curses I unleashed, I wanted him to come back.

But he stayed as far away as possible. I was too embarrassed to do anything about it, except cry and delete any picture I found from my browser history. It made every encounter since incredibly awkward, considering he is Locke’s best friend and won’t physically go anywhere any time soon. Therefore, I made our meet-ups less. It sacrificed my relationship with Locke, but I couldn’t think of anything else to lessen my humiliation. I couldn’t look at Ben. Couldn’t remember what happened between us, since it was all a game to him despite meaning everythingto me.

How do you come back from that kind of heartbreak? You harden yourself to it, that’s what. Calcify the edges, cement the emotion. Basically become so full and heavy, any locking of eyes renders nothing but deadweight.

That’s what we’ve become, Ben and I.

I didn’t tell Locke about what happened, either. And if he knew about it, he didn’t approach me, especially since I wasn’t coming to him first. That was the Hayes way. Bury secrets, deal with scandals privately, never show emotion. Until the death of our mother, we played by those rules just fine.

I give my hair a last comb-through with my fingers, loosening what the flat iron has pancaked into submission. It’s a Saturday morning. I can’t be Lawyer Astor when I join my family for brunch. I’m pretty sure I’ve freaked Carter out enough with that kind intimidation, especially with my height, so now I’m trying a nice, approachable tactic. I do like her—and nobody’s more surprised by that than me.

Carter Jameson saved my brother, brought me a niece, and has never asked for anything in return. She just is.

So, if my pin-straight bob scares the shit out of her, I’ll try a few waves and bounce. Especially considering I’m down a fiancé during this family gathering. This might be the perfect time for change.

Outwardly, anyway.

Twenty more minutes, and I’m ready in a simple pair of jeans and a cream cashmere sweater. As usual, February is a complete bitch in New York City, literally the worst month ever in the winter, and I’m not looking forward to the slushy, icy, chilling trek into Brooklyn with barely any subway access that my brother refuses to move out of.

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